CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
N
eedless to say, the bombshell Agent Veritas dropped so casually in our conversation looped through my mind on repeat the rest of the morning.
Mayor George Orten, owner of one abandoned construction site—the one that’d been haunting my dreams at random.
I didn’t know what to make of it. Why would a public official feel compelled to buy the project privately with his own funds? Was there something special about the place? Had he been attempting to save a failing project because the county’s taxpayer funds dried up?
What was the initial project intended to be?
The connecting thread felt fragile. It needed more strands to rope the two together.
After two hours of searching online, only to return empty-handed, I gave up, staring up at the slats above my bed, half insane from trying to work ideas together.
What was so special about this construction site? Was it worth killing over?
Is that why the ghost seemed so hellbent on dragging me there each time? Had he died there?
I pulled the notebook from my bedside table, adding in my thoughts along with the new information. My handwriting continued to improve day by day. It felt like a victory, even while I was drowning in unknowns.
The pen paused, pressed to the page.
My initial encounter with the ghost-like property stilled my hand. I’d sleepwalked there, dragging Ralph along for the ride. Apart from the terrifying experience of waking in a dark, unknown environment, nothing about the encounter itself stood out.
However, the arrest and subsequent interrogation replayed from memory.
A thought chilled me.
The “owner,” which, according to Veritas, was Mayor George Orten, hadn’t wanted to press charges against Ralph even though he’d been right there alongside me, trespassing on private property.
Honestly, that was great because the alternative might have been that Ralph got caught in the crossfire like Ben.
If we’d both been charged and shipped off to Vedault…
I didn’t even want to go there, except to consider the fact that the “owner” had played the card of concerned citizen, wanting me to seek professional help through Vedault. All along, the unnamed citizen had been George Orten himself.
Oh, how we’d all played right into his hand.
He’d sent me somewhere I’d be isolated, drugged, and vulnerable. The nurses and staff served me up, and all he had to do was make the trip out there to finish the job.
My mind looped in circles. Why kill Ben? Why me? What was so important about the construction site? Who really was the mayor of Fairview? My hand knotted after my furious writing, so I finished the latest entry and tucked the journal into the drawer.
I waded through the remainder of the day on autopilot before deciding I couldn’t take it anymore. The journal helped, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more.
My phone had been in hand, ready to dial Veritas and play the “all in” gambit, but did I have enough evidence to prevent his hands from being tied in bureaucratic red tape? Or to keep the locals from sweet talking the mayor out of the system?
No.
The chief of police all but offered himself up on a silver platter of justice, and they’d released him hours later to threaten my life again.
So… Veritas was out of the question.
Instead, after a round of questioning and assurances to my dad, I headed to Manuel’s, having a decent idea of where he lived after getting my bearings yesterday.
Two wrong turns and a random, unnecessary side street later, I sat in my Jeep, idling in front of Manuel’s house.
I paused with indecision, unsure what to do or whom to turn to. Adrift without an anchor, I needed someone, but at the same time…
What was I doing?
If I wouldn’t unload on Veritas, someone trained to deal with situations like this, then why would I drag Manuel into this mess? Or further into this mess, I should say.
He already knew too much. Ben’s dad might shift his attention to Manuel, maybe even resent what he represented since I’d been dating Ben, and now it seemed like Manuel and I had a thing.
Chief Pierce’s name could be found in the dictionary next to petty, see vengeful.
I glanced at the house. It was late. Soft, warm light filtered out.
With the curtains drawn, it painted a picturesque scene of a happy family sitting down and enjoying a meal together.
Some of the little brothers ran around, setting the table, but mostly chasing each other. One looked like a toddler.
No, just no.
I couldn’t do this.
Shifting the Jeep into drive, I checked my mirrors to pull out when Manuel’s soon to be stepdad entered the room, carrying a bowl of salad and breaking up some fight between the two youngest boys.
The hair on my neck stood on end.
Inside Manuel’s house, looking at home and perfectly normal, was Mayor George Orten.
The world spun, tilting off its axis.
I couldn’t think.
Irrationally, my initial plan was to run in there and do… what? I didn’t know, but I had to do something, or Orten would do to them what he’d done to Ben.
