

### Adelaide Confused

Penny Greenhorn

Adelaide Confused

By Penny Greenhorn

Smashwords Edition

ADELAIDE CONFUSED. Copyright © 2011 by Penny Greenhorn

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

_For Lord Cosmotron..._

### Prologue

Theodore Dunn was running for his life, but from what, he wasn't sure. Like trying to escape time, running was useless. He could sense the unstoppable entity behind him, dogging each step through the familiar brick maze.

His feet grew heavy and each footfall added to the pain in his knees. His breath was labored, heart thrumming. The only thing that kept Theodore going was the golden string wrapped around his neck. It shined even in this dark web of twisting turns where light was little. The delicate cord was knotted near his heart, loose ends swinging with each step. Theodore imagined the strand turned 'round, knot resting on the nape of his neck—a noose. And that was what it was, a precious death sentence. But even as it betrayed him, he sought to protect it.

Down a narrow brick corridor he ran, a twist, another turn. The thing was coming, closer now. Theodore dove through a portal of blackness where a foul stench greeted him. Having a small reprieve from his ghostly assailant, Theodore cautiously walked toward a trickle of light where a large green turtle sat patiently.

Excitement bubbled as he hurried forward, pulling the golden string from his neck. A last glance over his shoulder assured it wasn't too late, he wasn't being watched. So without another moment's hesitation, he thrust the string down the turtle's throat, forcing the hulking beast to swallow his horrid treasure.

The deed was done, now run, run fast! Theodore could not let him find it. Yes, it was a man. Theodore could see his enemy then, growing closer, hunting him.

His knees were throbbing unbearably, the soles of his feet sore. Stumbling, Theodore lurched forward...

Theodore Dunn jerked forward in his seat. The high-pitched squealing of tires meeting tarmac erased the last bit of drowsiness that might have remained.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. In fact, the last thing he remembered was reading a magazine wide awake. And there it was, lying open at his feet. Anxious, his fingers flexed around the briefcase, but it wasn't enough assurance. He glanced cautiously about before slowly unlocking the case and easing it open just enough to peek inside.

Seeing it safe and snug did nothing to calm Theodore, the dream had shaken him. When sleep took him so aggressively the message was usually dire, and interpreting the dream a priority. But he balked at the task, choosing instead to finish the last leg of his journey.

The airport was small, and in a matter of minutes Theodore had collected his baggage and found his car. The briefcase did not get locked in the trunk with the suitcase. Instead it was put on the passenger seat, and even that felt far away.

Driving toward Raindrop Road, Theodore should've reached his destination in under thirty minutes. And he would have if his check engine light hadn't come on. Swearing, Theodore glanced at the dash, half ready to ignore the glowing light. But just minutes away from safely stowing his burden, Theodore cursed some more before pulling the car onto the shoulder of the road.

He was further south than he'd imagined, stuck in the tourist trap of town. A series of small shops lined the clogged and narrow lane. Hotels and restaurants were peppered throughout until it all came to an abrupt stop at the beach. A few blocks down was a small general store where Theodore intended to buy some oil and coolant. If that didn't do the trick, he'd call his colleague for help.

Leaving the briefcase was not an option. He clutched it to his chest as he locked his car goodbye. Theodore hadn't gone far when his left knee started to ache, they often swelled and gave him trouble. He ignored it.

Cutting through a hotel's manicured and picturesque lawn, the stately oaks with their hanging Spanish moss seemed eerie in the muggy twilight. A creeping unease crawled its way up his spine. He shuttered, glancing over his shoulder. All was still. His feet stung as he picked up his pace, each harsh step causing his knees to rebel. Theodore was jogging around the brick corner, running down the empty alley.

His gift was the interpretation of dreams, and yet it was as if he could sense something following, stalking. But he couldn't really, it was just the dream coming to life—the warning. He'd dreamt his death numerous times, but always it had held a symbolic meaning. Not this time. And he'd known, known it the moment he awoke, and had done his best to ignore and forget it.

Out of breath and aching, he could see the general store across the street, a glow of neon signs declaring milk and cigarettes available. He knew he wouldn't make it. And he knew his murderer drew near. Desperate to finish his last task, Theodore backtracked down the shadowed lane. A dumpster partially blocked the entrance, warding off the average passersby with its reek.

The glow of a streetlamp filtered in the far end, illuminating what could only be the big green turtle. No need to look behind, from the dream he knew he had just enough time to do what he must. Fumbling to unlock the case as he ran, he extracted its contents and shoved them down into their new resting place. Theodore hurried off then, going around the brick building so as to make the general store his destination once more.

