“You killed them.” I glare at this older, not wiser, far deadlier version of myself. “Wilson was a stoner, a coke head who was quickly mucking up your image. Hell, our image of the perfect all-American family.” I give him a hard shove to the chest. “Isn’t that right? You fucking sick bastard? And who knows why you left Mom to die out there. What I really want to know is how long did it take you to practice that little maneuver? You had to time it just right, didn’t you? You jammed her door so she couldn’t escape. You’re a heartless, soulless monster. A stray dog would have made a better husband.”
He snarls, as his upper lip tugs to the side. “You were the one that murdered our family. You took a bright light and blew his head all over the ceiling. Aston had the greatest potential of any Price child before or after him. You stole his youth, his children, his legacy right from underneath him because you were irresponsible. You’re the moron who should have died that day. You were a danger to yourself and others, and you continued that tradition when you lost your damn daughter!”
I lunge at him, my hands finding a happy home around that slippery, wrinkled turkey neck of his and I squeeze until bubbles come from his lips, a choking sound emits, sweet as a lullaby.
“I should kill you.” My eyes fix on his. Those dirty lenses he sees the world through bulge like eggs. “I should send you straight to hell. In less than thirty seconds you can be there, getting a head start on your miserable eternal state.” I thrust his head into the wall and it hits with a thud, like a melon to concrete. “Were those the last words you said to my mother?” I seethe over him, still motivated to remove him from the planet. I’m not opposed to disposing of a body later. It’s doubtful anyone would care if he was gone.
He grips the back of his head and moans as he drifts toward the front door. “I forgive you, son. You’re under an awful lot of pressure. No sleep. You’re not eating right.”
He forgives me? It seems to be a common theme. Forgiveness without asking. Life had become so simple.
“You have a daughter out there somewhere.” He glares at me before stepping inside and the screen snaps shut between us. “Why don’t you take a good look around this town? You just might find her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? So help me God, if you know where she is and won’t tell me, you are as good as dead, old man.”
“Or maybe it’s the best way I can keep you from choking the life out of me.”
“Dammit!” I knife the word out of my throat so fast it rips through me like a razor.
The door begins to close, then pauses abruptly. “What’s the matter, James?” That worn smile of his plays on his lips. “Got a ghost of your own you wish would get on the next ship?”
A moment thumps by as we stare one another down. My father flooded with disappointment in me, resentment for discovering that the skeletons rattling around in his closet belonged to our own family. And me, wondering if he just gifted me a clue on a silver platter.
He grunts into the night. “You never were that smart, kid.” The door slams quick and final, stealing all the light along with it.
Ghost. Ship. Ghost Ship?
I jump in my truck and speed all the way to Monica’s house. My heart racing, my blood pumping as I run light after light.
And I wonder all the way there what in the hell would Monica want with my daughter?
* * *
There is a slight sense of relief in the thought that Monica could actually somehow be responsible for this plague that has affected my life. For as psychotic as she is, she’s a decent human being. One that I could never imagine mistreating a child in any single way. Heck, if Monica had Reagan tucked away in that wood-rotted mansion of hers, I’d bet she were taking excellent care of her. Candy, popcorn—movies on a never-ending loop. Anything to keep Reagan satiated and satisfied. With my luck, Reagan would never want to come home. And with me as a parent, it’s probably a damn good idea she keep her distance.
I park on the street and walk close to the hedges as I make my way to the house. That giant ship still sits prominent on the lawn, still looking as haunted as ever. There’s no way I’d ever want to live in that mausoleum all by myself. Not sure why Monica would want to. McCafferty suggested Monica was single, alone, no longer Mrs. whatever the hell she was to begin with.
The lights are on upstairs. Downstairs has the blue flicker of the television coming from the corner window. An awful lot of lights for just one person. But then again, I can’t fault her. A single woman all alone in that oversized monstrosity probably warrants a ding to your electric bill.
I make my way around the back, no clue what I expect to find. A couple of garbage cans sit neat in a row and I pluck open the lid to the last one, only to be greeted with the stench of sour milk and a plethora of fast food bags slowly composting themselves, getting eaten alive by their soil stains.
The house seems to grow taller as I crouch in the periphery. The Ghost Ship has been one of those legendary homes in Concordia that the entire town swears is haunted. Back when we were dating, I couldn’t even get Monica to watch a horror flick with me, let alone live one.
A pale blue sphere at the base of the back porch stops me cold. A small rubber ball—the cheap kind they sell by the dozens at the grocery store. I bend over and pick it up, soft, rubbery, depleted of air just enough to let me know it’s been melting in the elements for a while now.
Who the hell does she have playing with a ball? Niece, nephew—hell, it could be neighborhood children. Monica could be a nanny for all I know. Sending me over here was probably just a ploy of my father’s. How can I get rid of the latest and greatest Price disgrace? Turn him into the town Peeping Tom. I’ll outsmart him. I jog back to the front and give a brisk knock over the door.
A nervous rustle comes from inside and I peer into the murky glass to catch a shadowy figure moving quickly in the opposite direction.
“It’s me. James.” I try to sound friendly despite the fact I’ve just shouted my head off.
The porch light clicks on, and I give a humble wave.
“My God, James Price?” The door swings open and she pulls me in. “Is that you?”
“It’s me.” I take her in, with her hair sitting on top of her head in a blob, a white silk robe on and a pair of matching pants underneath. Monica always did have a flare for the luxurious. That was part of what drew me to Allison. She was so down-to-earth, sleeping in my old sweats and happy to do it. Just the thought makes me yearn for her. Instead, here I am staring in the face of my old high school girlfriend, wondering if she knows anything about my missing child.
“What brings you around?” She shuttles me in the opposite direction of that glowing blue light, toward a hall that leads to an expansive kitchen. I spot a box of Lucky Charms cereal on the counter and my insides cinch at the sight of it. Reagan loves that stuff. She’d shovel it in by the bucketful if I let her.
A quick bite of heat rises through me, and I’m suddenly struck with the urge to start shouting her name and whipping open doors, looking under beds, ransacking closets.
“Just drove by after visiting the old man.” I give a wistful shake of the head while taking in the architecture, old world craftsmanship you just don’t see anymore. “I’ve always wondered what this place looked like. Saw the lights on and thought maybe you wouldn’t mind showing an old friend around.” I let my gaze fall to hers, lift my hand to her cheek, and do a clean sweep over it with my thumb as if I were flirting.
“Oh.” She jumps back a notch as if my advance were something she’d need to consider. “Actually”—she glances over her shoulder, back toward that room with the flickering lights—“it’s pretty late. Um, I haven’t exactly been too tidy these last few weeks.” Those lying eyes drift back to mine. “Look, I know you miss your angel, hon. It’s bound to drive you mad. All of my concern has been for you, James.” Now it’s her hand caressing me, fondling my lips as if she still had any right to them.
“I’m good with a mess.” I blink a dry smile. “Unless, of course, you have a guest.” I give a playful hop on one leg back toward the door. “Anybody here?” My voice booms throughout the skeletal structure, vibrating off the walls like a tuning fork.
She swats me over the chest like a reflex. “Would you keep it down? I’ve got a sick dog that needs his beauty sleep.”