Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Forty-one

"Do you have any idea where he is?" The words race out.

Both Oliver and Jose look downward, clearly trying to avoid eye contact.

"I wouldn't ask if it weren't important." My emotions start to get the better of me. "Lanie's in trouble. I found my murderer and he has her right now. He's going to kill her. Will you please tell me where John is?"

Oliver shifts his attention to Jose then his eyes meet mine. "John's at his mom's. He'll be pissed if you disturb him there. Not sure what's gotten into him the past few days, but He's really touchy right now, and he's always been protective of his mom's place. My guess is it has a ward stronger than this one."

If he's placed a ward on his mother's apartment, there's a chance I won't survive it. Why must everything be so complicated? But do I have a choice?

"Where is her apartment?"

Jose answers, "It's 212, but be careful. She's...odd."

As if John is the definition of normal...jeesh. Surely I can handle his mother.

"Is there a way we can help you, Cheline?" Oliver seems genuine in his offer.

"Tony...er Weston Tibauld. Do you know where he lives?" Jose stares at me blankly, but Oliver nods. I continue, "4311 Davis Island Drive. Margaret's there, trying to distract him, but I fear it isn't enough. The three of you might be able to work together to delay him."

Jose catches the coin in the air and palms it. His lips twist into a mischievous grin. "That is doable."

"Weston Tibauld?" Oliver asks. "Oh, yes, do I have a bone to pick with him. I will enjoy every bit of terror I reign down on him."

They have already disappeared when I begin to dive through the floors. I leap through a man wielding an armful of wrapped presents, a teen girl with her eyes glued to her cell phone, and a group of carolers singing "Silent Night." Fortunately, the second floor is quiet.

I round the corner and pass the elevators, on my way to the other side of Palma D'Oro. John's mom's apartment is the seventh door down the hallway. A flocked wreath with snowy pinecones and a huge red bow adorns the door to apartment 212. It looks inviting, but I'm sure that invitation is issued to humans, not ghosts.

"John," I yell from a safe distance, "I need to talk to you. The killer has Lanie!"

He does not answer. I have no choice but enter the apartment, come hell or high water.

I inch forward. The fear of being zapped to kingdom come takes hold. Another step, and I am shaking nervously in my Blahniks. The wreath is millimeters from my face.

It's now or never.

With closed eyes, I take a step and feel the wreath's fronds, as though they are gelatinous prickles moving through my skin.

A black cell phone is on the kitchen island. The counters are clean, the dishes are drying in the drainer beside the sink, and the smell of oregano and basil wafts through the apartment.

John's mom is seated in the den, rocking back and forth in a pale blue Lazyboy. The instrumental version of "I'll be Home for Christmas" plays softly in the background. A white phone is on her lap. One of her hands holds a rosary, while the other grasps a picture of her missing daughter, Hayli. She whispers a prayer, asking for her daughter to be brought home, saying that she deserves closure, that Hayli deserves a proper burial.

I let her be as I search the apartment for John. Hayli's room has a mound of clothing on the floor. A folded-up letter with hearts on it sits by a dusty computer on her desk. The room seems to have been left untouched for months, probably since Hayli went missing.