But who was this being, this creature, which pursued with diligence so extreme that the dream warned it was unavoidable as time? Curious until death, Theodore Dunn looked back just once, the image of a man his last.

### Chapter 1

"Oh crap," I muttered. "She's going to talk to me."

Admittedly, these tiresome trips to town were my own fault. Forced treatment, part of getting well and becoming my old self, the girl I was before the accident.

I'd bought a bag of yellow apples from the general store and was strolling between shops. The month was May, so the weather was tolerant, even pleasant. Shortly the island would begin to fill with high income earners who could afford a second house on the Golden Isles.

I'd just bitten into my apple when a wave of emotions washed through me. They were quiet emotions, not quite as addictive as the passionate types, but I was caught all the same. I took in calm, content, serene, and my favorite—relaxed. I had a hard time relaxing on my own.

Desperation interrupted relaxation and I blinked my eyes open, glancing around to see if anyone had witnessed my momentary slip—standing stupidly with apple in hand.

That was the moment I caught sight of desperation, and she was aimed right for me. "Oh crap, she's going to talk to me."

A middle-aged woman with frizzy yellow hair waddled closer, her eyes never leaving mine. The inch of gray showing at her roots mutely confessed her lack of vanity, along with the tunic top and peasant skirt. A mangled mix of feelings stirred as she stopped a few feet before me, staring. Mainly I could feel her confused reluctance.

I took a step away, hesitantly, my own confusion surfacing. But my reaction spurred her on, solid intent replacing all as she gestured lamely to my transparent bag. "Could you spare an apple?"

"You want an apple?" I couldn't recall having ever seen a homeless person on St. Simons, but suddenly her frazzled appearance was making more sense, not to mention the waves of desperation she was giving off.

I was desperate myself, desperate to get away. But over the years I'd gotten better at differentiating my feelings from the rest. And at the moment I couldn't possibly be feeling _this_ desperate.

"Well, I won't just take it." She began to pull at her pudgy finger, twisting and turning until a ring popped off. "We'll trade," she suggested, holding out the ring for my inspection. It was simple, a thin brassy wire twisted around twice and knotted to hold a milky glass bead in place.

I shook my head, prepared to just give her an apple, but her desperation increased. Jerking her hand toward me, she insisted, "Take it. It's just a trinket, nothing more."

Reluctantly, I accepted, worried a refusal would insult her pride. I held the bag open, allowing her to choose an apple. She did, and with one last look which I couldn't begin to interpret, even with her feelings as guide, she turned on her outdated brown sandals and left.

### * * *

I got to work a few minutes early. I covered the evening shift, manning the front desk from one in the afternoon to nine at night for a small and outdated motel called Sterling's.

Years ago it had been called Motel Mirage, the slogan: Too good to be true. Ben Sterling and his wife Mary bought the place, changing the theme from exotic desert to cozy seaside. The inside and out were done in shades of blue and ivory, and luckily they hadn't installed any cheesy seashells or ocean paintings. Truthfully, the place was sweetly quaint, even if outdated.

Ben was sitting in his usual spot at a picnic table beneath the behemoth oak tree that was tucked just off to the side of his lot. I passed the office to join him, offering up an apple as greeting. He uncrossed his arms to wave me off, the corner of his mouth lifting in a lazy sneer. Ben was crotchety.

"Afraid you'll pop your dentures out?" I asked.

"Piss off, Adelaide," he replied halfheartedly.

I sat down.

A few minutes passed while I chewed on my apple. His melancholy trickled in as we sat in silence. Eventually he leaned his weight forward, resting his age splotched arms on the rough tabletop. "Arnie and Renee are still in three."

"Did you knock?" He looked at me blankly, but I could feel the amusement. "No, of course you didn't," I answered myself.

I dropped my apple and stalked toward room three. The motel was L shaped; the office and a few rooms making the little line while the majority of our rooms sat parallel with the road.

Arnie and Renee occupied a room where the two lines meet. I knocked a solid three times, waited a few beats, and began to pound in earnest. Petit and pretty, Renee opened the door while rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"It's hours past check-out," I stated. "If you're not out in ten minutes you'll be paying for two days."

I could see Arnie through the gap in the open door, sitting in bed bare-chested and hairy. "Aw, come on, Adelaide," he griped. "Stephen won't be cleanin' rooms 'til school lets out."

"This is a place of business, Arnie, not your own personal bordello." I glanced at Renee. "No offense."