Even after those first immediate thoughts cooled, the urgency remained, as if it belonged to someone else.
“Stop,” I told myself out loud, unsure that I wasn’t addressing some invisible entity as well. “This is a dangerous man. If you storm in there, you might trigger a chain of events that will land that entire family in trouble.”
My nerves buzzed, an angry swarm of bees, just beneath the skin. Bile clogged my throat until the bitter, acidic taste burned my tongue.
Then, the pressure receded a fraction. It wasn’t gone entirely, only enough to allow me to breathe again, but also to project vibes of, “I’m still here and not going anywhere.”
“Okay, okay. Think, think, think.” I felt more than a little insane, talking through this out loud. Honestly, and that wasn’t the only reason. I couldn’t stop staring through the window like a… well, like a stalker. The mayor looked so normal.
Why was he here?
I questioned whether everything was all a construct from within my head from the moment I escaped Vedault. Had I made everything up? Maybe someone screwed up the medicine, and I lay drooling in a cold, sterile room, strapped to a hospital bed.
No.
“I’m not crazy.” How could my mind have fabricated such detailed, realistic things?
The mayor scolded one of the boys, smiling in secret after the child turned away.
But who did I believe? The voices in my head and my lifelong history of hallucinations, or the very stand-up, public servant who, by all appearances, was playing house with Manuel’s family in a modest, suburban home?
Which one, which one…
I knew which, as an adult outsider, would be more believable.
The passenger door popped open, making me whirl, hurtling a scream at the intruder like a ninja star.
Manuel startled, bumping his head on the frame as he climbed in. “What the hell, Willa?” Then, he paused, hovering above the seat. “Whoa, wait, is it a ghost? What’s wrong?”
I clasped my struggling heart.
When I didn’t answer him, he shut the door behind him and placed his hand on my forearm. “Hey, hey, hey, are you okay? Breathe, mouse.”
“You scared me! Why would you do that?”
“Yeah, I see that.” He chuckled, more to release tension than anything. “I thought you saw me!”
“I only got here a few minutes ago. How would I guess you were lurking in the dark, waiting to ambush me?”
“You texted me you were on your way over. Of course I wanted to wait outside and meet you! Anything to escape the house when my mom is being all cringey with her fiancé.”
Right.
The mayor’s presence burned a hole in my awareness that robbed me of the ability to concentrate on anything else. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
He grinned. “You kind of already did, but I can spot you another question if you’d like.”
My chuckle felt and sounded forced. “Ha-ha. So do you know the mayor? I saw him inside the window when I arrived. Is he related to you or something? A distant uncle?”
“Related, no.” Manuel’s brows weighed down. “Not yet anyway. That’s my mom’s fiancé.”
The floor dropped out beneath me. “No.”
Manuel’s soon to be dad?
“What do you mean, no?” He laughed. “It’s not like it’s up to us, mouse.”
I blinked. “No.”
“Yes.”
“B-But—”
“Yes?” he drew the word out with a smirk.
My breath rushed out. “Yes?” my tremulous voice double-checked, hoping for a different answer despite his previous adamance.
“Yes.” He nudged me. “Can we return to a bigger vocabulary? We know more words than yes and no.”
His mom’s fiancé—somehow, with the wicked, twisted, awful humor the universe seemed to possess—was Mayor George Orten, the man whom I suspected killed Ben and attempted to kill me.
He was thirty feet away, sitting down to a family-style meal of spaghetti with Manuel’s mom and brothers.
“I’m insane.”
“Ehnn! Wrong. Not those words. Banish them from your repertoire and try again. Find some better ones.”
I spoke fast. “No, you don’t get it, Manuel. I am truly, stark-raving mad. We should drive me over to Vedault now. Do they have self check-in?”
He paused. “Willa, stop it. You aren’t insane. I mean, you’re talking like a crazy person right now, but—”
A thought hit me. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! He’s been to my house!”
Orten drove Manuel out to my house the other day.
My stance swung wildly on a pendulum between believing the mayor as a murderer all stemmed from a figment of my demented imagination and trusting that I wasn’t psychotic or making it all up.
