Brighter, a supernatural thriller (6 page)

Finally, Ramona selected two books to check out and took them to Garrett. He put library cards in the sleeves wordlessly, barely looking at her. When she left, she didn't know if she should say goodbye to him. He wasn't speaking to her, after all.

"See you around," she said.

Garrett nodded.

* * *

Heather White watched her husband Rick eat a hamburger over the sink. It was one of his little quirks. If he ate over the sink, he didn't have to dirty up a plate. Then there were no dishes.

Heather sat at the kitchen table, fork in hand, ready to stab a piece of lettuce in her salad. "Why don’t you get a plate, honey?" she said. "I'll wash it, I swear."

Rick looked up. "You hate washing the dishes."

It was true that their kitchen often resembled something hit by an earthquake. Heather didn't mean to let dishes pile up. But it was so easy to talk herself out of doing them. When she'd told her parents that she was getting married, they'd been concerned. They'd warned her about money. They'd said she was too young. (She was only a year younger than her mother had been when her parents got married. They said it was a different time.) They hadn't said anything about the dishes.

And the dishes were certainly quite a problem. Quite a headache. When Heather had lived with a roommate, and Rick had come to see her, he'd never said anything about the state of her kitchen. Once they were married, however, it became an enormous issue. Rick couldn't stand the fact that there were always dirty dishes in the sink. "Why don't you wash the dishes?" he would always ask her. Heather's initial response was that Rick should just wash them himself if it bothered him so much. But Rick wouldn't. He refused. He said none of the dishes were his. Heather pointed out that she used the dishes in the sink to make food for the both of them. Food that he ate. Rick said, "Yeah, but if you hadn't been here, I never would have eaten that food, so really, they're your dishes."

It was a vicious argument. A never-ending one. Once they had argued about the dishes so violently that Heather had locked herself in the guest bedroom and slept there.

Heather had known that marriage wasn't a picnic. But she'd thought that the problems she and Rick would face would involve finances or fidelity or something important. She hadn't realized that the thing that made marriage so difficult was its sheer domesticity. All the little things. Things that she never thought mattered. All these things were suddenly big things. Dishes. Laundry. Lawn care. Marriage was a game of, "Well, I did this, so why haven't you done this?"

But sometimes she felt so guilty. If she could just get better at dish washing, there wouldn't be any tension in her marriage. She felt like she was causing the problem. She wished to be different, to be better. Vowed to change. After all, someday she would have children, and if her children didn't have a clean parent, how would they rebel? They couldn't just not clean their rooms. So they'd turn to drugs.

The phone rang.

Rick and Heather looked at each other.

"I'll get it," said Heather, even though Rick was closer to the phone.

"Sorry babe," he said. "My hands are messy."

"If you used a plate, they wouldn't be," she said sweetly. She swept the phone off its receiver. "Hello?"

It was Ramona. She and Ramona used to be inseparable. They had been until Heather had met Rick, she guessed. She wondered if Ramona had ever quite forgiven her for that. One day she and Ramona were thick as thieves. The next day, all she could think about was Rick.

But pre-dishes-obsessed Rick had been pretty amazing. Gorgeous, funny, smart, and completely into her. She'd known, as cheesy as it sounded, the first time she'd seen him. She'd told Ramona. "I'm going to marry that guy." Now she sometimes wondered what in the hell she'd been thinking, but that was the way that life worked. It snapped you in the face like a broken rubber band and left welts.

"What's up, Ramona?" she said to the phone.

"I need to tell you something," Ramona said.

Ramona sounded upset. Lately, Ramona only called her when she was upset. They never did anything fun together anymore. "Hey," said Heather. "Why don't you come see me? We could hang out. Rick built this neat patio on the back of our house and I set up—"

"I can't. I'm totally hung over. I think getting in a car would make me throw up," said Ramona.

Ramona never came to visit her. She didn't like to leave Elston. She didn't like to go anywhere that wasn't walking distance from her apartment. Heather knew this because Ramona said it a lot. Not in conjunction with visiting Heather, but in reference to anything else, like, "I was going to go see that movie, but I don't like to leave Elston. I don't like to go anywhere that's not in walking distance of my apartment."

Heather sighed. "Okay. That's cool. What about next weekend, then?"

