@ghostchats
The results from the second autopsy came in once again and like Garrett had thought, its results pointed to homicide. It was so obvious and the faithful son was in disbelief he was the only one enlightened on the subject. He was insulted by the lack of common sense; he didn’t need a college degree to pick up on the red flags. Now, his palm cradled his phone, eyes honing in on the medium’s contact he received a few days ago. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, or if she could truly help. But it was the shot he needed to take, he needed to work with someone who believed him from the start.Â
Garrett pressed the call button, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he paced around his apartment. He wanted to vomit, pretend this whole thing was just another nightmare that he was going to wake up from so he could spend the rest of the night painting over. But the images were real, his situation was real and for once, he just didn’t know how to react. As soon as the call went through, he didn’t allow Mickey to start, scrambling with a half frantic: “Hey, hi, remember me? Asshole from the grief support group?”
