And then he had a better idea. He accessed the town newspaper, which had its own search capability. He typed in the name Fisher and added the word which just might give him the Fisher he was seeking: obituary.
Bingo! There it was — an obituary from two months ago. Melvin Fisher, age forty-two, of seventy-two Apple Creek Road. Killed in an automobile accident.
What did people do before mobile phones? Ken wondered. Within seconds he had a map on the little screen and directions to Apple Creek Road.
When he arrived, he found a dead-end street lined with small cottage-style homes. He approached the door of number seventy-two, but he didn’t get close enough to knock.
A window opened and a voice called out, ‘What are you doing here?’
Ken sighed with relief. The boy he knew as Stevie Fisher was looking through the window.
‘I just wanted to see if you were OK,’ he said. ‘You disappeared when the police arrived.’
‘No kidding,’ the boy said. ‘I didn’t want them thinking I was one of you people.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ken asked, walking towards the window.
‘Don’t come any closer or I’ll call the police myself!’ Stevie yelled. ‘How come you’re not locked up?’
‘Because — because —’ Ken sputtered, ‘I wasn’t in on it! I thought it was a real seance too!’
‘Yeah, right. Just get out of here.’ Stevie slammed down the window.
Ken couldn’t believe it. Stevie thought he was in league with the fake medium. Now he was even more depressed.
He was late getting home, but fortunately his parents were caught up in watching a soccer game on TV and hadn’t noticed the time.
‘Join us,’ his father called from the den. ‘It’s a terrific game.’
‘No thanks,’ Ken said. ‘I’m kind of beat. I’m going to bed.’
He knew his parents were probably looking at each other in bewilderment, and his mother was wondering if he was sick.They didn’t think anything was more important to Ken than soccer, even if he didn’t play himself any more. He loved his parents, but there was so much they didn’t know about him.
In his room, he flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He certainly hadn’t lied to his parents about being tired. He was thoroughly, utterly exhausted by the bizarre chain of events that had made up the last few hours. He hoped he would be able to fall asleep easily. He didn’t want to think about this crummy day.
Ken?
Not now, Jack. I’m beat. And I’ve had a really bad day.
I just wanted to tell you. I’m sorry.
About what?
About what I asked you to do for me. About going out with Lucy.
The experiences of the past couple of hours had practically erased Jack’s request from his memory. And he flushed as he recalled how awful he’d been to Lucy at the bowling alley.
Jack. I really don’t want to do that.
It’s OK. I shouldn’t have asked you.
He sounded. different. Not sad, not happy, just sort of. calm.
I’ve been thinking a lot, Jack went on. And I’ve been getting some help.
From who?
I can’t really say. You wouldn’t understand.
Ken had a sudden image of Jack surrounded by a bevy of kind and wise angels. Jack was right — wherever he was right now, Ken could never understand.
So, it’s OK if I don’t go after her?
Yeah. You see, I’ve got to let go.
Of Lucy?
Of everything. I have to let go of my life. And I have to stop asking you to live a life for me. I gotta get into where I am now.
So — you’re not going to talk to me any more? With a pang, Ken realized that he would miss hearing from Jack.
Oh, we can still talk. I’m just not going to be asking you to do me any more favours.
Oh. OK.
You said you had a really bad day. What happened?
Long story. Can I tell you tomorrow? I need to get some sleep.
Sure. And if Lucy keeps coming on to you, feel free to blow her off.
I already did, Ken thought dismally. He wondered if he could drum up the energy to sit down at his computer right now and compose an apologetic email to her.
Hello, can you hear me?
He thought Jack had gone.
Yeah, I hear you.
Excuse me, I ’m sorry to disturb you.
Well, it definitely wasn’t Jack. He’d never be so polite.
I need your help. It’s important.
Look, I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good time, OK? Would you mind going away?
Please, young man, you could save my family!
Right. They were always dramatic, these spirits or ghosts or whatever they were.
Another time, OK?
It won’t take long. I just want to tell you where I left a lottery ticket.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AN HOUR LATER, WHEN the guard finally returned, Amanda did something she’d only done once before in her life, when she wanted her parents to buy her real diamond studs for her pierced ears.
She begged.
‘Please, please, please, don’t tie me up! I promise I won’t hit my head against the wall again! Honestly, I swear to you, I won’t!’
The guard didn’t even look at her. She spoke to the other guard.
‘Let her out. She made bail.’
Amanda jumped up. ‘You’re kidding! Who bailed me out?’
But these guards apparently never shared any more information than they absolutely had to. The guard opened the door, and Margaret-Amanda made a hasty exit. She was directed down a hall and told to go through the last door on the right.
She was clinging to one big hope — that Jenna had read her mind when she was in Cassandra-Serena’s apartment. Jenna was the only person who just might know that the Margaret Robinson who was arrested at the seance was really Amanda Beeson. And Amanda made a promise to herself. If this was the case, and Jenna had arranged to get her out of jail, Amanda would never be mean to Jenna again. She would never criticize her or laugh at her behind her back — or in front of her either. She’d even persuade her own personal friends to let Jenna into their clique.
But she started regretting her promises even before she reached the door. Jenna would never fit into Amanda’s clique. She had the wrong style, the wrong personality, the wrong everything.
So it was almost a relief when she walked through the door and found that Jenna wasn’t waiting for her. But someone else was.
‘Come on,’ Serena said, leading the way out of the room and down the hall, towards the main doors. ‘I’ve got a taxi waiting for us outside.’
‘Who bailed us out?’ Amanda asked.
‘Very funny,’ Serena snapped. ‘Really, Margaret, I’m not in the mood for jokes.’
Amanda was on the verge of telling her that she wasn’t Margaret, but she didn’t think this was the right time or place. Serena probably wouldn’t slap her right in front of a police station, and even if she did there was no guarantee it would send Amanda back into her own body. Besides, the idea of a taxi taking her back to Margaret’s apartment was a lot more appealing than walking or looking for a bus stop.