Adam stares blankly at the picture of a handcuffed Lanie on his computer screen as the reporter gives details regarding the bail hearing set for tomorrow. He sips from a bottle of beer, some of the amber liquid dribbling onto his undershirt. With the brush of his hand, he wipes his chin then slams the bottle next to three empty bottles on the desk. The reporters argue whether bond will be an option for Ms. Hayes. Adam clicks out of the webpage and scoops the empty bottles into his arms.

As a bottle drops to the tile and shatters, I peek at the tabs left open. Adam has been searching travel websites. My attention seizes on the destination: Owen Roberts International Airport, the Cayman Islands. Tickets for two, leaving the day after Christmas, no return date, $2000 each.

Adam lets out an expletive and continues to the kitchen. One by one, the bottles clink into the recycling bin. He reaches for a broom and returns to clean up his mess.

As he sidesteps the shards, I stare dumbfoundedly at the screen. My, has he been busy on the Internet this evening. Tabs for a bank, an attorney, and Tibauld Industries' webpages have been opened. Unfortunately, the content of those pages is hidden by the enlarged page of the travel site. What I would give to have the ability to click the mouse, to see precisely what he has been up to.

Adam kneels to pick up the larger pieces of glass. He loses his balance, his palm landing on a shard. Blood pools in his hand as he drunkenly digs at the wound to remove the glass. He drops the bloodied piece onto the dustpan and steps toward the kitchen, kicking the shards throughout the room. By the time he reaches the cabinets, his hand leaves a bloody print on the paper toweling. There, he holds his hand against the towel until the bleeding stops.

The phone rings and he checks the caller ID, Tibauld. With a string of curse words, he waits for the ringing to stop. As the last of the shards are swept into the dustpan, a text comes through.

You'll go down first. Enjoy tomorrow.

The color drains from his face when he reads it, and for half a minute, his breathing stops. He seems almost paralyzed by the words on the phone. He breathes a deep breath that sucks up half the room's oxygen then powers off the phone and drops it onto the counter.

I follow him into his bedroom and watch as he strips down to his boxers. The mess Lanie made of his bed has been cleaned. He has a new comforter and a new pillow. Her teddy bear is in the trash, and I can't help but feel the bear's location is symbolic of their relationship. Thank goodness.

He slithers under the diamond-patterned comforter. As he drifts off to sleep, the occasional moan about Lanie interrupting his slumber, I stand beside the bed, watching, loathing him with every rise and fall of his chest.

Convinced he is out for the night, I go to his desk, search it. At the back of the top drawer, amongst the myriad pens and pencils is Margaret's check for fifty grand. "Void" is written across its crinkled face. It's dated the same day as her death.

After a few minutes pondering, I ghost myself to Palma D'Oro. I dip my head through John's door and ask if I may talk to him. He does not answer.

I enter the apartment to check if he's sleeping or in the shower, but he is not here. With no means of communicating my findings to him, I leave in frustration, trying to figure where he has gone.

His car is parked in its spot, so he must not be far. I search through Channelside. The bars are quiet, the movie theater is practically dead, and John is nowhere to be found.

Tony is seated in the courtyard, at the same table where Margaret sold my shoes. His lips are a straight line as he calls a number and holds the phone to his ear. But the call is short-lived. He hangs up, presses 'send' again, and repeats the process. After a few more attempts, he slides the phone into his pocket and heads into Howl.

I opt to return to John's apartment, but of course he still has not arrived. For once, I have no clue what to do, how to speed time until the trial. I cannot bear to see Lanie behind bars.

Grant's is the only place,where at the very least, I can enjoy the scenery. I find myself there in a flash.

He is seated in his recliner and talking into the phone. His chest is bare and his flannel pajama bottoms hang loosely on his hips.

"I'm glad you answered. I need to speak with you regarding the Bertwinkle case," he says.

I fly toward the phone and position myself to hear both sides of the conversation. With a breath of Grant's woodsy scent, I try not to swoon. Must stay focused.

"You know I'm not at liberty to discuss the case, officer," the crackly voice says, clearly an older man.

Grant takes a deep breath. "Your Honor, I'd like for you to deny bond to Elaina Hayes."

Silence fills the airwaves. Grant rakes his fingers through his hair.

"Is she a flight risk?"

"No. I believe she's in danger. The killer is still out there and the Bertwinkles, well, they're well-connected to a lot of people."

"Are you implying the Bertwinkles might retaliate?" The judge's voice is pointed and Grant recoils under the question.

"We both know they practically run this town. I'm just trying to see the killer is brought to justice, whether Ms. Hayes is guilty or innocent."

