October, 2017

Come October, the whirlwind of New York novelty had died down and the team had settled into an efficient routine, which gave Ingrid enough time to pursue some of the more obscure items on her personal agenda. The ghost chase began with a text to her trusted bartender friend, who was looking after her home in Berlin.

Remi

Did you keep in touch with any of your old pals from NYC?

Some of them

Y?

I need to find Leon.

Girl

Don't

You got a death wish or something?

No, fuck that guy. But I want to find his mum. I figured he'd be the best place to look.

Minutes elapsed before Remi decided to reply. Ingrid chewed at her lip, unaware that she was frowning as she stared into the screen of her smartphone, huddled up in bed. She noticed the tension dissipate from her eyebrows when Remi started typing.

There is this one guy who might have something for you

But I'm warning you – don't do anything stupid. We both know how dumb your smartass can get

Ingrid rolled her eyes and replied with an emoji to reflect her reaction.

Bitch, I mean it. You all alone out there

Just give me the name, Rem. And an address, if you've got one.

Nah, dude ain't gonna be happy about a house call

I'll ask and see if he might wanna meet you somewhere

Cool, thanks

I really appreciate it, Remi

Don't fucking mention it

I am not okay with this

I'll be fine

You used to be a better liar

Another eyeroll.

I was never a good liar, Rem. Which is why I don't lie

Ingrid put her phone away and got up to go to the bathroom. There were several messages waiting for her when she got back.

Fuck me

I just realized

This is what you went to new york for, innit? Fucking hell

This is why you took that fucking job, left your perfectly good & peaceful life here to go dredge up all the traumatizing shit you fled from... to what fucking end?

Her jaw clenched at the accusatory messages. The phone trembled in her hand.

I accepted a promotion, Remi. I'm getting paid better to do more than just sit around on my ass in an office in berlin. I get to do important things that will make a difference to the future of this company

Yeah, whatever makes you sleep at night

You masochistic idiot

Why the fuck are you being like this?

You were never jealous or envious

Are you getting too used to my perfectly good flat?

Girl, you think I'm jealous of your suicide mission? Suit your fucking little self

Let's see who'll wean you off this time round if you come back hooked to some stupid shit again

Since if I recall right, you pretty much told the other guy to fuck off

Ingrid gasped to herself.

Since when did you become a moralising little asshole?

You of all people

Honey, I've paid my dues

I walked out of a shitty situation, got back on my feet, put it behind me and moved the fuck on

I wouldn't go wading back through that shit if you paid me a million bucks

As if

Ingrid set her phone aside and went to sit at her desk. She started up her laptop, leafing through her planner for the notes she'd scribbled around. Her phone buzzed with incoming messages, but she pointedly ignored it. It didn't stop, though, and she was eventually compelled to pick up the device and see what all the fuss was about.

Remi was in full preacher mode.

Listen, you ungrateful little bitch

I love you. And I have for as long as I can remember, from the first moment you set foot into my bar

I've been with you through your worst & your very fucking best. We got drunk and we got high together. I've seen you cry and I've seen you laugh...

I've fucked you & I've made love to you. I know every single inch of your body, inside and out, and maybe you think your brilliant mind is a mystery to me

It's not

Couldn't possibly be after all this time

I know how much she meant to you. I do. I know you feel indebted to her, I know you feel the need to seek her out and make amends

But by the same logic, I'm fucking indebted to you. I swore I'd keep you safe. I can't have you hitting rock bottom again. Not on my fucking watch

You hear me?

Tears quivered in her eyes as she scrolled through the messages.

I don't deserve you

No you fucking don't

But I'm stuck with you

I'd like to keep it that way

Ingrid wanted to promise that she wouldn't do anything stupid, but deep down, in the darkest recesses of her brain, she knew it was highly likely she would break that promise. Better to abstain from it.

I have to do this, Rem. I'm not abandoning her again.

Don't I fucking know it

Just

Don't... die

Please

Somehow, Ingrid found herself unable to even promise him that much.

