Dying Echo A Grim Reaper Mystery - By Judy Clemens Page 0,22
which she had left there that morning, told him she’d be in touch the next day, and walked toward her mother’s. Once out of sight, she stopped at the next intersection. Death kept going across the street, listening to an iPod, walking in rhythm, until realizing that Casey was gone.
Death yanked out the earbuds and walked back to her, being run through twice by passing cars whose drivers suddenly reached for their heater controls. “What?”
“I have to.”
“Have to what? Oh. That’s the way to your house, isn’t it? Think your mother will mind?”
“I didn’t actually say I’d be back today, as you know. Just that I’d see her again before I left town.”
“Then let’s go.”
Casey hesitated.
“Do we have to go over this again, Casey? No ghosts. No demons. No lingering spirits. It’s just an empty house.”
“But that’s the thing. It’s not. It’s full of all kinds of things.”
“I know. Furniture. Mementos. Stuff. But Casey, those material things don’t really mean anything, do they? The important things are up here.” Death touched her temple, and the coolness actually felt good, for once. “Your memories don’t need tangible symbols. All they need is for your brain to function, and once that stops working, well, you’ll be with Reuben and Omar in person. Or, not in person, exactly.” Death swooped toward her and peered deep into her eyes. “Right?”
Casey averted her face and looked down the street, imagining she could see her rooftop through the trees and the other houses. Wood, metal, concrete, fabric. That’s all a house was made of. Perhaps it would even be comforting to be within its walls. “All right. Let’s go.”
She soon began to see houses that looked familiar. Some of them had memories attached, as well. The house where she learned her first swear word—definitely not from her mother; the yard where she avenged a slight to Ricky by tying the offending boy to a post and telling him she was sending the neighborhood’s stray dog over—which of course she didn’t, and even if she had it wouldn’t have mattered because the dog was a big, slobbery sweetie; the playground where she’d gone with Omar, and had swung him in the baby swing, surrounded by other moms and their babies. Babies who would now be toddlers, walking around, talking in broken sentences and giving their parents hugs throughout the day.
“Oh.” She’d forgotten that Ricky’s house sat on that road, only blocks from her own place, making a sort of triangle from their childhood home. He had bought it a few weeks before Casey’s accident, so she never got used to visiting. Its existence had slipped her mind entirely. She stood on the sidewalk, looking it over. No one had been there for quite some time, it seemed. The week he’d been in jail had shown its colors.
She swung up the front walk and checked the door. Don had been wrong. It wasn’t being held as a crime scene anymore. But it was locked. The police would have bolted it behind them when they were done investigating. She walked into the garage and checked for the kind of place she and Ricky had always hidden their key when they were kids. She found it in the third possibility, under a tub of ice cream in the deep freeze.
“I don’t know why you humans even bother to lock your doors,” Death muttered.
Casey used the key and stepped into the front foyer. There was no doubt the police had been there. Black fingerprint dust coated the surfaces, drawers had been emptied and not refilled, and the coat closet door was open, with empty hangers cluttering the rail.
She walked through to the kitchen. There again was the search disaster, with the fingerprint dust, all sorts of little household items piled on the counters and table, and photographs stuck back onto the refrigerator in a jumbled mess. Pots and pans lay scattered on the floor, and there was a conspicuous spot on the wall where Ricky had obviously hung a calendar. The nail was still there, along with a few sticky notes of dates and times, and a mug of pens sat close by on the counter.
Casey opened what looked like a pantry and found the cleaning supplies. Ricky had taken care of her place for almost two years while she’d been on the road. It was her turn, now.
“Music while you work?” Death said, and propped an iPad on an iHome with the playlist on shuffle.