Turning back to the clock on the nightstand, she said, "No, you're right. Peter's probably wondering. We'll be out in ten."

Peter would not be wondering where his wife had spent the night, rather what had taken so long. Adultery was frowned upon by most of the island's year-round conservative inhabitants, but the gossipmongers made an exception for Renee.

Renee and Peter had married young. He'd ignored his unconventional attractions, and she'd ignored his subtle lisp. But things fell apart, their marriage was a failure, and yet, they couldn't bring themselves to split. They'd built their relationship on a foundation of friendship, not attraction, and so they formed a strange and successful Will and Grace lifestyle. But while Renee cared for Peter and didn't want to leave him, she still felt rejected, lacking self-esteem.

Arnie was not good-looking, and under normal circumstances he'd never make Renee's league. But he was fortunate enough to be the polar opposite of Peter. And although he was an ugly man, he was a man's man, burly-like. Plus, he adored Renee, which was what she'd needed.

They'd been meeting for years (like most of Sterling's regulars, there was no place better for adultery and one night stands).

Ben ignored me when I returned. I stayed only long enough to retrieve my apples, heading for the office. I needed to prepare for a check-out.

### * * *

I was sitting on a swivel chair, feet propped on the front desk, reading a smutty romance novel when Stephen breezed in. Rangy and pimpled, 'awkward teen' didn't begin to describe Stephen.

He'd soon be finishing his sophomore year of high school. I'd hired him the summer before to be our cleaning lady. He hadn't been the only applicant, but he had been endearingly honest.

While others had professed a desire for reliable work, I had sensed their indifference during the interview. Don't get me wrong, indifference was a blessed emotion. Frankly, it was probably the only reason I was still sane. But it wasn't what I was looking for in an employee. For once I'd been hoping for desperate. But then I met Stephen.

"Why do you want to clean rooms at Sterling's?" I'd asked.

He squint-blinked at the question for a moment before answering. I thought he had a nervous tick, but no, he just had the wrong eyeglass prescription. "I don't want to clean rooms, but my mom says I'm old enough to buy my own video games now. She says I have to get a job." I'd hired him then and hadn't regretted it since.

I set my book aside, leaning for the clipboard. "Rooms one through three, and take—"

My instructions were interrupted when a young couple, toddler in tow, bustled through the door. I could guess that staying at a cheap motel was part of their frugal vacation planning, we got these types.

Stephen waited while I helped the husband check-in. The wife attempted to pick up her runny-nosed daughter, but the girl squirmed and wiggled, so the wife abruptly set her back down. Without bothering to wipe up its nose, I noticed.

When they were gone I continued giving orders. "Take the bug spray with you, it's been a few weeks."

Stephen nodded absently, then asked, "Why do you hate kids?"

Most teenagers were not observant. To be observant you had to pay attention to something other than yourself. I'm not judging teens—I thought I was the center of the universe at fourteen too. I'm just reiterating that 'awkward teen' did not begin to describe Stephen. Like I said, he was observant.

I shrugged noncommittally, trying to give him an honest but uncomplicated answer. "They're diabolical," was the best I could come up with.

He abstractedly brushed the greasy curls from off his forehead. I could feel his interest; he wanted to discuss this further. "Most people describe children as innocent," he said, verbally prodding me to continue.

"They are innocent, guileless, but that's kind of what freaks me out. Since they lack experience, they haven't grown a conscience yet. So they can lie to your face and not feel a thing. They smile when they want to cry, and cry for no reason at all. They're little bags of unfitting emotions."

He stood, collecting the clipboard. "Yeah, but I still don't see why that should bother you."

I shrugged. He left. Of course he wouldn't understand, no one would, because no one knew that I was empathic.

### Chapter 2

My shift had been uneventful until Francesca called. Up until that point I'd been nose-deep in one of my many raunchy novels. On the cover a gasping breasty woman was clutching her beefy tanned man. It was probably titled something absurd but catchy like _Poked by a Pirate_. Stephen, who'd been loitering around the office for the last hour, wandered over to flip through the pages as I set it aside to reach for the ringing phone. He was probably hoping for more pictures.

"Sterling's Motel, how may I help you?"

Francesca didn't beat around the bush. "My car's broken."

"Again?"

"No, still, it's not fixed yet."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe the mechanic said something got too hot, I really don't remember."

"Where did you take it to get fixed?" I asked.

"I didn't take it anywhere, Brock did. But I told him I'd meet him at the club."

"When?"

