Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie by Merry Jones Read Free Book Online

Hole one winter. At the very moment he broke his femur, his twin had terrible leg pains and couldn’t walk. It’s the same thing. Life energy. It links us.”
    For a few beats, nobody said anything. Becky shifted in her chair, looked from Susan to Jen. “Does anybody but me think Elle should talk to a priest?”
    I wasn’t Catholic; Becky knew that.
    “A priest?” I was baffled.
    “Just because this thing smells and sounds like Charlie, doesn’t mean it actually is—”
    “Becky, stop.” Susan rolled her eyes, half laughing. Not joking. “I mean it. Stop.”
    Becky sat up, petulant. “Why should I—”
    “I see where you’re going, and it’s absurd. What are you saying, that Elle’s got a loose demon in her house and needs a priest to do an exorcism?”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “Even Jen didn’t get that wacko.”
    Now Jen was in it. She and Becky both went after Susan. “Excuse me? Just because you don’t agree with me doesn’t mean—”
    “I was just making a suggestion.”
    “That I’m wacko. And who said you’re the one to judge.”
    “Neither one of you is helping Elle.”
    “I just thought she should talk to someone with more experience.”
    “Or to decide what is or isn’t true?”
    “EVERYBODY STOP.” It was my voice, bellowing.
    They did. The bickering stopped, and they sat suddenly quiet, although disgruntled.
    “I know you want to help. Just, please don’t fight.”
    Nods. Shrugs. Agreements. And then Jen went back to presentingmore stories. People reacting to a shift in energy when loved ones were endangered, injured, or killed. People sensing the energy of those they’d lost. And Susan continued to debunk the stories as wishful thinking or perceptual phenomena involving the subconscious mind. Reminding everyone that, no offense, but I was distracted and forgetful even under normal circumstances, that the shock might have made me even more so. No matter their reasons, they both made it sound completely normal that I’d sensed Charlie around me. And completely impossible that he actually had been.
    There was no point trying to convince them. They hadn’t been there, couldn’t grasp it any better than I could.
    Finally, Jen and Becky left around one thirty. Susan’s blueberry pie was out of the oven, cooling, and she was folding her third or fourth load of laundry, talking to some opposing counsel on the phone. I went to the spare bedroom and lay down on the floral comforter.
    I wasn’t sure I could fall asleep, but behind closed doors, away from cops and friends, at least I was alone and finally would have a chance to cry.

    The next days passed in a haze dotted with more press coverage, police and legal interviews, muddled memories, and fleeting moments of clarity when I grasped unacceptable facts. Charlie was dead. He had been murdered. The murder had been committed in my house. And, at least partly because of the cut on my hand, the police suspected me.
    At some point, it occurred to me that the killer might still have been in the house when I’d come home. That the killer, not Charlie, might have kissed my neck, called my name, moved the rose. Played with my mind. I began to doubt my own perceptions of that night. Questioned my memories. Slipped back into my protective haze, watching life from a safe distance. As time passed, I wasn’t sure anymore what I’d seen or heard. ProbablySusan was right; my mind had been playing tricks. Probably I was jumbling events and distorting impressions because I wasn’t able to absorb or bear the truth.
    By Saturday, the police had finished examining the crime scene. I could go home. But I was in no hurry. In fact, I dreaded going home. Charlie’s blood would be on the sofa. It would have dried, darkened. Might look black. And the drinks I’d poured would still be there, the ice melted. Water marks on the cabinet.
    But it wasn’t just the study. I dreaded the kitchen, too. The lingering odor of spilled dressing. The pieces