first-floor apartment window with fake snow, glowing blue lights and an old Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer stuffed toy whose nose was more pale pink than red. But it was her favorite childhood memento. She’d had it since she was four.
Garcia had called her from the office to let her know he’d be home in time for dinner tonight, something that’d become a luxury lately. They’ve been together since their senior year in high school, and Garcia couldn’t have asked for a more supportive wife. She knew how much he loved being a detective. She’d seen how hard he’d worked for it and how dedicated he was. She understood the commitment and the sacrifices that came with the job, and she’d accepted them as if they were her own. But despite her strength and everything Garcia had told her, Anna sometimes felt scared. Scared that one day she’d get that phone call in the middle of the night telling her that her husband wouldn’t be coming home. Scared that the things Garcia saw on a day-to-day basis were changing him inside. No matter how mentally fit anyone is, there’s only so much savagery one can stomach. There’s only so much psychological abuse one can take before becoming detached. She’d read that somewhere, and she believed every word of it.
Anna was sitting comfortably on their blue fabric sofa when Garcia came into the living room carrying a nicely arranged bouquet of red roses and a bottle of white wine. She looked up from the book she was reading and gave him the same welcoming smile that made his heart beat faster and turned his legs to jelly every time.
He smiled back.
Anna had an unconventional but mesmerizing kind of beauty. Her short black hair complemented her striking hazel eyes and her heart-shaped face perfectly. Her skin was creamy smooth, her features delicate, and she had the firm figure of a high school cheerleader.
‘Flowers?’ She placed her book on the coffee table and stood up. ‘What’s the occasion?’
Garcia looked at her, and Anna saw a glimpse of something sad in his eyes. ‘No special occasion. I just realized that it’s been a while since I brought you flowers. I know how much you like them.’
Anna took the bouquet from his hands and kissed him softly. She thought about asking if everything was really OK, but she knew she’d just get the same answer. Garcia was always OK. No matter what was going on in his mind, no matter how tough his day had been, he’d never worry her.
Because of Garcia’s new aversion to grilled steak, Anna had prepared her grandmother’s famous lasagne al forno, and the meal was nicely complemented by the Pinot Grigio Garcia had bought. They had fruit salad and vanilla ice cream for dessert, and he helped her clear the table when they were done. In the kitchen, he turned on the hot tap and started washing the dishes while Anna sat at the small breakfast table finishing her wine.
‘Can I ask you something, babe?’ he said casually, without locking eyes with her.
‘Sure.’
‘Do you believe a person can see things that happened to other people without being there?’
She frowned at the question. ‘What? I don’t follow.’
Garcia finished washing the last plate, dried his hands on the flowery dish cloth and turned towards his wife. ‘You know, some people say they can see things. Things that happened to other people. Sometimes people they don’t even know.’
‘Like a vision?’ She said the words slowly.
‘Yeah, something like that, or a dream of some sort.’
Anna had another sip of her wine. ‘Well, that’s definitely a very strange question, coming from you. I know you don’t believe in things like that. Are we talking psychic people here?’
Garcia took a seat next to Anna and poured them both a little more wine. ‘Do you believe in things like that?’
Seventy-Three
Anna stared at her husband, trying to read his expression. They had a very healthy relationship with very few arguments and plenty of frank conversations about most things, but Garcia never offered anything about his job or any of the investigations he worked on. Even without him saying so, she knew the question he’d just asked was much more than simple curiosity.
‘Do you remember a girl called Martha?’ she asked, leaning back on her chair.
Garcia squinted.
‘Strange girl from high school. Short chestnut hair, thick rimmed glasses, awful dress sense. She was a bit of a loner, always sat by herself right at the far end of the canteen.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ Garcia admitted.
‘She was one year below us.’ Anna snapped her fingers as she remembered something. ‘She was that junior girl who got bathed in ketchup and mustard by those stuck-up bitches from our class, remember? During that barbecue party in the football field?’
‘Damn, I remember that,’ Garcia said, widening his eyes. ‘Poor girl. She was covered from head to toe.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘Didn’t you help her out that day?’
Anna nodded. ‘Yeah, I helped her clean up. I lent her some clothes and took her to a Laundromat. She made me promise not to tell her parents – ever. We talked a few times after that, but she was very shy. Very hard to be friends with.’
‘Anyway,’ Garcia urged Anna. ‘What about her?’
Anna’s eyes focused on her glass of Italian wine.
‘This is April 1994, two days before our girls’ basketball team was due to play the quarterfinals of the California High School Tournament.’
Garcia felt a knot rise in his throat. ‘Against Oakland?’ he asked tentatively.
Anna nodded slowly. Her eyes still on her glass. ‘It was lunch break and Martha was sitting right at the end of the canteen, as she always did. I walked over just to say hi, but she seemed even more distant than usual. As small talk I asked her if she was coming to the game on Saturday. We were the underdogs and the team could do with all the support we could get.’
Garcia leaned forward, his interest growing.
‘Martha looked at me and freaked me out. Her eyes were different – cold, emotionless, like two black pits filled with nothing.’ Anna ran her fingers over her lips nervously. ‘Almost catatonically she said, “There will be no game.”’
Garcia saw Anna’s arms come up in goose bumps and he held her hand. She gave him a weak smile before carrying on.
‘I asked her what she was talking about. The game was advertised everywhere. You couldn’t walk five steps in our school without seeing a poster. We had the best girls’ basketball team our school had had in years, and that was our big chance.’ Anna paused again and with glassy eyes stared at Garcia. ‘Martha said, “Oakland’s not gonna make it. The bus’s not gonna make it.”’
This time the goose bumps were on Garcia. He remembered that year very well. The Oakland girls’ basketball team was supposed to arrive one day before the game. Their driver fell asleep at the wheel somewhere on Westside Freeway. The bus was involved in a head-on collision with an eighteen-wheeler. No one made it out alive.
‘Jesus,’ Garcia whispered, squeezing Anna’s hand. ‘What day was that again?’
‘The day before it happened.’
‘You’re kidding?’
The temperature in their kitchen seemed to have dropped all of a sudden.
‘That’s why you quit the team,’ Garcia said, finally realizing it. ‘It wasn’t because of the accident itself. It was because of what this Martha girl told you.’
Anna didn’t admit to it, but Garcia knew he was right. ‘I never talked to Martha again. A few weeks later she left school.’
‘You never told me that.’
‘I never told anyone.’ She had another sip of her wine. ‘Somehow Martha knew it before it happened, Carlos. A whole day before it happened. I don’t know if she dreamed it or saw it in a vision or what. The fact is, she