"Eight," she confessed.

"You know I don't get off until nine."

"'Kay, pick me up at my apartment when you get off." The conversation ended as abruptly as it'd started. I hung up when I heard the dial tone.

"I need a ride home," Stephen muttered, his wide eyes glued to an open page.

"Liar," I said as I snatched the book from him. "You just want to see Francesca. But is it really worth pissing off your mom?"

Stephen's mother didn't approve (as she had put it) of his riding around with older women. Not that he really needed a ride. The walk home for him was less than ten minutes, but rainy days did happen.

"I'm not going to obey inane rules. That would only encourage stupidity."

"Fine," I relented. I was of the opinion that he needed to experience more than video games, work, and an overbearing mother. "You can come along, but finish your homework before we go."

Missy arrived five minutes before nine; she worked the night shift. I was uncertain of her age as she regularly wore a layer of pale foundation and colored her eye sockets black. I surmised Missy wanted to be a vampire.

Appearances aside, she had an outgoing personality and conversed well with most everyone, with one exception—me. She wasn't obvious about it, and I might've never known she harbored negative feelings if it wasn't for the fact that I could feel them. A common mesh of irritation, contempt, and envy dripped from her whenever I was near. Honestly, I was pretty numb to stuff like that. It didn't bother me to work with Missy, and I never let on that I knew how she felt. I gave her an update and escaped the negativity. Stephen said goodbye and followed me out.

I didn't waste time letting him settle in the passenger seat. Rearranging later would be a pain. Instead I pulled a lever, leaned my seat forward, and slid it up the track. This created a tiny gap that lanky Stephen could crawl through. My car was old, a 1980's Chevy Chevette, and if it wasn't properly handled, it wouldn't run.

We reached Francesca's apartment in a matter of minutes. I pulled up to the curb and honked twice. I could feel Stephen's infatuated anticipation growing stronger as we waited. Really it wasn't his fault.

Francesca and I had met when I first moved to the island. Hoping to capitalize on my rare ability, I applied at the Crowne, the island's finest (not to mention, most expensive) hotel. For a time I was the hospitality specialist, meaning I groveled to the wealthier guests, seeing that their every need was met. Being empathetic gave me an edge. I did well at the Crowne, but lacked the patience and humility required for such a job. So I quit before I was fired.

Francesca had been manning the Crowne's front desk since high school. She was a local; St. Simon's born and bred. But hospitality wasn't her only job. Francesca was capitalizing on her own special gift—her body. With a mass of dark hair, sharp arched eyebrows, and natural blood-red lips, she had the sultry and seductive thing going on.

Working at the Crowne had given Francesca ample opportunity to rub elbows with the blue bloods. Her favorite type was the young, wealthy, and dumb. She'd had a string of boyfriends (and I use that term lightly) who habitually bought her things. Flowers, yeah. Clothes, sure. But Francesca could give any escort service a run for its money.

Robert, or Bobby, bought her a new pair of boobs. Edward paid for a new name. She hadn't always been Francesca Black. (Katie Wainer just didn't suit the image she had in mind for her future.) And Stewart had been extravagant, buying her a French bedroom set. I suppose he'd been most interested in the new bed... you get the point.

We didn't have much in common. She got her legs waxed and nails done. I didn't, and I didn't wish I did either. But for all that, she wasn't superficial. On the contrary, I'd say she was painfully practical. But what it really came down to was that she put up with me, even when I had unexplainable episodes.

She'd talked me into seeing _The Time Traveler's Wife_ when it had come to our local theater. I'd specifically asked if it was a drama, knowing from experience how bad things could get when a crowd's strong emotions were rushing through me. She'd said no, claiming it was probably a romantic comedy. I'd tried to stay calm, but by the end there was no hope for it. I had been hysterical. And if you've seen the movie, then you know that a slight sadness did not encompass what I felt.

She'd found me in the bathroom sobbing but didn't bat an eyelash, just took me home. That happened just weeks after we'd met. I'd been sure she would avoid me after that. She didn't, instead she acted as if it had never happened. I'd had numerous similar episodes, Francesca witnessing many, but she hadn't abandoned me yet.

A spike of excitement, a dose of anxiety, and a whole lot of lust—Francesca must've been coming. With a grating screech the passenger door opened and she slipped inside. "Thanks, Adelaide. I know you're not one to play chauffeur, but it's an emergency. Brock's leaving in a week and my carpets need cleaning."

"I'll do that for you," Stephen offered.

