Remembrance (Mediator 7 novel)

Uno

It started while I was in the middle of an extremely heated online battle over a pair of black leather platform boots. That's when a chime sounded on my desktop, letting me know I'd received an e-mail.

Ordinarily I'd have ignored it, since my need for a pair of stylish yet functional boots was at an all-time high. My last ones had met with an unfortunate accident when I was mediating a particularly stubborn NCDP (Non-Compliant Deceased Person) down at the Carmel marina, and both of us had ended up in the water.

Unfortunately, I was at work, and my boss, Father Dominic, frowns on his employees ignoring e-mails at work, even at an unpaid internship like mine.

Muttering, "I'll be back," at the screen (in what I considered to be a pretty good imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger as the Terminator), I clicked my in-box, keeping the screen to the auction open. With their steel-reinforced toes and chunky heels, these boots were perfect for dealing with those who needed a swift kick in the butt in order to encourage them to pass on to the afterlife, though I doubt that's why the person who kept trying to outbid me—Maximillian28, a totally lame screen name—wanted them so badly.

But if there's anything I've learned in the mediation business, it's that you shouldn't make assumptions.

Which is exactly what I realized when I saw the name of the e-mail's sender. It wasn't one of my coworkers at the Mission Academy, let alone a parent or a student. It wasn't a family member or friend, either.

It was someone I hadn't had any contact with in a long, long time—someone I'd hoped never to hear from again. Just seeing his name in my in-box caused my blood to boil . . . or freeze. I wasn't sure which.

Forgetting about the boots, I clicked on the e-mail's text.

To: suzesimon@missionacademy.edu

Fr: paulslater@slaterindustries.com
Re: Your House

Date: November 16 1:00:02 PM PST

Hi, Suze.

I'm sure you've heard by now that my new company, Slater Industries, has purchased your old house on 99 Pine Crest Road, as well as the surrounding properties.

You've never been a sentimental kind of girl, so I doubt you'll have a problem with the fact that we'll be tearing your house down in order to make way for a new Slater Properties development of moderately sized family homes (see attached plans). My numbers are below. Give me a call if you want to talk.

You know, it really bothers me that we haven't stayed in touch over the years, especially since we were once so close.

Regards to Jesse.

Best,

Paul Slater

P.S.: Don't tell me you're still upset over what happened graduation night. It was only a kiss.

I stared at the screen, aware that my heart rate had sped up. Sped up? I was so angry I wanted to ram my fist into the monitor, as if by doing so I could somehow ram it into Paul Slater's rock-hard abs. I'd hurt my knuckles doing either, but I'd release a lot of pent-up aggression.

Did I have a problem, as Paul had so blithely put it, with the fact that he'd purchased my old house—the rambling Victorian home in the Carmel Hills that my mom and stepdad had lovingly renovated nearly a decade earlier for their new blended family (myself and my stepbrothers Jake, Brad, and David)—and was now intending to tear it down in order to make way for some kind of hideous subdivision?