The sound of metal on wood comes through the line. I can imagine the judge removing his glasses and placing them onto a table. It is followed by a sigh. "Neither of us should meddle if we want to keep our careers." There is no emotion in his voice, only distance.

"So you're going to condemn her." Grant shakes his head. "They'll have someone kill her within twenty-four hours. Mark my words." He closes out of the conversation before the judge can respond.

He stands up. His untied pajamas ride down his hips. He slides his thumbs into the pajama bottoms and hikes them up. With a quick tie, they are secured and I am dismayed at the lost opportunity.

"I know you're here, Che. I felt the cold air as I was talking," he says. He whips around to look at the chair.

Unfortunately, I'm now behind him. I circle around to face him while he begins to speak.

"I've tried and failed. The judge was my last option because her lawyer isn't going to allow her to sit in jail for another night. The prosecutor is going to recommend a denial of bond, but I doubt she'll push that hard for it. She's been in old man Bertwinkle's back pocket since she became prosecutor. Hard to go against someone who funded your entire campaign."

I brush my hand against his arm, and he shudders. With his other hand, he touches the same spot.

"I'm out of ideas, save for the illegal ones."

There's no way he'll risk his career by kidnapping her, and it's not like she trusts him enough to go anywhere with him voluntarily.

"You went above and beyond, Grant, as usual. We'll keep her safe."

He paces the apartment. The occasional bad idea interrupts moments of silence, as he seems to consider his options. Finally, he stalks off to his bedroom and climbs under the covers. Within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, he is asleep.

I return to John's for one last attempt at talking to him. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes. Bose noise-cancellation headphones cover his ears. Apparently he does not wish to be disturbed and my information can wait until tomorrow morning, as much as I'd rather it didn't.

With a huff of air, I float to the hallway and linger outside Lanie's door. A zapping sound, followed immediately by a yowl, pulls my attention back to John's.

As Oliver lands partially through the wall on the other side, Jose says, "The man sure wants his privacy."

"It's not even midnight." Oliver picks himself up. He flexes his hands. "God, that hurt." His attention shifts my way. "Ah, Cheline! How fortunate to see you here."

Jose looks at me and smiles. "Just who we wanted to see."

I take a deep breath. Hopefully they did not figure out I crashed their meeting. A forced smile crosses my face. "Hi, there, boys. What's going on?"

Jose closes the distance between us at lightning speed. I back up nervously.

He reaches into his pocket and a long chain dangles from his hand. Holding out his palm, he says, "As promised, doors number four, five, and six, all wrapped up in one." He smiles, almost giddily.

I look at the pendant. It seems nothing more than a triangular rock with a few iridescent sparkles scattered throughout its surface. "Oh, you brought me jewelry." It's the only thing I can think of saying about the object of which I should have no knowledge.

"Very special jewelry, for a very special lady," Oliver says. He lifts the necklace from Jose's hand and slides it over my head. "Absolutely stunning."

I shudder under the weight of the devilsfoil.

"It does seem heavy, no?" Jose says. "It will get better and seem a part of you in no time at all."

"What does it do?"

"This is your life insurance." Oliver smiles. "Jab the reaper with the pointed end. Drive it into his heart and split him before his chain encircles you. If you accomplish it, your troubles are over."

Or just beginning.

Surely they've thought this through, know what either its failure or success could mean for the ghosts. If it's used, a war with the reapers will essentially have been declared. Granted, it's entirely possible Jose and Oliver will blame me to weasel their way out of complicity.

"And if I fail?" I ask.

"Then someday, we will see you on the other side." Jose kisses my hand. Gone is the goosebumpy feeling I had only a couple of days ago after his touch.

"That sounds so final."

"Only failure is final, Cheline." Oliver leans against the wall. "You have never failed me before. It's the reason you lasted so long as my assistant."

"So all I have to do is use this on the reaper." I remain silent as Jose and Oliver nod. "And if I succeed, do I get to keep the necklace?"

"You will have earned the necklace and it will be yours for eternity," Jose says.

Hmmm. We'll see on that.

"Okay," I force myself to say. "He's as good as gone."

They wish me luck and tell me what a monumental occasion his death will be for all ghosts, and then I part their company.

I sit in Adam's condo and watch the snake wriggle under the covers throughout the night, as I consider whether killing Derek is a real option. My head is still unclear when Adam's alarm sounds and he mad-dashes off to the courthouse. I follow inside his briefcase.

____________________________

Author's Note: Thank you for still being here! I hope your enjoying the story. I'd love to hear your feedback. I am currently on the 39th (!!!!) chapter and getting so incredibly close to the end, which I am hoping to have written within ten days. Thanks again!