Francesca turned in her seat. "Oh, hey Stephen, that's sweet, but I prefer to take advantage of men I don't particularly like."

In a backwards sort of way, she'd paid him a tremendous compliment. I could feel him beaming all sorts of things, mostly pride and adoration.

"So, how do you ask for that? I've had a fun time, will you buy me something?"

"See, that's your problem, Adelaide," she accused. "You lack subtlety."

"How do you subtly ask a man to have your carpets shampooed?" I questioned wryly.

"I invite him over for a glass of wine, which I'll make sure he accidentally spills. And while he's in the throes of guilt, I'll casually mention I've been meaning to have them redone."

"Wait," I protested. "I thought you wanted the carpets cleaned, not redone."

"I've changed my mind. Wine stains you see, so I may as well just change them out, plus, the current color is somewhat dull."

"You're being fickle."

"Brock won't care."

As we neared the Sleeping Oaks Country Club, I said, "So I'm guessing Brock will drive you home."

"Yeah, I'll be al—" Francesca gasped, cutting herself off. Her hand descended on my wrist as I put the car in park. No, not a hand, the thing cutting into my flesh was more of a claw.

I jerked my wrist, trying to shake free. "What are you doing?"

"What?" She looked at me as if in a daze, then down at her hand. "Oh." She let go, turning back to stare out the window. "It's Reed Wallace," she half whispered.

Every bit of townie gossip I heard had come from Francesca, so I prepared myself for some seedy details. "Who is Reed Wallace?"

She looked at me, then at Stephen. "Neither of you have heard of him?" she asked, sounding scandalized. We looked blankly back at her. "The both of you need to get out more," she instructed. "He's only the richest man to ever step foot on St. Simons. Hell, he owns half the island! He's a business magnate, CEO of his own real estate company. He's also unbearably good-looking and a popular socialite. You need to meet him." She abruptly got out of the car and came around, trying to usher me out as well.

"No," I scowled. "I don't want to meet some nancy-boy business man."

"Stephen needs to meet him too. Trust me, both of you, you'll regret it your entire lives if you don't."

"That doesn't even make sense," I argued.

But Stephen, aglow from inclusion, agreed. "If Francesca thinks we should..." He let his voice trail off, but I saw the pleading look in his eyes.

"That's just your hormones talking," I complained. But capitulating, I got out of the car to meet some strange man that Francesca was half crazed over.

The first glimpse I got of Reed Wallace was his backside as he hunched over. Next I noticed his shoulder blades jutting sharply as he flexed to press a duffle into the trunk of his car. The only illumination came from tall parking lamps; they dropped a gentle glow on the entire area. How Francesca had recognized him, I didn't know.

She waltzed right up to his car, but for all her bravado, I could feel an anxiety she didn't often carry around men. "Mr. Wallace? Oh hello, I thought that was you. We met here last summer, but I doubt you'll remember me. Francesca Black," she prompted.

He turned and quite literally took my breath away. He wasn't generically handsome like a catalogue model. He was striking, unforgettable. He had light skin that seemed smooth as marble, and a contrasting shock of dark hair. Pale, icy eyes framed in black lashes sat stark among his various sharp features.

He wore nothing more than a T-shirt and jeans, his tall, toned body fitting them well. I didn't believe he was everything she described. Real estate tycoon? Doubtful. He didn't look much over thirty.

"You don't strike me as the type of woman men forget easily," he said. It was the type of line that made me want to roll my eyes. But then he smiled, and I wanted him to love me too.

Francesca tittered. "I'll make sure you remember me the next time we meet." She was wafting her enthrallment at me, at least I suspected it was hers. Suspicious, I turned to Stephen. He seemed to be in a trance, staring mutely at Reed Wallace. With all of our emotions mixing I was having trouble distinguishing my own.

"Do the three of you come to the club often?" He glanced past Francesca, his eyes shifting from Stephen to me. When his attention focused on me, for that moment the world went quiet. I noticed his scent, his movements, his voice, each pulling me in, making me want to please him.

His attention shifted back to Francesca when she spoke. "This is Adelaide Graves and our friend Stephen, they're dropping me off. I'm having dinner at the club tonight." Her needy desperation was becoming obvious, it made me uncomfortable. The whole situation made me uncomfortable. But then he looked at me again and I didn't want to leave, didn't want the conversation to end.

Reed Wallace reached out to shake Stephen's hand, then mine. I was happy when he touched my hand, when he smiled at me. But the moment split and shattered when I felt a creeping boredom.

