Page 40 of The Ghost and the Graveyard (Knight Games 1)
"No. Your problem is you're still angry at your ex, but you're punishing yourself."
"I'm not punishing myself."
"You are! You're blaming yourself for something he did. What was his name?"
"Gary."
"You need to take all of that anger and guilt you're holding, wrap it up in a great, big karmic ball, and throw that sucker right at Gary. "
I rolled that around in my brain. "Gary's gone. What are you proposing?"
He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "I think I have a better idea. Do you have a picture of Gary?"
I waved my hand in front of my face as if the notion stunk. "Of course not. I shredded every last one."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "All of them?"
God, his eyes bore into me. Was this some kind of ghostly water torture? He was practically wringing out my soul for information with his stare.
"Okay! I might have one."
"Where is it?"
My eyes darted to the black purse I'd dumped in the corner of the counter when I'd come home from work yesterday.
"You still keep his picture in your wallet?"
"Hey, it's not like I remembered it was in there or anything until just now. I just think there might be one in the secret compartment."
Logan bobbed his head and made a gimme gesture with his hand. "Well?"
With a sigh, I strode to the purse and with my back to Logan pulled Gary's picture out of the clear plastic photo holder it was still in. My god I was a loser. Reluctantly, I handed it over.
Concentrating his energy on his fingertips, Logan inspected the photo. After a moment or two he raised his eyes to me. A shiver started in his hair and descended, shaking his entire ghostly form until he was nothing but a blur. When he formed again, my ghost had transformed his sandy blonde hair to Gary's saddle brown coif. His green eyes were now blue. And although I could tell that the shape of his head was slightly off, Logan could've been Gary's twin.
"Grab the kitchen knives," he said.
* * * * *
I poured myself a glass of wine and tried to come to terms with what I was about to do. We'd moved downstairs, and I'd balanced a piece of plywood against the brick wall across from the wine cellar. With his arms extended to the sides, back pressed to the plywood, Logan goaded me on.
"Come on, Grateful. I promise it won't hurt me."
"For the five hundredth time, this just seems wrong."
"Get over it. It will help."
To my side was the block of knives from the kitchen. This was Logan's idea. Why not play along? I gulped down half my glass of Shiraz. After testing the weight of each of the wooden handles, I selected the largest one. I think it's called a chef's knife. I removed it from its slot.
"That's what I'm talking about, Grateful. Hit me! Say to me what you want to say to Gary."
I raised the knife over my shoulder. "You used me!" I yelled and tossed the blade as hard as I could. It tumbled through the air, stabbing through Logan's abdomen and reverberating in the plywood behind him. My eyebrows shot up in surprise at the accuracy of my throw.
"Yes!" I said, pumping my arm. I had a hidden talent.
"Gah!" Logan clutched the section of his stomach the knife had passed through as if in pain.
My hands shot to my mouth. "Did I hurt you?"