At this moment, I sat in the “The mayor’s a murderer” camp. Had he done anything at my house?
I felt violated.
Was my family in trouble?
“What? Who? Who’s been to your house?” Manuel asked, understandably lost by my fragmented thoughts. Even I had a hard time finding my bearings.
“How long has your mom been with Orten?”
Manuel frowned. “A few years now. Why are you so fixated on that? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the man’s biggest fan either, but you seem genuinely concerned about the fact that he’s with my family right now. Should I be? Is there something I should know about him?”
Oh, boy.
I opened my mouth to answer but then froze, tilting my head to the side as I tried to figure out what the weird sense of foreboding tickling my senses was.
“Willa? What is it? Is this a ghost thing? You look like you’re trying to listen to something the rest of us can’t hear.”
He grabbed my hand when I didn’t respond.
For an instant, the growing pit in my stomach receded, but a breath of relief escaped a moment too soon.
I turned to thank him when something descended on me, stealing my breath in one fell swoop. Invisible insects crawled over my skin, plunging hundreds of legs into my flesh in a nonstop wave of itching and stings.
Every inhale coated my lungs with cloying smoke and tar that made it a struggle to reoxygenate, and metallic alloy buzzed along my taste buds. Air went in, yet my muscles burned with deprivation. A piercingly high frequency assaulted my eardrums, robbing me of my last sense.
I existed in a void of pain, blind of anything beyond that narrow depth of awareness.
I gasped, hunching over, as a rushing sensation squeezed in, filling the spaces between my cells and stretching my soul. The senses that’d been overwhelmed clicked and distorted in an echo, as if I’d been dropped in a human-sized vat of shattered time.
Then, from Manuel’s connection on my hand, a cooling breeze rushed through my veins, combating the suffocating heat. That battle traveled up my arm, through my shoulder, and into my lungs.
I inhaled my first full breath with the feeling of cresting the surface of dark waters after sinking to unknown depths.
“Willa? Are you back? Talk to me!”
“M’here,” I gritted out, barely coherent.
“Keep squeezing my hand. That’s good. Atta girl, just like that. Do you feel it? Focus on that connection. It’s warm, right? Feel my heartbeat in my veins. You aren’t dead. You’re alive. Feel your own blood rushing through your veins.”
The more he talked, the more I centered, firmly slotting into my body. It was a terrifying conclusion because I hadn’t realized I’d been separating from it.
He’s here! Drive!
I jerked, searching the area around us at the shouted demand. The voice resembled the guy from my dream. “He’s here?” I asked aloud.
“Who?” Manuel questioned, and when I turned to answer him, he stared beyond me, out my window. “What the fuck?”
I whirled.
Ten feet away, in the front yard across the street, was the mayor. Had we seen each other in person apart from that time my dad met him at the parade years ago?
He stood there, his eyes locked on mine.
“Seriously, what the fuck, Willa? Why is George staring at you like that?” Manuel’s voice rose and adopted a growl. “Wait... No. Surely, not—”
Drive! the voice screamed once more.
“I have to go.” My voice shook with terror. It was impossible to determine how much belonged to me, but I suspected much of it. “Manuel, I have to go!”
“I’m coming with you,” he declared, already buckling in.
“No, it’s not too late. I haven’t told you too much. You might still be safe if—”
“If what?”
I sought an answer while splitting my attention, monitoring the threat. The mayor hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle. His slicked back hair, pressed shirt and slacks, and the visible shine on his shoes all projected an air of competent businessman.
But his eyes… they were inhuman.
Mom always said the eyes never lied.
“Willa, why is he looking at you? Do you know him? Please tell me it’s not what I’m thinking,” Manuel added.
Okay, so the swirling evil tendrils leaking from Orten’s eyes must have been a me thing.
Joy.
Good to know.
Then, George Orten broke into motion, marching in our direction. In two steps, he reached the sidewalk. He could probably close the distance in two bounds if he began to sprint.
I didn’t think, just reacted.
The Jeep dropped into gear, and I punched the gas.
Then we were off, racing down the street.