His lack of interest cut at me. But like so many times before, I shook it off, pulling my hand from his grasp abruptly before looking away. The last few minutes had felt like being dunked in a pool of warm and bubbly champagne. But feeling his boredom had changed things. My warm fuzzies had vanished, leaving behind a chill.

Reed was confused by my reaction, but didn't let it show. "I suggest you try the crème brulee," he said to Francesca. "It seems to get better here each time I taste it."

"A girl only orders dessert if she wants to prolong the date, so I can't make any promises yet."

He laughed, she laughed, and Stephen watched spellbound. The whole thing seemed strange, my reaction, Stephen's. Francesca had redefined the concept of playing hard to get, but here she was behaving like a needy puppy.

"I'm leaving," I interjected. Catching Francesca's eye I added, "If you want those carpets I suggest you don't keep Brock waiting." I grabbed Stephen by the sleeve and hauled him away with me.

I'd already installed him in the passenger seat and was about to get in the car myself when I heard the beat of approaching feet. I felt his curious interest before I even saw him. He was feeling incomplete, like he needed something, no, more like he wanted something.

I turned, door in hand, a foot resting on the floorboards. Francesca had walked toward the club entrance, but was now stopped, rooted in place watching. I didn't need to be an empath to know she was jealous.

Reed Wallace stopped a pace or two away and gave me a winning smile. "You left so abruptly, I just wanted to be sure I hadn't said something to offend you."

I didn't know what he was fishing for. I thought silence might irritate him most, but I felt like ripping him a new one, so I went in the direction that made me feel best. "That's a bit pretentious, thinking you have the power to offend me when we only met moments ago." Pretentious but true, he had put me off. The whole introduction had been strange and unsettling, but I wasn't about to tell him that.

He raised both hands, a helpless gesture meant to appease me. But my response had only increased the curious interest that drove him—to what, I wasn't sure. "You're right, forgive this pompous ass," he joked.

I gave him an empty smile while sinking down into the bucket seat and shutting the door on him.

Stephen told me I'd been unnecessarily rude, and even more rude than usual. I told Stephen he had a man-crush, and that Wolverine would be jealous. He gave up speaking to me after that. I could tell he was thinking of Francesca since I was feeling extremely lustful.

My own emotions were felt and experienced the same way as everyone else's. So I had to be logical, often evaluating myself through questions. Did I have something to feel sad about? Was there a reason I should be excited? A reason to be aroused? If the answer was no, like it was then, then I assumed I was picking up feelings that were not my own.

Yes, feeling the longing and attraction of another person was extremely uncomfortable. And stewing in the car with a horny teenage boy was not my favorite pastime. The only thing that made it bearable was that he didn't know—and would never know—that I was invading his privacy that way.

I parked the car and waited while Stephen collected his backpack. The porch light was on and I caught a glimpse of his mother pacing behind the screen door.

"Thanks for letting me tag along."

"It's no pro—" A blurry white haze formed in my peripheral vision, costing me my train of thought. I turned and searched the dark corner of his home, wondering if I'd imagined it.

He looked to where I was squinting. "What? What is it?"

I shook my head. "Nothing I guess."

### Chapter 3

I woke up around nine the next day, sleeping more than the needed eight hours. Peaceful sleep hadn't always come easy for me. I'd continued sharing a room with my sisters after the accident, a mistake, though at the time I didn't know it.

Emotions weren't reserved for the waking hours. Dreaming was said to be the process by which our minds organized themselves, absorbing or flushing away countless thoughts, images, and emotions.

REM was the period of sleep when we did our dreaming, and I was often stuck there. My emotions and those I had caught off my sleeping sisters were supplied with stories, the brain's explanation. I woke to bizarre dreams, feeling afraid, angry, or elated. I had felt it all. But always I woke, unable to reach a deep and restful state.

This was about the time my mother was becoming desperate to fix me. She tried therapy, counseling, more therapy, pills, pills, hypnosis, meditation, and more pills. For a while I was hooked on the drugs they gave me for my insomnia.

Thanks to Ben I slept peacefully now, drug free. When Mary died he moved into a yellow trailer not far from the motel. Like all things that reminded him of what he was missing, their old house was abandoned, closed off and left unoccupied. Yet he couldn't bring himself to sell it, to move on.

He offered to let me rent it after he realized I was having apartment troubles. Troubles like: there weren't many apartments on the island, they were expensive, and I couldn't stand being surrounded by people.

