I was so blown away by Conrad’s absurd retelling of my death story that I couldn’t even process my feelings. A survey of the news teams showed people hurriedly adding their own tags to their video and audio recordings, or hastily texting or phoning in their notes.
I glanced at Dante to see if I could determine his reaction. The blood drained from his face as I watched, and he shook with anger. For once he didn’t have his arm around Shannon as he turned to me. “Is that how it happened, Kirsty? Did you attack Shannon?”
“Did I—? What, no. Of course not. You were there.” But even as I said it, I recalled he’d teleported into the room after I’d died. “No, Dante,” I said coldly. “That’s not what happened and you know it. And you know what? I expected you to be more supportive.”
“Kirsty, you know that as Reapers, we are out of contact with our superiors much of the time. We are, therefore, required to use our own judgment. To that end, I must gather all the facts. While I know you’re a trustworthy witness, Conrad’s version of events is also plausible. I must listen to and investigate all possibilities without bias.”
Without bias, my ass. How many times had people told me, “This is Hell, we play favorites”?
“But Dante, we got Conrad to confess to stealing my soul in the first place. It’s why Judge Julius said you were off the hook about my wrongful reapage.”
“Yes, but that was clearing the air regarding your reapage a year ago. The reaping we’re concerned with now is Conrad’s own unauthorized scything by you. I need more evidence before I can make up my mind.” Dante held out one hand, as if expecting me to understand.
“You should take my word for it,” I said, feeling betrayed even as I told myself he was only doing his job. “But seeing as you won’t, let’s ask the other person who was there.” I turned to Shannon, calling her name, but she seemed fixated on her father, who was once again being led toward the van. You’d think a prisoner transport vehicle would have parked closer to the door, but I guess the media had hogged all the better spots.
“Shannon. Shannon!” She blinked at me, finally, as the van doors slammed shut. Detective Leo and Officer Phelps strode back toward the precinct, once again battling the gang of reporters. “Would you tell Dante what happened at the time of my death, please?”
Shannon hesitated. She looked lost and scared. “My dad was trying to get me to sign that document. The contract amendment. Then, I think the next thing that happened was that Kirsty woke up. And she fell on the floor, but then she got up and she. . .” Shannon’s eyebrows drew together as she tried to remember. “She came at my dad like the walking dead, arms stretched out before her. He had no choice but to defend himself.”
Defend himself? From me? He’d been big, strong and healthy, wielding the solid metal stapler. I’d been dazed and weak, my muscles wasted. All I’d had was a few sticky plastic disks.
“And then,” Shannon continued, sobbing softly. I was a little sick of her veil of tears. “And then, he—He—He died. Of a heart attack they found out later. Yes, it happened just like she—I—Like Dad just said.”
That wasn’t right. She was upset. She was in shock. She was suffering from schizofriendia.
Dante glared at me with such malevolence I stepped backward. If he believed Shannon, then he must think our entire relationship was built on lies. He turned Shannon around so both their backs were to me. “Come, Shannon. We must go with them in the van. I cannot teleport you since your body is still alive and your time on the Coil may not yet be done.”
I remembered Dante and me first figuring that out. Together. Was he thinking about our first meeting as well? Was he getting sentimental? Feeling bad for how he’d treated me?
“Kirsty can find her own way.”
I stood there, mouth gaping at what had gone down. When Conrad had manipulated me out of my life, I’d felt used, angry and helpless. I hadn’t imagined I could ever feel worse. When I needed him most, Dante hadn’t just let me down; he’d actually turned on me.
My hands fisted in anger, while my insides clenched with fear. What if he never believed me? What if I’d lost him for good?
And lost was exactly what I felt. Lost and alone. So alone I wished I could die.
Sadly, that was no longer an option for me.
Chapter 8
Jails Pitch
THE TRANSPORT VAN idled in the parking lot, spewing fossil fuel by-products into the air while it waited for the newspeople to clear out. Eventually the last media vehicle sped off into the dusk and the van rumbled across the asphalt and away from the precinct.
I wished I could have bypassed the awkward journey to Vanier and teleported myself directly there, but oddly enough, as a law-abiding citizen, I had no clue where it was.
I knew the name Vanier, of course. He’d been governor general or something. He had a high school named after him, the all-important intercollegiate football trophy and now a women’s prison. Did this reflect an expected career path? High school, college, prison? His mother must be so proud. I’d have to ask next time she passed through Hell.
I waited until the van was almost out of sight before activating my scythe and teleporting into the interior.
“Ow!”
“Hey!”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, having landed half on Dante and half on Shannon. Not the most graceful teleportation, but it was only my second time outside the classroom exorcises. With burning cheeks (no, not those cheeks; I hadn’t landed that hard), I squeezed into the empty space between Dante and the rear doors. The bench across the way had more space but then I would have had to look Dante and Shannon in the eye. Eyes. Whatever.
Besides, then I’d be sitting beside the other prisoner, Maddy Stryker, and she scared the bejesus out of me.
And I’d met Jesus once. Nice guy.
So the three invisible souls plus Theresa Mudders all crammed on one side of the van, while the two accused murders sat facing us.
Up front, the radio played a forgotten song as an unseen driver ferried us toward the highway.
Predictably, Conrad began his litany of lies and self-pity, now directed at Theresa. Unlike the detective who had ignored Conrad’s monologue during the drive from the office to the precinct, Theresa remained focused on Conrad, nodding and commiserating in all the right places. Did some of Conrad’s Deal powers linger or was he just really good at gaining sympathy?
He’d certainly played those reporters like a lyre.
The drive through rush-hour traffic to the small city of Milton, where Vanier was located, took forever. Traffic on the 401 grew heavy and aggressive. We’d stop to let one car in only to have three more jam their way in front of us. The words Ministry of Community Safety and Correctional Services printed on the side of the van didn’t earn us any special treatment.
Tired of being jostled on the hard metal bench (now those cheeks were burning, as well), I was about to push through the metal mesh to the more comfortable passenger seat up front near the driver when Maddy Stryker suddenly struck.
Like Conrad, both her hands and feet were chained to a big D-ring welded to the floor of the van so her only remaining weapon was her head. She head-butted Conrad’s shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways before his own chains reined him in. That had to hurt.