"Maybe," said Ramona. "I'll call you okay?"

"Okay," said Heather, knowing there was about as much chance of Ramona calling her to come over as there were cows flying over the moon. "Cool. Sorry I interrupted you. What did you want to tell me?"

"I think I saw a ghost," said Ramona.

Heather sat up straight in her chair. "A ghost? Of who?"

Ramona began to tell her about seeing Angelica after she was already dead. Heather listened intently. When Ramona was finished, Heather was quiet for a couple seconds. Then she said, "Are you jerking me around?"

"No!" said Ramona.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" asked Heather.

"I should have," said Ramona. "You're into ghosts and all."

Ramona always said it like that. Heather was "into ghosts." Like it was a band or something. "I'm interested in paranormal phenomena," said Heather. "That doesn't necessarily mean ghosts."

"You know what I meant," said Ramona. "But I didn't tell anyone. I just kind of wanted to forget it happened. But then last night I had a conversation with Garrett Hillard." Ramona paused, as if waiting for Heather to say something.

"I don't think I know him," said Heather.

"The guy who raped Blair? The guy Zane, Ben, and Owen kicked out of town?"

"Owen who works at the coffee shop?"

"Yes."

"Sorry. I never heard of this Garrett guy. But if he's a rapist, why were you talking with him?" Heather asked.

"I don't think he's really a rapist," said Ramona. "Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I told him about seeing Angelica. I don't know why. But since I did, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. And then I saw him again today, and he was totally rude to me, and I don't know why—"

"Maybe he's a jerk?"

Ramona sighed. "I don't think so, Heather," she said. Heather could tell Ramona was rolling her eyes.

Sure. Whatever. "Why are you telling me this?" Heather said.

"I want your help," said Ramona. "I want to know why I saw her."

"Have you seen her again?"

"No. It was only the one time."

"It's probably an isolated incident then. Angelica had just died when you saw her, and her spirit might have been disoriented. Unsure of where it needed to go, it may have returned to the apartment in an attempt to find a sense of normalcy. Or maybe, because Angelica's death was so violent, the spirit didn't understand that it was dead yet."

"That can happen?"

"It's a theory. I don't know. But unless she starts appearing to you regularly, you aren't being haunted."

"So you don't think that it meant something? You don't think maybe she was trying to tell me something?"

"I don't know. All she did was ask if you wanted a light, right?"

"Yeah."

"I think if she'd wanted to tell you something, she would have."

"But you don't think I'm crazy? You don't think I'm a liar?"

"No. I think you're fine. I think if you'd stop worrying about everything for three seconds, you'd see that."

"Okay," said Ramona. "Thanks. You're the best."

"Call me about this weekend. You promise?"

"Promise," said Ramona.

* * *

Ramona said her goodbyes and hung up her phone, knowing there was as good a chance she'd call Heather about the weekend as there was she'd actually apply to some grad schools. She just didn't like to leave Elston. Sometimes, she felt like when she drove out of the city limits, she burst through an invisible bubble. Things were different out there. People were in favor of the war on terror, and they wore camouflage, and some of them had never let go of the mullet. Nobody was like that in Elston. It was a Mecca of freethinkers.

Ramona wished Heather had had more to say about Garrett, or had at least let her finish explaining who Garrett was and what he had done. Ramona picked up the library books she'd checked out earlier. She opened the flap and stared at the card Garrett had placed in the cardholder. He hadn't said a thing to her. He was so rude. Not that she cared. Well. Not really. It was just that the thing with Mason was a lost cause, and Garrett was really kind of cute. And...she didn't know. Maybe there was something delicious about the whole idea of dating a bad boy. A real bad boy. One that had been kicked out of town and everything. The card was stamped with the date she was supposed to return the book and...

That was weird. Had Garrett written something on the card? She pulled it out of its holder. Scrawled across the bottom in pencil were the words, "I thought I saw Blair die."

* * *

Ramona burst into the library, strode to the librarian's desk, and slapped the due date card down in front of Garrett. "What did you mean by this?" she demanded.

It was early morning. The library had just opened a few minutes ago, and Ramona was on her way to work.