*

Remi's friend took some persuading, but he finally agreed to meet Ingrid in a Harlem diner, not too far from Caitlin's dorm. Ingrid slid into a booth and ordered coffee. It tasted horrible but she gritted her teeth and drank it. The caffeine should still work, keep her alert. Though it felt like it was only accelerating her heartbeat and not much else.

Twenty agonising minutes later, a man in biker garb swaggered through the entrance, swept his gaze around the place until his eyes stopped on her, then started walking in her direction. Ingrid struggled to keep her cool as he came to sit opposite her.

"You're Ingrid, right?"

Ingrid couldn't place his accent – she'd never been good with American twangs. But he was clearly not a New Yorker.

She mustered a smile. "And you are?"

"You don't need to know."

She begrudgingly let that drop. The waitress came to take their orders and they both asked for burgers with fries. Ingrid switched from coffee to Coke and her companion wanted a beer.

"So what do you need to know?"

"It's, um... how much did Remi tell you?"

The man shook his head. "Not much. Said it was a private matter." He sized her up.

Ingrid nodded. "I, uh..."

The waitress came with their drinks. Ingrid leaned forward on the table once they were alone again.

"It's about Leon," she whispered.

A quirked eyebrow.

"Ortega," Ingrid added in a low voice. His other eyebrow joined its twin. "What's the word on the street about him these days?"

A guttural, baritone chuckle. "Are you looking to throw yourself headfirst into the lion's den? Why, though? You look like a rich lady, you could do much better."

Ingrid sat back. Their food arrived and the conversation halted. She watched him dig in after the waitress departed.

"No, actually. I'm only interested in his mother."

"Oh, that's easy," the man mumbled through a mouthful of fries. "She's dead."

"What?"

Ingrid drew a shaky breath. Her heart fluttered. She lowered her head to hide her eyes growing wide and teary. Then she composed herself and cleared her throat.

"I mean... why? How? She wasn't that old."

He shrugged dismissively. "Well, when you got a gangsta son, your lifespan gets considerably shorter."

"Do you know what happened?"

The man stopped eating. He fixed her with a steely, suspicious look. "I might have heard a thing or two."

"Which is?"

He looked like he pondered whether to tell her, stared down at his dwindling burger, then back up at her face. "They say the Italians or the Chinese or the fucking Russians, fuck knows, wanted to get back at Ortega for fucking something up. They say they kidnapped his mom, made him watch her die."

Ingrid gripped the edge of her seat. "And he did nothing?"

The man tilted his head, lifting one shoulder. "No clue. This is all just hearsay. I wasn't actually there, you know."

"No, of course."

"Whatever the case, word spread that there was nothing you could do to bend or break Leon fucking Ortega, which is good for business, so it's entirely possible that he had a hand in what the rumour mill churned out. Wouldn't put it past him. Heck – "

But he halted and resumed eating.

"What?" Ingrid nudged him.

"Nothing."

"Come on. There was something."

"No, just..." He forced his tone to be casual. "Speaking of things I wouldn't put past Leon Ortega..."

"Yes?"

"That motherfucker would have totally set his own mom up if it meant better business."

Ingrid suddenly felt like she might make good on the fake sick day she'd taken to have this clandestine meeting.

"Do you, um..." She took a sip from her cold drink. The sugary sweet cut through her nausea. "Do you know where I might find her? Her grave?"

He put on a sceptical frown. "What the hell is this woman to you?"

"You don't need to know," she bit back.

A grin. He licked his greasy fingers. "Fair enough. Look, I don't know, myself, but I can ask around...," he trailed off, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

Ingrid sighed. "Listen, mate, I'll give you a hundred bucks for the trouble, like we agreed, yeah? In addition to this fine lunch here. But if you're expecting to extort me, it ain't gonna work. I can take it myself from here, I just thought you might know and save me some time. But seeing as she's not going anywhere, I guess I can afford to take the long way 'round, free of charge."

The man downed his beer. "Suit yourself, sunshine."

"Thanks." She passed him the cash and got up to leave. On her way out, she stole a glance back and saw the man reach for her untouched burger.

*

April, 2012

They were completely alone in the house at first.

