Chapter 6 Dove
DOVE
At the end of possibly one of the longest and most taxing days I’d ever had at the shop, when I finally flipped the Closed sign and turned the key in the front lock of Margaret’s Mystique, my mind continued the spiral it had been in ever since Ellis had left—with Liv right on her heels.
I blinked at the white sign, the word Closed written in cursive. It stared back at me.
Two weeks. That’s what I’d told Ida. I’d be gone for roughly two weeks. She’d blinked at me for a moment, her eyes flicking toward the reading room, probably wondering what had gone down in there that would have me leaving on an impromptu road trip.
Then she’d grinned, clapped me on the back, and said, “You go have a quarter-life crisis, love. I’ll keep the incense burning, don’t you worry!”
Now, hours later, I was lying flat on my back, staring at the dark ceiling of the apartment Margaret had left me, right above the shop.
Ida continued to occupy the room she had once shared with Diana and Margaret, as she should.
I’d settled more permanently into the guest room I’d occupied more often than not over the years.
The apartment felt more silent than it used to.
It creaked and groaned more. The grandfather clock in the living room ticked loudly, but the scents of lavender and sandalwood still clung to the wood floors and all the fabrics, filling the air with the ghost of Margaret herself, as if she were sitting beside me right now.
Ghosts. Jesus.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around Liv. A real, eye-rolling, thigh-high-boot-wearing ghost with unfinished business and a bit of a savage streak. There was nothing fake about her, no illusions, no trick mirrors. And me—me—I’d acted as some kind of conduit.
A ghost had shown up in one of my readings, and I’d spent so long worrying I wasn’t a medium that I’d convinced myself Margaret’s strongest gift had skipped me entirely.
That ghost, the same ghost whose heart now beat inside that uptight, know-it-all redhead who’d walked into the shop looking like a lost catalog model for pastel anxiety.
Ellis Langley.
I blew out a heavy breath and rolled onto my side, reaching for the stacked deck beside me.
The same cards I’d used earlier that day for Ellis’s reading.
My mind was too wired, too caught up in whatever magic had been triggered to bring Liv into the physical.
Had this ever happened to Margaret? Surely she would’ve told me.
I ran my thumb along the top card of the deck, trying to get Ellis’s flashy red hair out of my head, or that striking green of her eyes, the way they flashed so defensively on a near-constant basis, like she was always bracing for impact.
“All right, Margaret,” I muttered into the dark. “Give me a card.”
I took a breath and flipped it over.
The Lovers.
I snorted and rolled my eyes. “All right, Margaret. Cute.”
I shoved it back into the deck and resumed shuffling, straightening slightly to sit up better in bed.
A few cards slipped from my grip and scattered across the duvet.
I leaned awkwardly over my nightstand to flick on the lamp, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting.
Then I glanced down to collect the fallen cards.
I gathered them one by one, pausing over a particular card marked with a very familiar, very old stain.
Judgement.
It sat along the bottom corner of the card, reddish-brown and long faded, looking like an old wine spill.
Or ketchup. Margaret had been known for her obsessive love of ketchup, after all.
But she’d always insisted it was blood. Real blood.
From a reading that had “gone bad,” as she’d put it, but she’d never elaborated.
I’d never really believed her. She did have a flair for the dramatic.
The card felt heavy in my hands.
It didn’t often fall out in readings. I could count on one hand how many times I’d seen it.
The air suddenly seemed thicker, and a cold chill ran down my spine.
My phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand, making me jump. I dropped the entire deck into my lap, my heart pounding at the sudden noise. Letting out an annoyed breath, I gathered the cards, stacked them neatly, and slid them back into their velvet bag before grabbing my phone.
Ellis Langley [11:11 p.m.]
Be outside your shop at 6 a.m. Bring coffee.
I rolled my eyes at the bossy tone in her text. Not even a hello? Three dots appeared, another message incoming. I waited.
Ellis Langley [11:12 p.m.]
Any tips on how to shut a ghost up?
I snorted, imagining how much Liv must be driving her crazy, and mildly impressed Ellis had stuck around. I guess Liv had meant it when she said she wasn’t going anywhere, and Ellis clearly didn’t love the idea of being haunted for the rest of her life.
Dove Marley [11:12 p.m.]
Try telling her you voted Republican. Might scare her off.
