Free The Haunting of James Hastings by Christopher Ransom Page B

‘James.’
     
    ‘Yeah?’
     
    ‘You’re young. You served your time. No one else is holding the keys to the cell now. Understand?’
     
    I did.
     
    I considered the situation very carefully and waited a whole week before I went to see her again.
     

9
     
    As I stood on Mr Ennis’s porch and she opened the door without a greeting, I was reminded of those adorable but mildly hardened sitcom wives, the kind married to such a lovable schlub you think if he could land her maybe you could too. Given what she had been through, she should have looked worse. But maybe she was still in shock.
     
    ‘I just wanted to thank you for cooperating with Detective Bergen,’ I said. ‘He’s a good one. He looked out for me last year.’
     
    She nodded solemnly. An awkward moment stretched between us. When it seemed it would not pass, she stepped back.
     
    ‘Come in, have a seat.’
     
    I heard Bergen’s warning in my head as I stepped inside. I wondered what had happened to the turtle, Tiny Mr Ennis.
     
    ‘I would imagine you have more questions,’ she said, turning to the refrigerator.
     
    The living room, kitchen and hallway had been painted sunny shades of blue and yellow. She had moved in a set of wooden chairs and a round dining-room table, a bookshelf (still empty) and a few other tastefully out of place things: a roll-top desk with pigeon holes and a green leather surface, an expensive piece of exercise equipment, a small wafer-thin television standing on a wine cabinet with chicken-wire doors. I guessed she was serious about this.
     
    ‘I do,’ I said. ‘So many I don’t know where to start.’
     
    ‘Would you like something to drink?’
     
    ‘A beer if you have one.’ I pulled a chair from the little breakfast table in the kitchen, right about where the flowers would have been floating.
     
    She returned with two bottles of Budweiser. I accepted reluctantly. The King of Beers gives me headaches. She sat across from me, waiting for me to start.
     
    ‘I guess we’re neighbors,’ I said, tilting my bottle at her. ‘Cheers.’
     
    ‘Is that all right?’
     
    ‘For now. But I’ll be watching you.’ I wanted that to be laced with humor. It wasn’t.
     
    A minute of silence passed. I wondered what her husband had looked like. I made him bald, thin, hirsute. Sweaty.
     
    ‘You don’t sound like you’re from Los Angeles,’ she said.
     
    I did not like to be reminded of my pre-Ghost accent, the slight Oklahoma drawl that was one-third southern, one third western, the last third some kind of corrupted surfer cadence that stemmed from my slow metabolism and generally mellow vibe.
     
    ‘We moved here from Tulsa.’
     
    ‘For jobs?’ She was going carefully, her shoulders tense.
     
    ‘Sort of.’
     
    ‘Are you an actor?’
     
    ‘Close. I was a double.’
     
    ‘I’m not familiar with the movie business. Is that like a stuntman?’
     
    ‘More like a stand-in.’
     
    She cracked a thin smile. ‘You mean like for butt shots?’
     
    ‘Nah. I used to look like someone famous. He paid me to do appearances, security precautions. I was a wooden duck to fool the public.’
     
    ‘You do look a little familiar,’ she said, searching my face. I waited, hoping she wouldn’t get it. She shook her head, smiling at my embarrassment. ‘Come on. You have to tell me now.’
     
    Oh, what the hell. ‘You listen to rap? Hip-hop?’
     
    ‘No, sorry.’
     
    ‘Don’t be. I didn’t either. But you know who Ghost is, right?’
     
    Annette blinked and swallowed hard. I could see it click, and I wished I’d just told her I was another aspiring actor.
     
    ‘You mean the serial killer guy?’
     
    Here we go. ‘He’s not actually a serial killer. He just raps about serial killing people.’
     
    ‘Wow. You really work for him?’
     
    ‘Used to.’
     
    She stared, trying to see Ghost in me.
     
    ‘You have to picture me with a blond Caesar cut and a tracksuit,’ I prompted.
     
    ‘One