Jack picked her up and carried her across the threshold, but he didn't get very far because there was no one to turn the lights on. They laughed as they stumbled in the dark. He gave her the grand tour of the most magnificent house she had ever seen, their house. He took her hands and told her to call it home.

It made for a magical wedding night.

Until the realities of life crept in within a couple of weeks. Ingrid could not possibly handle such a big house by herself. Jack reassured her that cleaners would come in regularly, she wouldn't have to worry her pretty little head about that.

Then the cooking. Ingrid wasn't bad at it – she just wasn't great, either. And the laundry... there was more of it than she had expected.

Jack didn't like his young wife being too tired for him when he came home from a long day's work. He needed her prim and fresh waiting for him, ready for any and all of his whims.

They drove up to Montreal one weekend. Stayed cooped up in a five-star hotel, drinking the finest cocktails and enjoying the finest cuisine. He bought her the finest clothes and jewellery. They fucked on the dining room table and every single sofa in their expansive suite.

And when they drove back to New York, Sofia Ortega was waiting for them.

A plump little woman in her early fifties, full of that feel-good Hispanic cheer and optimism. Jack had said it was a gift. This person was a gift he'd made to his wife.

Ingrid was reluctant to accept it, but she feigned happiness. Jack was obviously ecstatic. Raved about Sofia's cooking. Ingrid felt hurt at first, betrayed even. But she couldn't bring herself to hate this perpetually smiling woman. And as Jack's absences grew longer and more frequent, Ingrid welcomed the human presence in the house, even though Sofia did not speak much English.

Then acceptance and tolerance turned into something else one night, when Ingrid couldn't sleep and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water – and found Sofia humming to herself. She'd baked something. In the middle of the night.

"Disculpeme, señora," the woman quickly apologised, startled, then mumbled some more in Spanish before scurrying off, too fast for Ingrid to stop her.

Clearly, this was something more than a small case of acute insomnia. Sofia had likely been awake for hours, making... whatever it was that she had just taken out of the oven. Nevertheless, Ingrid shrugged it off, had her glass of water and trundled back to bed.

It happened again, though, a few nights later. But this time, when the housekeeper tried to make a run for it, Ingrid summoned the bits of telenovela Spanish she'd picked up in her youth and tried to string together a conversation. Assisted by Google Translate and the little she'd gleaned from her travels throughout Spain, they managed to stay up all night, just chatting.

It turned out Sofia had escaped from Colombia with her young son, but as he grew up in an underprivileged neighbourhood, the cartels they'd run from caught up with them and he was now awaiting trial at Rikers Island, for a violent drug offence. It was the reason Sofia had taken on the job, so she could have a place to live without her son to support her. Undocumented as she still was after all this time, she couldn't even visit him.

Every night, the poor woman only managed to sleep for a few hours at a time, because she heard gunshots in her nightmares. She coped with it in the kitchen, cooking and baking. That also explained why she often dozed off throughout the day and Ingrid made a mental note not to let Jack scold her for it again. She'd never liked it, anyway, but Sofia's tale encouraged Ingrid to stand her ground and speak up.

In return, Ingrid told Sofia about her grandmother. About her childhood which, although tough, could not even begin to compare to the hardships Sofia had overcome.

"Ey, por supuesto que sí, señora," Sofia countered. "Life, eh... it is hard for everyone. Diferente, pero... difícil. Difícil es difícil, eh... Sin comparación."

"No comparison?" Ingrid guessed. "I suppose you're right. Different, but still difficult."

"I can be...," the woman started, boldly, "how you say... abuelita?"

Ingrid frowned. "Isn't that like 'grandmother'?" She looked it up. It was actually a term of endearment, more like granny, rather than grandmother.

"Sofia is... old, eh? Como una abuela. Yo puedo ser abuelita, claro que sí."

"Old enough to be a grandmother, you mean?"

Despite the obvious exhaustion in her eyes, the woman beamed and nodded excitedly.

"Alright, then," Ingrid agreed on a chuckle. "Abuelita it is."

*

song of the chapter: dancing with your ghost by sasha sloan

https://youtu.be/Qzc_aX8c8g4