Garrett stared at her wordlessly, his jaw hanging open. Finally, he shook his head. "Need coffee," he mumbled. "If you're going to be that loud, I need coffee."

Ramona slapped her hand down on the card again. "Seriously. What did you mean?"

Garrett looked down at the due date card. "If I had written something on this card—and I'm by no means saying that I did—the fact that I did so might have indicated to you that it wasn't something I wanted to discuss out loud in the library."

Oh. Duh. Ramona felt her face grow hot. She was blushing. She reached for the card. Garrett stopped her and handed her a pen. "Give me your phone number," he said. "I get off around five."

Chapter Six

The whiskey sour burned Garrett's throat. He sat sipping it in The Brass Frog. He was waiting for Ramona, who he'd called after work. He wasn't entirely sure why he was pursuing anything with this girl. He knew it was a better idea for him to lie low in Elston. And besides, his relationship with Carrie had proven that he wasn't a particularly good boyfriend. He was possessive and angry and a regular fuck-up. But...it had been a long time since Carrie. Of course, this Ramona chick seemed pretty nuts. Still, she was the only girl since he'd come back to Elston who'd spoken to him, except the girl that had been killed. He figured it couldn't hurt. Ramona had been excited to hear from him and offered to meet him at the bar. The Brass Frog wasn't Garrett's idea of a really great place to hang out. Things never turned out well when he was there. But he agreed anyway, because it was kind of nice to have plans. Even if he was going to go talk to a chick who swore she'd seen ghosts.

He'd sort of hoped she'd be waiting for him when he arrived. But she wasn't there. And she didn't arrive while he was ordering his drink.

Alone, nursing a beer, Garrett began to think about his life. He felt like he was barely keeping his head above water. It took so much concentration just to keep breathing that he couldn't focus on much of anything else. Still, he felt acutely that he'd failed at life in general. That his current situation was less than desirable. That he was a loser, baby.

"So why don't you kill me?" he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

It was Ramona.

"Hi," said Garrett, startled.

Ramona was holding a half-empty beer. "I was in the back," she said, sitting down with him. "When did you get here?"

"Couple minutes ago," said Garrett.

"I've been here since like seven," said Ramona. "I think I'm a little drunk." She took a long swig of beer.

Great. Drunk crazy girl. This was Garrett's idea of a great evening, all right. On the other hand, that was about the only flavor of girl in Elston. If they weren't crazy, and they didn't get drunk, the town didn't appeal to them. Garrett cocked his head and took Ramona in. Long brown hair, nice features—no makeup, of course. Girls in Elston didn't wear makeup. Hell, girls in college didn't wear makeup. Not that Garrett cared. She was still kind of pretty without makeup, so that was saying something. Ramona had nice tits. Garrett liked tits. He wouldn't say he was a breast man, exactly, but he definitely appreciated breasts. Ramona's weren't too big, but they were more than a handful. How long had it been since he'd had a handful of breast? Geez, how long had it been since he'd gotten laid?

"...so what do you think?" said Ramona.

Garrett quickly shifted his eyes to her face. "Um..." he said. "What?"

"Were you just staring at my tits?" said Ramona.

"No," said Garrett.

"Because I guess I don't really mind. It's kind of a compliment if they were so mesmerizing that you couldn't even concentrate on what I was saying. I mean,
kind of
. Not really, because it's really also pretty creepy, what with you being a supposed rapist and all and—goddamn it, I really am drunk." Ramona took another long swig of beer.

"I'm pretty sure that if you keep drinking like that you won't get any less drunk," said Garrett, wondering how the hell he hadn't gotten in big trouble for not having any idea what she'd just said.

Ramona nodded. "Yeah," she said. "You're right." She took another drink, downing the rest of the contents of the bottle. "I need another drink." She got up.

Garrett watched her head for the bar. This was a really bad idea. He should just leave, right now, but he knew he wasn't going to. As weird as this Ramona chick was, she was also...intriguing. He wanted to know more about her. And he had to admit, the fact she'd seen something weird involving the townies made him feel better. Sometimes, since he'd come back to Elston, he'd felt as if he were going crazy. The memories of the night before he left were vivid at times, at others blurry. But whatever it was he remembered, it was disturbing. And it meant that he either had mental problems or that something really fucked up was going on.