That was my favorite thing about the house, the location. It was a small and well developed island, so isolating oneself was impossible. But I was about as removed as you could get, living on a twisted back road with outdated homes, often abandoned or just downright trashy. Oak trees and bushes that smelled sweet, like honeysuckle, encroached on the road, bugs sang, a dog barked... it was nice.

The house was a tiny square of white wood siding set away from the street. A tin roof and red brick chimney added to its charm. I occupied the only bedroom, a loft that filled the sloping second story. Downstairs was simple as well. The front half of the house was the living space, the back half a kitchen overlooking the yard.

I spent the few free hours I had before work puttering around, doing a few chores. I made a grocery list. I took a stack of dirty laundry to the kitchen where I had an upright washer and dryer stowed beneath the stairs. But it wasn't until I was wiping down the kitchen counters that I noticed something was off.

I was whistling, whistling while I worked. That was not my typical behavior so I surveyed myself and noticed a faint pip, some sort of happy excitement. It wasn't like the excitement I usually felt, which was a naturally strong emotion. It was so light and clean I'd almost missed it.

I walked to the front of the house. The feeling didn't grow, but as I jogged up the stairs it fizzled out. I was myself again. Confused, I went back downstairs, wandering around the house while trying to gauge this strangely familiar, yet odd, feeling.

I didn't know how or why I experienced what other people felt, but I was fairly certain there wasn't a convenient scientific explanation waiting for me. What I _did_ know was that it was a lot like having a conversation. Most of the time people walked around feeling indifferent, a sort of commonplace. That was like silence—my sanity. Sometimes they would feel twinges, small emotions which were like a whisper that I had to be standing very close to catch. The opposite, the strong emotions people usually felt when they laughed or cried were like a shout. I could pick those up from far away.

I only had one neighbor that lived close enough to give off emotions I might pick up, and they'd have to be pretty strong at that. But I suspected he was emotionally retarded (lucky for me) because I'd never felt a thing. Not even once.

So I was half convinced the excitement was my own. But logically I didn't have a reason to be merry; this was when I'd typically assume it wasn't mine. But then whose was it? I'd moved into this house shortly after coming to the island at eighteen, and I'd lived here the six years since. Never once in all that time did I feel something not my own. The house was a haven, or it had been until that moment.

I looked out the front windows hoping to see a child skipping down the street. Nope, nothing, no one, quiet. I wandered to the kitchen, pushing aside the lacy curtains to look out. Regretfully there was no trespasser, no snooping salesman.

I squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of my neighbor's property. Our houses sat back to back, the yards meeting with a sagging chain-link fence that the shrubbery had nearly swallowed.

Emotionally everyone was different, though I had noticed trends. In general, women were more emotional than men. But like I said, everyone was different, some more emotional than others. My neighbor was the least feeling man I'd ever met—as in, no feelings.

Admittedly, I didn't know him well. It was possible that I would start feeling his emotions if we spent time together, though the possibility that I might not was more intriguing.

I opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the overgrown and unkempt yard.

His name was Lucas Finch. The only other thing I knew about him was that he was a mechanic and owned a body shop in Brunswick. When I'd first moved in he'd offered to cut my grass. I'd declined, but had since regretted the decision as I lacked a green thumb... and a lawn mower. But it had been a bad time, I'd just left home and my recovery had a rough start. To say I was antisocial would be putting it mildly.

Back then I hadn't wanted to see a face. I still didn't like people much, but I had learned to cope. With that in mind, I made my way to his property line.

It wasn't a matter of simply climbing the fence. First I had to find a gap in the bushes. And still there was a fight to push them aside, they scraped and scratched at me. I nearly lost.

The fence gave a metallic groan as I climbed aboard, and shuttered when I flopped off. The first thing I noticed was how different our yards were. When I walked through mine the grass tickled my calves, the trees and bushes growing together, eating up the open space. His grass was freshly cut, the bushes neatly trimmed to line the exterior, a glen from a fairy tale.

The trees from my side hung well into his. I wondered if he minded. Built around the same time, our houses were nearly identical, though his was made entirely of brick. I paused at the back door, realizing the emotion I'd been tracking was gone.

I felt silly then, standing there without a reason. The only logical explanation was that it had been coming from him. Perhaps he'd won the lottery, or maybe he was just helping himself to some afternoon delight. But now that the feeling no longer lingered I began to doubt that he was even home. A body shop didn't run itself.

I turned to go, wondering where the hell that feeling had come from, wondering if I was maybe crazy.

"Did you need something?"

I froze.

