“To what?”

“To the chicken marsala I’m planning on making you. With a side of Italian bread, and a bottle of Chianti.”

“Is there tiramisu for desert?” D.D. asked.

“Vanilla bean gelato.”

D.D. looked at him. Alex looked at her.

She sighed, took off her pager, set it carefully on her desk.

“Alex, take me home.”

DANIELLE

According to the police’s final report, Andrew Lightfoot allegedly went crazy and murdered twelve people in his quest to gain my attention and save his father’s soul. They used the term “allegedly” because murdering twelve people is a complicated way of saving someone’s soul. Or perhaps that’s why they ruled him crazy.

I didn’t contradict anything they said, though I had my own opinion on the subject. Nothing I could prove. Frankly, until a month ago, not even something I believed. But I work with children, and children are a powerful litmus test of human nature. At one time, kids loved Andrew. They responded to him. Even if I didn’t consider myself a mumbo-jumbo sort of gal, I’d seen some of his results.

I don’t think a madman could’ve helped those kids, particularly the hypersensitive ones, who would’ve perceived the taint. I think Andrew used to be Andrew. And I think, somewhere in his exploration of the celestial superhighway, he encountered a negative energy beyond his control. He met my father’s corrupt soul, hoping to use him to learn more about his own father. Unfortunately, my father’s spirit used Andrew to hunt me down in order to finish what he’d started twenty-five years ago.

There are things I’ll never know. When carrying me into Evan’s house, Andrew urged me to open my heart, to find the light. Was that the real Andrew pushing through, trying to help me survive? Or did my father simply assume that if he could get me to visit the land of interplanes, he could hurt me, too?

Don’t know.

Is my father back in the abyss, even now waiting for the next corporal existence? I know I saw him that night, his eyes shining from Andrew’s face. And I know I felt my mother, Natalie, Johnny, even Sheriff Wayne. Or maybe I just wanted to feel them. Maybe it was the illusion of seeing them that gave me strength. Then again, I found the gun. Surely that argues for my father’s involvement, or I had a way-lucky guess.

I go back and forth, a thirty-four-year-old skeptic, discovering late in life that some part of her wants to believe.

I feel different these days. I remember my family more often, and with less pain. I’ve lost my mother and siblings, and yet they’re still with me.

Maybe there really are angels? Or maybe I’ve finally completed the five stages of grief?

Don’t know.