Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

Before she vanished, she fell in with the wrong crowd. She’d been hanging out with a friend from school — Melanie — for a year or so, and she knew I didn’t approve. We clashed, like mothers and daughters do. It was an impossible situation. The more I tried to warn her about the circle she was choosing, the more she wanted to rebel. You know how it goes. They rub it in your face by doing the one thing you don’t want them doing. I read that in a book later. Much later. When it was too late. The harder you rebuke, the harder they rebel.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ King said. ‘It’s the furthest thing from your fault.’

She shook her head, staring vacantly at the hot pavement between her feet. ‘I wasn’t around enough. I should have admitted I was overstretched. I have three girls. Fifteen, thirteen, and eight. When Raya — the eight-year-old — was born, my husband up and left.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She scoffed. ‘That was the least of my concerns. I was happier on my own. But I had to provide for them, and being a nurse isn’t exactly lucrative. So I waited tables, every spare moment I had. I guess, now that I look back on it, I left them to fend for themselves. They had to figure out what was right and wrong on their own.’

‘You had no choice.’

She shrugged. ‘I just … wish things had turned out differently.’

‘Melanie,’ King said. ‘Elsa’s friend. Who was she?’

‘Just a girl,’ Josefine said. ‘I only met her a handful of times. She seemed pleasant enough. But every day after school she’d hang out at a strip mall in Chinatown. Soon Elsa started going along with her. I tried to press for an explanation, but … you know.’

‘You were bone tired from work?’

‘That,’ Josefine said, ‘and I was starting to realise that the more I pushed, the worse it got. It’s a paradox, isn’t it? I leave Elsa to sort out life on her own, and she can’t do it. Then when I try to help, I’m too forceful. Too demanding. I know there’s a healthy middle ground somewhere, but I wasn’t able to find it.’

‘Most can’t.’

‘Are you a parent?’

‘No,’ King said. ‘But I’ve seen enough bad parenting.’

‘When you have kids,’ she said, bowing her head, ‘don’t follow my example.’

‘You did what you could,’ King said. ‘You can’t change what happened.’

Josefine sighed.

King said, ‘What did happen?’

‘There’s an e-cig store in the strip mall,’ Josefine said. ‘Called Wan’s. Elsa said that’s the place they went to, because Melanie knew the owners. I figured if a nicotine addiction was as bad as it got, I’d be lucky. But a few afternoons after work I walked past. I knew it wouldn’t be as simple as vaping. Call it motherly instinct. I made maybe three, four passes on separate occasions before I started seeing a pattern.’

‘You never saw your daughter or Melanie in there, did you?’

Josefine paused. ‘How did you know?’

‘Experience. I know where this is headed.’

‘You do?’

She froze with her mouth half-open, on the verge of speech but ultimately succumbing to overthinking. She stared at him, and he could feel himself being judged in a fresh light. The big muscles, the imposing demeanour, the cryptic hints about his past … now she was conjuring it in a different way.

She went pale.

Paler than she already was.

‘I won’t talk in prison,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

King said, ‘Who do you think I am?’

She didn’t answer.

Instead she swung her bag over one shoulder and shot to her feet and started striding hard for the sidewalk in front of the park.

King sat there.

Calculating.

Analysing.

He made a decision.

He had to see this through.

He got up and followed her.

By chance, she mounted the sidewalk in unison with the appearance of a passerby. A European guy in his forties with bronze skin and thin hair dyed black, dressed in fitness gear, complete with workout gloves and a thick headband to hide his rapidly eroding hairline. He wore a sleeveless tee tucked into gym shorts, which did nothing to hide the paunchy belly protruding out, pressed tight against the material. His muscles were soft and covered in a layer of fat. He walked with what was known as “invisible lat syndrome,” his arms stuck out diagonally far wider than they had any right to be.

The guy saw Josefine hustling past, scared and small. Then he turned and saw King walking after her, towering, imposing, threatening.

King knew the man was just delusional enough to think he could truly help this situation.

He’d interfere.

No doubt about it.

At least he meant well.

King kept walking, and the guy stepped in front of him. Reached out bombastically and planted a small hand on the centre of King’s chest and said, ‘Let’s leave her alone, okay, buddy?’

King stopped in his tracks.

4

Now King had a second decision to make.

How important is this?

He didn’t give a shit about what other people thought of him, which helped. Most would be rattled by the fact that a random passerby had mistaken them for a predator. King didn’t blink. He made another calculation.

What’s this worth?

It was worth making a Good Samaritan uncomfortable. That was a small price to pay if he could truly aid Josefine.

He looked down at the European guy and put an enormous hand on the man’s shoulder and said, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. My bad.’

It disarmed the guy just enough to make him hesitate. He was ready for a fight, no matter how badly it might go for him, and King couldn’t help but admire the bravery. King calculated again.

Will he leave this alone?

His brain came back with a resounding, No.

So what came next was inevitable.

Ego fell aside, and King figured, Okay, I’ll be the bad guy.

He popped the man in the left side of his ribcage, a gentle punch to the liver, which still absolutely crumpled him. The guy lost all balance and dropped forward and sunk to all fours, face contorted in a grimace, liver spasming.

King pushed his head