Outside Matthew's house, my three fishermen sat in the dark of night, really, really impatiently.
"She juuuuuuuuumped..." Abdul dragged, face rested against the side windshield. "She juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuumped..."
"She jumped. There's no reason for us to follow him anymore," Jonathan agreed, but his sharp gaze was still trying to glimpse through the curtains.
Jennifer was awake, lying in the backseat, staring at the headliner, pouting with a frown as Jonathan drove them away.
———
Meanwhile, inside the house, I rushed over to Matthew's desk while I still had time, opening his laptop and smashing in his password; he was so careless as to share it with me.
I accessed his precinct's files, surfed through the list of names until I found who's soon going to be replaced by Sophie. Lila Powell, I have your address typed into my phone now.
I shut the laptop, bit the gloves off, then returned to the kitchen, turning on the stove again as if nothing ever happened before Matthew stepped out of the restroom.
"I'm hungry as shit," he ranted while scratching the back of his neck.
"Five minutes."
"Alright..." And he sunk right back into the couch.
He didn't do anything while I finished cooking our dinner. He didn't turn on the TV. He didn't use his phone. He didn't talk to me either, probably because I was a bit of a distance away and he didn't want to raise his voice. He was really tired.
"Here you go." I handed him his plate of steak.
"You burned it."
"Just a little bit." And I took my seat like it was my own, grabbing a can of beer and bursting its cap open.
"It's a Sunday too, man," he ranted with his mouth full. "I'm supposed to be doing nothing today, yet everything happened today."
"Bad luck..." Then silence descended for a bit, so I decided to ask the question I wasn't sure I should've. "You remember Sophie from high school, right?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ." He immediately sat up, clanking his plate on the table, not so tired anymore. "It's been twenty-six years, Mo." He sterned up, with disapproval in his eyes.
"I'm just asking."
"The girl the other day, the waitress, did you even give her a try?"
"Uh... No—"
"Well, you're in fucking luck. This here is photographic." He pointed one finger at his forehead, another hand scratching the pocket for his phone.
"No, you just typed it in your phone."
"And why do you think I did that? Because I knew shit like this would happen. Like, my guy... tsk... She's gone. Sophie's gone." He raised his voice.
"Yeah, she is, in the dead sense."
He got a good shock, flinching back slightly, eyebrows twitching, jaw dropped, completely flabbergasted. "Wha—"
"I was just about to ask if you knew. She passed."
After a pause, he massaged his own chin, then the palm moved up to his cheeks, then the temples. "Wow... How'd you... How'd you know?"
"Her mother knew me well enough to contact me." I was quite disappointed that this was a lie, but I guess twenty-six years is a long time.
"So, like... you attending the funeral or something?"
"No... Uh... Just..." I slapped my thigh involuntarily. "Shocked. You know?"
"Yeah, no shit. Um. Sorry, my guy."
"It's fine." Because a week later she would return to the living in Lila Powell's body.
"Still." He rubbed his nose. "You gotta move on." And showed me the number saved on his phone. "Call her. Right now."
"What?"
"Come on, my guy. Trust me, it'd make you feel better." His genuine and sincere face wavered really quickly. "I'm no therapist like you, but... seriously, man, call her."
"I... I..."
"You're gonna leave her hanging like this? Come on, do something with that outrageous good looks of yours."
"Thanks."
"Thank my ass. Call her now."
He was very insistent. I was hesitant, but I did eventually type her number into my phone. Moving on is undoubtedly the best thing I should do.
"I did send you messages… fifteen years ago, but… did you not receive them?"
"I did receive them. I just didn't know if I… if I wanted to see you."
Now that Sophie's back in my life, moving on would be especially healthy. Clinging onto her won't go well; she will be in Lila Powell's body a week later too. Just imagine if Matthew sees the two of us together...
Time to reopen my dating life. Tap.
"Yes!" Matthew clenched his fists and thrust them as if his favorite football team had just scored.
The phone buzzed for quite a while; she's probably a busy woman.
"Hello?" Her voice echoed through. A youthful, adorable, high-pitched voice.
"It's the guy from the café you work at. Are you Caitlyn Winters?" I talked while Matthew listened incredibly intently. That's the face of a man enjoying his romance comedy show.
