No.
“Are you trying to right some wrong done to you?”
Yes.
I figured he probably couldn’t explain the details just yet, so I tried to question my way to it. “Did you know David before you became a ghost?”
Another yes.
“But I never met you?”
He shook his head.
“Did you know him a long time ago?”
No.
“You knew him recently?”
Yes.
There weren’t many possibilities. “You knew him from work?”
Yes again. He seemed anxious, as if this would give me the answer.
“You’re one of the workers who died when the tank ruptured!”
He looked stricken, but shook his head. He held up the four fingers again.
“Oh, that’s right. That was five days ago. You said you died four days ago. But the only person who died four days ago was the…”
He could see the understanding dawning on me.
“You’re the plant manager.”
He nodded sadly.
“Mr. Devereaux?”
Yes, he nodded.
“You killed yourself.”
He stood up, shaking his head side to side, mouthing the word ‘No!’
“You didn’t kill yourself?”
Again, just as firmly, no.
“Someone killed you?”
Yes.
“Who?”
He pointed to his ring finger on his left hand. There was no wedding band, but I could guess.
“Your wife?”
Yes.
“Your wife killed you?”
I tried to remember the stories. I couldn’t. Everything had been blurred by the events of three days ago. I went over to a stack of newspapers that I had been meaning to take out to the recycling bin. I put the two unopened ones-which I knew had stories of David’s murder in them-aside, and reached for the one from the day David was killed. That was the day after Devereaux suicide. The suicide was front page news.
“Will it bother you if I read this to you?”
No.
“‘Mr. Chance Devereaux…’ Chance? Your first name is Chance?”
He nodded.
“‘Mr. Chance Devereaux, plant manager of Emery amp; Walden, died of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound yesterday evening. His wife, Louise, who is also employed at Emery amp; Walden, discovered her husband’s body when she returned home late from work. She said her husband had grown despondent following the deaths of three workers Tuesday in an industrial accident caused by a ruptured acid tank. Mr. Devereaux had received complaints from the workers about the tank, but failed to repair it…’”
I looked up to see him angrily indicating his disagreement.
“We’ll get to your side of the story in a moment,” I said. “Where was I? Oh yes, ‘…failed to repair it in time to prevent the deaths.’” I read on in silence. The rest of the article was simply a rehash of the previous reports on the accident.
“My name is Anna. May I call you Chance?”
Yes.
“Is your wife Emery’s secretary?”
Yes.
“And you didn’t kill yourself?”
No. He pointed to the ring finger again.
“Your wife killed you.”
Yes.
“How?”
He pointed to his mouth again, only this time I saw what I had missed before: he wasn’t pointing, he was imitating the firing of a gun into his mouth.
“She shot you in the mouth?”
He nodded.
I shuddered. “How did she manage that? I’ve seen your wife. She’s not a very large woman.”
He pantomimed holding a glass, pouring something into the glass, then adding something to it. Then he pantomimed sleep.
“She drugged your drink?”
He nodded.
“That should come out in the autopsy.”
He made a helpless gesture.
“It didn’t?”
He shrugged.
“You don’t know if it did or it didn’t, but they declared it a suicide?”
He nodded again.
“Have you…” I tried, but couldn’t think of a more polite way to phrase it. “Have you been buried?”
He nodded, looking very unhappy.
“You don’t like where you’re buried?”
He looked into my face and made the Sign of the Cross.
“You’re Catholic.”
Yes.
“And you aren’t buried in consecrated ground?”
No.
“Is that why you’re haunting me?”
He gave me a look that said he was disgusted with me and disappeared.
The moment he was gone, the house felt very empty. “Come back,” I said.
Nothing.
“Chance, please come back. I apologize. This is a very difficult time for me. I didn’t mean to offend you by calling it ‘haunting.’ If you come back, I’ll try to help you.”
He reappeared.
“How do you do that?”
He shrugged.
“Let me know if you figure out more about this ghost business.”
He nodded.
“What does this have to do with David?”
He studied me for a moment, then pointed to David’s picture and then his head.
“David shot you, too?” I said in disbelief.
No! He might as well have been able to shout it.
“Wait, wait. I’m beginning to understand. David told me he didn’t believe the things that were said about you.
