A Ghost of a Chance by Minnette Meador

Keenan his own cell phone, then leaned against the furthest wall, watching him with bored, half-closed eyes.
    Keenan stared down at the familiar instrument as if it were some kind of poisonous snake. He had no idea what Mike’s number was. All he could remember was the office number. Reflexively, he dialed it. The two rings didn’t give him any time to think it through.
    You’ve reached General Graphics and Designs. Our normal business hours are 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday thru Friday. Please leave your name, number, and a reason for the call, and someone will get back to you as soon as possible. Have a wonderful day.
    Keenan had one second to think of what to say before it beeped into his ear.
    “Uh…” More sweat trickled down the left side of his neck. “This is Keenan Swanson and I’m trying to get in touch with, uh, Mike Albertson. I am at the…” He threw a panicked look at the detective.
    “Southeast Precinct, Forty-Seventh and East Burnside,” the man mumbled.
    “Southeast Precinct, Forty-Seventh and East Burnside,” Keenan repeated. “I’ve been arrested, but it’s all a mistake. I need him to come down and bail me out.” He fumbled for an additional explanation, but it evaded him. Instead, he stammered, “Th…thank you.” It was brainless, but that was the state of his mental dexterity at the moment.
    Without hanging up, he handed the phone back to the cop.
    When the man left, Keenan buried his face in his hands. He was very tired.
    “All right, son,” Mac said. “Let’s work out a strategy for your defense.”
    Keenan lifted his head and cocked it to one side. “Just leave me alone. I’ve had all the help I can stand for one day.”
    “Sure thing.” Mac slammed the book shut. “I was only trying to assist.” Keenan heard the faint swoosh of the man disappearing.
    He closed his eyes and let his mind slip into exhaustion. It was going to be a long night.
    After several hours of silence and staring at four blank walls, Keenan convinced himself he would be there forever. Had they forgotten him? What time was it? What day was it? The stress from the night before and no sleep was making him twitchy. Various apparitions floated through to pay their respects, make fun of him, or ignore him completely. Keenan didn’t mind; without the distraction, his brain would have been on its own. That was always a dangerous scenario. He occupied most of his time trying to figure out what would come in next in the parade of specters.
    Finally, he heard the buzz at the cell door and turned around.
    A stout little man crossed the cell to remove cuffs then wiggled a finger at him. Keenan followed him out the door where the cop stopped him, indicating Keenan’s shoes with a nod. Keenan slipped them onto his feet.
    “Come on,” the officer said, motioning Keenan to another door.
    Three specters slid through the cell door and waved goodbye to him and Constance, who cropped up right in front of him, waved hello. She searched him up and down but said nothing.
    The short man led Keenan down a long hallway with empty offices on either side, passed a break room, and along a short hallway with a door at the end. Keenan thought he was taking him to get fingerprints, photos, or something, since they didn’t do that the night before, but to his astonishment the man moved through the metal door out into a spacious lobby where Keenan blinked against bright sunshine coming through high windows.
    Keenan stopped dead in his tracks and his blood turned to ice. Standing in front of a glassed-in reception counter, looking like an angel in sweats, stood Isabella.
    “Fuck,” whispered Keenan.
    “You’re free to go,” whispered the cop.
    “Oh, honey,” whispered Constance.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Eight
Spirited Away
     
    Isabella turned to regard the two of them, and Keenan was amazed she was smiling. She gave him a wink, shook her head, and looked down to finish signing something. The little man grabbed Keenan’s arm