I grinned at my own little joke, feeling rather pleased with myself. The typing bubbles reappeared for only a second... then vanished.
Shrugging, I set the phone aside, shimmied back beneath the blanket, and flicked off the lamp.
My eyes drifted to the empty duffel bag on the chair by the mirror.
It still needed packing... but I was suddenly warm, comfortable, and just tired enough.
I’d wake up early and throw in whatever I needed.
Truthfully, as annoyed as Ellis seemed about this road trip... I was a little excited.
The circumstances were definitely unconventional—if not completely weird—and, like Ellis had said, possibly the result of an undiagnosed brain tumor. But still.
The idea of just getting away for a while?
Yeah. That sounded kind of perfect.
Sure, it was a little reckless, given I had only just started running the shop, but Ida seemed confident, and Margaret had always told me to have experiences.
I mean, Ellis and her ghost had fallen into my lap like fate, and I was never one to ignore fate.
I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea how it would go. And yes, I didn’t really have a choice, not after Liv’s threat earlier. Margaret had only just died. Was driving across the country to the West Coast the smartest choice right now?
Holy shit.
I gasped and sat upright as my chest tightened.
The ashes.
The West Coast.
Los Angeles.
The Pacific.
“Don’t ever let me be buried in wet soil or locked up in some glass bowl, Dove!” Margaret had told me many times, her eyes fierce. “I want to be shot from fireworks into the sea like a goddamn Viking, you got it?”
And yet... there she was. Sitting in a cabinet in Uncle Bill’s suburban mausoleum, sealed inside a porcelain bowl next to a man she hadn’t spoken to in twenty years. A man who had made her life a living hell while she was with him.
I clutched the blankets to my chest, my eyes burning with tears.
No. It wasn’t right.
And I had a chance to fix it.
She deserved better than a cabinet. She deserved the world.
I would damn well give it to her.
The morning air nipped at my exposed skin in that annoying, crisp, impending October kind of way, promising a cold fall, but not quite ready to commit.
It was early. Too early for any of the shops on the strip to be open yet.
Aside from the occasional casual runner, I stood alone outside Margaret’s Mystique, bouncing on the balls of my feet.
Tugging at the sleeves of my oversized sweater, I soaked in the warmth and softness that came from too many wears and washes.
I’d slipped on a pair of black leggings—because who the hell would wear jeans on a road trip—and had hooked a pair of sunglasses from the collar of my sweater, knowing the sun would be much brighter soon.
I had, once again, twisted my hair into the laziest space buns I’d ever managed, and a few strands had already broken free, whipping around gently whenever the breeze hit me. I didn’t have the energy to fix it.
My duffel bag sat beside my sneaker-clad feet, overstuffed and probably still missing essentials. I’d thrown it together in a sleep-deprived fog at five thirty that morning, half convinced I’d wake up and find this whole thing—Liv, Ellis, the road trip—had been a dream.
But no. It was real.
The text from Ellis letting me know she was on her way had made it all very real.
This was happening.
I glanced down at my phone and opened TikTok, checking my latest video, the one I had thrown together quickly while frantically packing and making sure I didn’t wake Ida earlier than necessary. I clicked into it on instinct.
“If this video found you, it’s because you needed to hear this message.” My voice floated back to me as my hands tapped Margaret’s deck once. “The tables are turning for you. You don’t need to prove yourself to people—to anyone. You are power.”
I navigated to the comments, already seeing multiple people claim the post, and I smiled with relief before going back to check the views. 1,785… not bad, considering I had posted it only half an hour ago. Pocketing my phone, I sighed, my mind once more circling back to my plan for the morning.
I tapped my foot nervously against the sidewalk and smacked my lips together, anxiety bubbling in my chest over my planned detour. The only reason I was going through with it was because Uncle Bill was so self-absorbed, he’d never know it happened.
How did I know this?
One—he lived in the city during the week, which meant his museum of a house would be empty.
Two—his wife was currently halfway to a pilates retreat in Thailand with her friends (thanks, Facebook).
Three—his “security” cameras were all for show. They weren’t even connected. He bought them for appearances.
I also knew there was a spare key hidden under the third potted plant near the kitchen window, thanks to the time he made me go over and check that he hadn’t left the oven on. I knew exactly where the urn was. I’d be in and out. No questions asked.