One way he could block all that out of his mind.
He could smoke a joint.
Jamison had been so good this past year. Heâd barely had a sip of alcohol (until tonight) and heâd not had one whiff of pot. But suddenly he wanted to get high so bad. It would stop his head from spinning. It would relax him, settle his mind, allow him to sleep.
He reached over to the bedside table and slid open a drawer. Far in the back, behind his Bible, buried among his dozens of wax-smudged earplugs, heâd stored something in the event of an emergency. Jamison withdrew a small remnant of a joint and held it in front of his face, close enough so he could make it out in the dark.
It was more than a year old. But he figured it might still do the trick.
From the drawer he took a lighter and ignited the little flame. Bringing the joint to his lips, Jamison inhaled.
âForgive me, Jesus,â he said as he let out the smoke.
It was stale, but it was still potent enough.
He smoked the joint until it was just a brown crisp smoldering between his fingers. Resting his head back against the pillow, he allowed the wave of good feeling to wash over him.
But then he heard the footstep in the kitchen again.
He pushed the sound out of his mind and closed his eyes. He just wanted to sleep. In the morning, heâd feel better, and heâd go down to the police and get all of this devilry off his chest. He wasnât sure how the police were going to stop the ghost of Dominique Huntington from killing again, but they could at least arrest that plastic-faced Mrs. Hoffman.
Another footstep, then two.
Jamison opened his eyes. The pot was maybe making him a little paranoid. But it seemed that someone was in his apartment and walking around in the dark.
Thatâs crazy, Jamison told himself. I locked the door behind me when I came in tonight.
Didnât I?
Of course he did. He shook off the paranoia and closed his eyes.
He was fading off to sleep, but some small voice inside his head forced its way through the marijuana haze and got him to wonder.
Did I lock the door?
It doesnât matter. Ghosts can walk through walls.
Jamison opened his eyes again. The room was pitch-dark. He listened. A soft sound nearby. Maybe it was the light rain hitting against the window.
Or maybe, Jamison thought, it was someone breathing.
He fumbled his hand through the dark to the bedside table and found his phone. Grabbing ahold of it, he hit the switch, casting a soft amber glow through the room. Jamison looked around and saw nothing.
What would Jesus do?
Jesus would go to sleep , Jamison thought.
In that instant, the glow of his phone picked up the steel of the blade that was swooping down toward him, which then slit Jamisonâs throat so deeply it nicked bone.
7
âO h, no, David, no!â Liz cried.
âIâm sorry, darling, but itâs true,â her husband replied.
âWhy now? We just got here!â
Patiently, David took her hands and explained that the family business had a lot of interests around the world, and right now, there was trouble in their Amsterdam office. His father was putting all his trust in him that heâd be able to resolve that trouble. âIt will only be for six days,â he told her. âNot even a full week.â
âBut Davidââ
âI canât let Dad down,â he went on. âI need to prove to him that Iâm capable of taking over the business from him one day soon.â He smiled kindly, seeing the stricken look on Lizâs face. âAnd when that day comes, darling, Iâll be able to delegate others to go off on these trips, and Iâll get to stay home with you.â
Liz wasnât very consoled by that. âDavid, itâs just that Iâwell, I donât know these people, and Iâm not sure of my way aroundââ
She stopped herself. She heard the sound of her voice. Whiny and scared and needy. The same voice sheâd