LATIFA, HIS EX-WIFE'S GHOST

Episode7 (GRIEVING HER)

THE SEARCH BEGINS

Zack's POV

*******************

The whiskey was a burning fire down my esophagus, but it only partially doused the storm brewing inside me.

Four days had passed.

Four days since, I'd loomed over a grave which shouldn't have been.

Four days since I'd buried Joyce in the earth; or what was left of her.

But the pain in my chest refused to abate.

The fire had burned everything to ash, left my wife with nothing but ash, and me with more questions than answers.

'It wasn't an accident'.

I feel that now.

Something hadn't added up; the missing hospital records, the rushed investigation, the dancing and pretending on the part of Lady Joan, Emily and the rest of them. Even my own mother had tried to tell me to leave it alone, to move on.

*"It's time to stop gawking at the past, Zack. "You have responsibilities."*

Responsibilities.

I harshly laughed, the sound not humorous in my barren study.

I had only one responsibility—**protecting Joyce from harm.** And I let her down.

I ground my jaws together, shattering the glass with so much force that my knuckles turned white.

Who was my enemy?

Who set the fire? Why did she not get saved?

I closed my eyes, but as soon as I did, I heard her.

*"Zack… help me."*

Her voice wasn't something I recalled—she was a nightmare. A scream that never came to me.

*"She screamed for you."

The words crept into my head like poison.

That woman. The woman I encountered in the ruins of the hospital.

Her voice was rough, her body covered in soot and blood.

*’'Why did you leave her in the care of someone else, Zack?'

I slapped the glass on the table and broke it into pieces.

The room did spin a little, but I steadied myself out of it. The drink had muddled my senses, but the rage within me was evident.

I strode across to my desk and pressed a button on the intercom.

"Get in here," I growled.

It opened in seconds. My man walked in, his back straight.

"Sir?"

I gave him a stern turn of the head, my voice flat and ominous. "Find her."

He blinked. "Sir?"

"The woman I talked to at the hospital. Get her"

He backed up a step. "Sir, we already attempted. "

"Hard enough I mean," I bit out.

My annoyance pressed on him, and he winced before he bolted out of there.

I stood there, blowing breath.

Something did not sit right.

And I was going to find out precisely what.

The house was quieter than ever, choking on its silence. No soft steps down the hall. No laughter. No lingering trace of her smell in the air. Just emptiness.

I sat back against the lip of the couch, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, staring at the bottle in my hand. Half-full. Like me.

Her voice lingered in my head.

*"'Zack, please… help me.'"*

*"'I'm not crazy. You know I'm not.'"*

*"Don't let them do this to me."*

I shut my eyes tight, but it didn't work. She was there, behind my eyelids, begging.

I had been too slow. Too blind. Too trusting.

I should have ripped her out of that hellscape. I should have struggled more.

But I didn't.

And now, she's gone. Gone forever.

I laughed brutally, raising the glass for another swig. The sting wasn't strong enough. It would never be strong enough.

A knock at the door.

I did nothing about it.

It creaked open anyway.

"Zack."

I didn't need to look up and know who was standing there.

My mother. The woman who said she loved me but cared not a whit about anything that I wanted.

I didn't respond, just stared at the amber liquid in my glass.

She walked in, her heels clicking softly against the floor. “You’ve locked yourself in here for days. You’re not eating. You’re drinking yourself into a stupor. This isn’t healthy.”

I let out a slow exhalation, rolling the whiskey between my fingers. “Neither is burying your wife.”

Silence.

For the first time, she didn’t have a response.

Then, another voice.

Soft. Gentle. Calculated.

“I know you’re hurting, Zack.”

I finally lifted my head.

The Minister’s granddaughter, Emily.

She stood beside my mother, a picture of elegance, her hands clasped together in front of her expensive dress. Eyes filled with carefully placed concern.

I knew why she was here.

I wasn’t an i***t.

I glanced at my mother. She had done this. And I glanced again at Emily, at her flat stomach said to be carrying a child; my child.

"She's going to stay with you for a while," my mother continued, her voice calm, coaxing. You can't be alone. You need someone to walk you through this."

I glared at them both.

A month earlier, I would've battled it. I would've laughed in my mom's face and turned Emily out on the street.

But I hadn't had a fight in me anymore.

I took a slow breath and turned away. "Do as you wish."

I stood up, walking towards the balcony. Leaving them to fulfill your pleasure.

Night passed and went, and the whiskey bottle lay empty.

Emily stayed.

She sat beside me, watching me intently, in soft, quiet words. But I barely heard.

I was too caught up in the past.

In Joyce.

Her laughter, her touch on my hand, the way she looked at me as if I were the world to her.

And the last time I ever saw her; frail, contained, eyes begging with an unheard cry.

"*Please, Zack… don't leave me.*"

I sighed, rubbing my hand over my face.

"Zack," Emily whispered, her breath against my skin. "You're not alone."

I almost laughed.

But her touch on my arm made me think again.

Warm. Soft. Real.

I should have jerked my arm away.

I should have made her leave.

But when she leaned in, when her lips were against mine, I didn't push her away.

Because for that one moment, I had to forget.

Forget that I had failed. Forget that I was late. Forget that Joyce was dead, buried deep beneath hard, cold ground.

Emily's touch was a poor substitute. But it was better than emptiness.

When her hands touched my body, I let it happen.

When her body was shaped against mine, I let it happen.

Because that was easier than mourning.

And this evening, I didn't want to feel it.

********************

The following day, I stood outside what was left of the psychiatric hospital.

Charred walls, smoldering rubble, the stench of burnt flesh still lingering in the air.

My boys had scoured the ruins, turning up nothing. No records. No survivors.

Only the ring and necklace that confirmed Joyce was inside.

Or so they claimed.

I sat beside the wreckage, running my fingers through my hair.

*"She pleaded for you, Zack."*

Why did these words stay with me?

Because deep down, something wasn't right.

I stood up, looking at the investigator working on the case.

"Say it again," I demanded. "How was the fire started?"

The man fidgets with his tie, his eyes darting about the room. "Officially, an electrical fire, sir."

I watched him. "And unofficially?"

He hesitated. "Some… believed it was arson."

My muscles coiled. "Who?"

He swallowed hard. "There were rumors, but no evidence. The fire burned too quickly. Almost on purpose. But without evidence—"

"I don't need evidence," I cut in. "Names."

The man hesitated, and then exhaled. "Lady Joan was the last one seen outside ma'am's room that evening."

There was a shiver of murderous silence between us.

Lady Joan.

I clenched my fists, my mind racing.

She's been here with Joyce the entire time. Popping in occasionally. She's her mother-in-law.

I spun around. "I want a full background check on all employees present at the time of the fire. Find out who was bribed. And find that woman; the one who spoke to me."

"Yes, sir,"

“And keep this between us”, I fired. The investigator nodded and departed.

I took a deep breath, trying to quell the anger growing inside me.

I had been blind indeed.

Something is fishy here

Joyce's death was not a tragedy—it was a setup.

And someone was going to pay.