“Fine,” I say. “You know what? I don’t want a refund. I’m just giving it back. Take it. I don’t ever want to see it again.” Honestly, I don’t know why I even came all the way back here. I could’ve taken it anywhere—Goodwill, Thrift Town, wherever. I was so freaked out, I just got in my car.
“So you want to donate it, not return it?” He frowns with confusion.
I step back from the bottle as if it were radioactive. “Sure. Whatever you want to call it.”
“It’s really nice of you to think of our store for your donations, but…” He flashes an uncomfortable smile.
“What?”
“I can’t take that.”
“Why not?” I snap.
“We just restocked the glass section. We don’t have room.”
“Sorry, are you saying your shop isn’t taking donations?” Ridiculous. They’re a thrift store! People are constantly dropping items off at places like these. Then they sort through it all and put the good stuff out on the floor or leave it in the back until there’s room. I know because my livelihood depends on secondhand shops.
“Please don’t take it as an insult,” he says apologetically. “We turn away eighty percent of everything that comes in.”
Fair point, however, “I bought this bottle last week, and last week it was good enough. But this week, it’s not?”
He shrugs. “We’re all filled up in the knickknack department.”
“Whatever.” I grab the bottle. “I’ll just put it in the dumpster out back.” I turn and head for the door.
“It’s illegal to throw trash there. It’s for private use only.”
I flash a glare over my shoulder. Seriously? I’m getting the impression that this bottle is cursed and nobody wants it. Something fishy is definitely going on.
I hit the sidewalk, and at the end of the block, right outside a sandwich shop, is a trash can. I hate to throw away someone else’s art—goes against my beliefs—but I can’t keep this thing. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.
I toss the creepy bottle inside the can. “Good riddance to freaky rubbish.”
Twenty minutes later, I pull into my driveway. No sign of the black car or that man. Phew!
I grab a few items from the back of my truck and grab my house key. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders now that the bottle is gone. If that man comes around again, I’ll tell him that whatever his obsession is with the thing, I don’t have it. And if I see him again, I’ll call the cops.
I open the front door and my oversized leather purse slips from my grip. The blood drains from my face. “No. Not possible.”
Sitting right in the middle of the foyer on the hardwood floor is that bottle, a note with big bold letters taped to the neck: Make the damned wish, Ginnie.
Chapter Seven
I do not believe in the supernatural. I just don’t. But I think most grown adults would agree when I say that some things simply defy logic.
For example, women’s bodies are on a monthly cycle, which is essentially the cycle of the moon. How the hell does my body know what the moon is doing? Very mysterious. Also, why is it that you can go for years without thinking about someone from your past and they’ll suddenly pop into your head? Hours, days, or a week later, you’ll randomly bump into them at the store or get an email. It happens, right?
Then there’s Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. We’ve all been there, packed up, ready to go on vacation, and suddenly your car won’t start or a pipe bursts in the basement or you get the flu when you never get sick. You find yourself asking, “Why now, today of all days?”
Who the hell knows? And, honestly, I can accept all of those inexplicable, random/not-so-random events because I am one hundred percent comfortable not having answers for everything.
But this?
I stare down at the freaky bottle on the floor, trying my best to slow my rapid breathing. Okay. Stay calm. Stay calm. But how can I? I left it in a trash can twenty miles away, and the goddamned thing beat me home! Never mind that someone managed to get it inside my house, and I’ve checked every door and window. Nothing disturbed. Everything locked, just as I left it.
“Fuck.” I go to my kitchen, grab a wineglass from the cupboard with my trembling hands, and fill it to the brim with some horrible two-week-old chardonnay I’ve had sitting in the fridge. Tastes like grapy ass, but I guzzle it down anyway and call Vi.
“Hey, Ginnie. I’m heading into a meeting. Can I call you back?”
“Can you come over?” My words come out way too fast.
“What happened?” Her voice is all panic.
“I—I…” Crap. I don’t even know how to explain it.
“Are you okay? Was there an accident? Are you somewhere trapped and bleeding?” she fires off.