The Ghosts We Made

7.

The night has a way of turning its back on the city, cloaking the sins that crawl from every crevice in shadows thick enough to drown in. I push through the fog rolling out of the Mirror Maze, my thoughts a jumbled deck of cards, each one branded with Lily's face. The neon signs flicker above me like a carnival of lost souls beckoning the damned.

I pull my hat brim low and sink my chin into my coat collar, trying to disappear into the shadows. Lily's face swims in my mind, her emerald eyes piercing my soul. What secrets lie behind those eyes? What really happened the night Morrison died?

That's when the sound claws at the edge of my awareness—harsh whispers, a muffled cry. Then, the unmistakable clang of an overturned trash can.

"Damn it," I mutter, unable to turn a blind eye. Old habits die harder than a two-bit hoodlum in a back-alley deal gone south.

I skirt around a pile of refuse and take in the tableau: a woman—slender frame, wild hair—grappling with a shadow that's got too many hands for my liking. Instinct kicks in, and my feet are moving before I've fully registered the scene. A swift kick sends the would-be attacker sprawling into the darkness he crawled out from.

"Lily! Are you—" The words curl off my tongue like smoke as I reach for her arm, but she jerks away, eyes flaring with a fire that could give the sun a run for its money.

"Touch me again, and you'll lose that hand, buster," she hisses, her voice a serrated blade.

For a second, just a tick in time, my heart fooled my head into thinking it's Lily. But the illusion now shatters under the weight of this stranger's glare. And yet...there's something else. Something in the way she moves, the tilt of her head, the cadence of her voice. It reminds me of Eleanor, but in a way I can't quite place, like a half-remembered dream slipping through my fingers.

"Easy, I'm not your enemy here," I say, keeping my hands where she can see them.

"Who the hell are you?" she spits out, straightening her coat with a sharp tug.

"Name's Vic Thorn. And you're welcome, by the way."

"Thorn?" Recognition dawns in her eyes, followed swiftly by suspicion. "As in Detective Vic Thorn?"

"Yeah. Now that we're clear on who I am, maybe you could return the favor," I say, still trying to shake off the weight of déjà vu.

"Reynolds. Private investigator. I was following a lead." Still scowling, she brushes herself off. "Not anymore, thanks to you."

"One that turned on you from the look of it. You wanna watch your step out here, sister. Some alley rats can give you a nasty case of rabies."

"Oh, I can take care of myself. I ain't no Frail Frieda," she huffs, hands on her hips. Hers are wider than Lily's, curvier. The legs poking out of her skirt look like they belong to a weight lifter. How could I not have noticed?

"I know all about your memory loss too, Thorn. These days, you're the talk of the town," she continues. "Along with your connection to the Morrison case. Hell, some people even think you might be the killer. Got a comeback for that, tough guy?"

The killer? My jaw drops but I hold my ground, now thinking I kicked the wrong dancer in this midnight pas de deux. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it," she says, her eyes piercing. "You can't remember anything from that night, but when the cops arrived, you were the sole survivor, the last man standing in a field of carnage. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together."

My mind races, trying to make sense of what she's saying. But the more I try to deny any involvement in the murder, the more doubt begins to creep in. Maybe there's more to my past than I thought.

She tilts her chin, the movement making her look like a haughty elf. It stirs something in my memory, a flicker of familiarity that I can't quite place. "You're the one who needs to watch your back, Thorn. Things aren't always what they seem, and I'm not the only concerned citizen looking to crack this thing wide open."

With that cryptic warning, she turns and disappears into the shadows.

Reynolds... What kind of sick game is she playing here? And why does she seem so damned familiar, like a ghost from my past come to haunt me? More mysteries, more questions, and not a damned answer in sight!

I hurry after her, fists clenched. "Hold up," I say gruffly, grabbing her by the arm before she can vanish around the corner. "I think you and I need to extend our little chat."

She yanks her arm away, eyes flashing. "I've got nothing more to say to you, Thorn."

"Well, I've got plenty to say to you, sister," I shoot back. "The cops already cleared me of any wrongdoing in Morrison's death. That's a nice little theory you've cooked up about the Morrison case, but you and I both know it's a steaming pile of garbage."

Reynolds narrows her eyes at me, her smile so thin it doesn't make her nose twitch. "Or maybe the cops just didn't dig deep enough. Memory can be a tricky thing, can't it Vic?"

I match her glare for glare. This dame is playing me for a fool, trying to get in my head. She might be winning, too. I feel a headache coming on, a piercing pain right behind my eyes. Flashes of memory try to surface but disappear just as quick, like ghosts. I see Morrison's face, Lily's smile...then darkness. Reynolds is watching me closely. Waiting for me to break. But I'll be damned if I give her the satisfaction.

"You don't know a damned thing about me or what I'm capable of," I say coldly. "But I sure as hell didn't kill Morrison."

"Then why can't you remember anything from that night?" she asks, her tone accusatory.

I shake my head, frustration and fear creeping in. "I don't know. It's like there's a black hole in the space where my memory should be."

"Then maybe it's not a coincidence," she says, stepping closer to me. Her perfume hits me then - jasmine and something darker, headier. Just like Eleanor wears. The sense of déjà vu intensifies, leaving me reeling. "Maybe someone wanted you to forget what happened."

"Who?" I ask, my voice rough as I try to push past the growing sense of unease. "Why would they do that?"

"Those are the questions you need to answer instead of drowning your sorrows with some two-bit fae floozy," she says, cocking her head in the direction of the Mirror Maze. "Because right now, Vic Thorn, you're looking pretty suspicious. And believe me when I say there are things at play here that go beyond your understanding. Things that make people vanish without so much as a whisper. You're drowning in a sea of ghosts, Thorn. And unless you learn to swim, you're going to sink right along with them."

"Is that a threat?"

"No." Her voice softens, and for a moment, I swear I can see Eleanor staring back at me through those fathomless eyes. "It's advice. Watch your back, Thorn. Because in this case, the ghosts bite back."

She turns and melts into the shadows before I can respond, leaving me standing alone in the alley with nothing but the bitter taste of confusion and the cloying scent of jasmine.

"Bite me." I mutter to the empty air, but her words follow me through the night, needling my thoughts with a growing unease that sits in my gut like a stone. Me, Morrison's killer? No. It can't be true. But the doubt comes creeping in, cold and paralyzing. What if I did kill him?

The thought following on the heels of this one stops me cold. What if Lily knows the horrible truth?

My vision blurs at the edges. Damn it, I can't trust my own mind anymore. Most of all, I can't shake the feeling that something big is about to happen, and I have a sinking feeling it's going to involve Lily. And Eleanor. And maybe even this Reynolds broad, whoever the hell she really is.

"Great. Just what I need," I mutter to myself, staring at the empty space beneath the street light in the road ahead. "A mystery wrapped in an enigma, all tied up with a bow of bad omens and a ghost from my past."

I light a cigarette with shaking hands and take a deep drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs. It does nothing to calm my nerves. I've got a feeling this is just the beginning of a long, dark journey into my own personal heart of darkness. And heaven help me, I'm not sure I'm ready for what I might find.