"Yes! That's me!" I could hear her smile. "What's your name?"
"Chen Mo."
"Oh... Um... How would you like me to call you?" Ahh, the struggles of a completely Asian name.
"Mo is fine."
"Ok, Mo. So... would you like to go out sometime?"
Matthew clapped, then pointed at my phone excitedly. I was wrong; not even football can get him as giddy as this.
"I'd love that," I responded. "How about a movie? Friday night?"
"That sounds like a plan, Mo. I'll see you then."
"Yeah, see you." And I hung up the call.
"WHY'D YOU HANG UP THE CALL?!" Matthew scolded, his arms held out.
"The conversation was over."
"Extend it, my guy. Make small talks or something." He continued feasting on his steak. "Ask her about her, you know? Textbook stuff."
"There's a textbook for this?"
"Just for your helpless ass, I'll write you one."
Laughs, beers, and meat. A night with a brother is when men can truly relax and be themselves.
"I'm home!" And there's Tracy, ending it. "Why are you wearing that cap in here?"
I left while checking my phone. Jennifer texted me: "She jumped, we'll stop following you now. Meet tomorrow?"
Finally, I could get rid of this stupid cap that messed my hair up. I texted her back: "Where?"
For someone who sleeps eighteen hours a day, she sure responded fast: "Your apartment? Duh."
Duh? What do you mean 'duh'?
It doesn't matter anyway, I thought as I drove home.
Before I even got my keys out, my front door creaked open. With my wickedly elegant lighter, I revealed Sophie's head poking out the door. It's already midnight, ghosts roamed again.
"Welcome home." She greeted.
"I got your final target, Jumping Ghost."
"Don't call me that."
I entered and closed the door behind me. Nothing to toss today as it's a Sunday. "Here's her address." I handed Sophie Lila Powell's address written on a slip.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome... You still remember." I blurted out. "The cap... I meant."
"I do." She nodded weakly, with a faint smile.
To escape the awkward silence that followed, I immediately headed to my bedroom. I forgot to brush my teeth, nor even shower.
Sophie lingered for a while before vanishing through the walls, heading to haunt the nefarious boyfriend skinner, Lila Powell.
———
In a holding cell, Hill slept uncomfortably on concrete behind iron bars, when the sound of metal clanking woke him. That noise came from the door being unlocked by a guard.
"The fuck?" Hill muttered groggily as he slowly sat up.
THUD.
The guard in blue landed a heavy punch on his face, which sent adrenaline through Hill's veins instantly.
"WHAT THE FUCK!" he spat as he struggled with the guard.
The guard won in both size and strength. Hill's struggle was futile as the guard headbutted him hard. Blood gushed from his nose.
The guard then wrapped a rope around his neck, pulling and strangling him. Hill's face reddened in seconds as his legs kicked everywhere, disrupting both their balance.
THUMP!
The two men, tangled up, thumped on the floor. The guard strangled Hill from behind while Hill helplessly writhed.
"O'Neil says hi," the guard muttered as Hill lost all his strength to squirm.
All while the assassination was happening, a well-dressed man sat in a bar, joint hanging from his mouth, exhaling clouds, classical jazz music playing in the background.
"The job is done, sir," one of his pawns reported. A simple wave of his pinky sent the reporter away. Rick O'Neil, kingpin of the underground that was never dirty enough for the police to take in. By day, Rick is a charismatic businessman that loves kids. By night, he bashes people's skull in with a baseball bat.
Rick's hair and beard were gray and thin but groomed flawlessly. Wrinkles lined his face; his eyes were that of a lion's. He was a fierce old man who no one dared to cross.
Except the man who decided to just sit next to him now. It was a tall man with long, messy hair, obscuring half his wrinkled face.
Rick didn't like how close the man got. But he didn't bat the man an eye. Whoever it was, he was certain it was beneath his consideration. "You alright?" He asked with his hoarse and husky voice.
"Nah. I need a drink." The man raised a finger to call the bartender but was ignored.
"I own him."
"Well then, call him over for me."
Rick pulled the joint out of his mouth, turned slowly, and breathed smoke all over the man's face.
That man didn't flinch.