Turning slowly, the first glimpse I got was of his filthy work attire. It was comprised of a T-shirt that had once been white, now a grease stained rag, blue Dickies with black smudges, and a pair of ass-stomping boots.

"Did you need something?" he repeated, standing in the open doorway. His hair was short, his skin tan, and I noticed what I hadn't noticed the only other time I'd met him. He was good-looking. Strong, tall, broad-shouldered, his face wasn't sharp and severe but bold with rounding curves.

Of course I stuttered stupidly, having not planned out what I was going to say. "Are you, uh, were you happy?" I shook my head and tried again. "I mean were you feeling particularly happy today, just now?"

He didn't look at me like I was an idiot, but that was the impression I got all the same.

"Nevermind," I muttered. Turning abruptly, I ran home.

### * * *

Francesca called me the moment my shift started. I knew she would.

"What did he want?" she blurted.

"Your number."

"Are you serious?" she breathed.

"No," I responded lightly.

"You can really be a bitch sometimes, you know. So what'd he want then?"

"I really don't know," which was the truth.

She made an exasperated sound. "Well what did he say?"

"That's irrelevant, men don't always mean what they say."

"Reed isn't like most men," she defended.

It was like a repeat from the night before. Irritated, I asked, "Is this all you called for?"

"No actually," she admitted. "I think I need another reading."

### Chapter 4

A few boyfriends ago, Francesca had been dating a relaxed youngster named Nicky. As a date, he'd taken her to the Parlor to have her cards read. Things hadn't worked out with Nicky, but the tarot interpreter had made a lasting impression.

So that was why I was spending my morning with Francesca, toting her back to Madame Bristow for an emergency reading.

I had to ask, "Francesca, you do know that no one can actually predict the future, don't you?"

"Of course," she scoffed. "It's just for fun."

"I set my alarm for your self-indulgence?"

She ignored me and began giving directions. "Turn off Ocean Boulevard, there, there," she chanted, while pointing a manicured finger past my nose.

I'd never actually noticed the Parlor, though I'd walked Mallery Street many times. It was squished between two gift shops, a small easel sign the only advertisement. Perched by the front door, it read:

TAROT CARDS

PALM READING

ASTROLOGY

Walk-ins always Welcome

"Look, there's a spot! You'll have to parallel."

"No can't do," I said, pulling the car in nose first. I popped the curb with my front right tire, and plopped back down as I straightened out.

"What the hell was that?" Francesca asked as she unbuckled and got out.

"I heard that's how they do it in Germany."

"I heard that's how you get a flat."

"In that case, you'll be buying me a new one. Consider it gas money owed for all the rides I've given you."

She pretended not to hear me as she stepped through the door, a bell jingled at our entrance. The dark narrow hall led to a dark narrow room, equipped with a reception desk. It was empty.

After a minute of waiting, I muttered, "You'd think with them being psychic and all, they'd know when they had a customer."

"It doesn't work that way," Francesca replied.

"That doesn't sound like the comment of a nonbeliever. What happened to 'it's just for fun'?"

She shushed me as someone approached. Their clacking footsteps echoed out from the hardwood floor. A small dramatic woman appeared. Her thick black curls were held back by a bright scarf. Wispy crimson dress and clicking bracelets completed the ensemble, adding to the image that most customers would expect.

Francesca turned, saying, "Hi, I don't have an appointment, but I was hoping to see Madame Bristow for a reading."

The woman had been eyeing me with no small interest. I chalked it up to the monetary value of a potential client. She turned in time to answer, "I'm sorry but she isn't in today. I'm available for an astrological reading if that suits you. Or if you prefer, I can set an appointment with Madame Bristow for a future date." She rolled her S's, forming an accent that didn't reflect a single nation or culture. She could have been Asian, but I was guessing Pacific Islander.

"Astrology, what is that really? And can you see details with it." Francesca's questions were for show. I knew she wasn't leaving here without a reading, the kind didn't matter much.

The astrologist answered in somber tones. "With the date of your birth many things can be seen through the use of celestial bodies. Character traits are the easiest to chart, but to foresee the future is difficult, details more so. It will require great effort on my part, and I only do it for those who are in desperate need."

"Yes, I'm interested in that. Are you free now? I think you'll find my situation is very dire." I almost felt bad for Francesca. She was like one of those people who checked their horoscope, though they didn't really believe it. They did it to feel special, the thrill of hearing all about themselves, their own possibilities. Why being one of twelve made the masses feel special, I didn't know.  
"Yes, if you'll walk down the hallway to room two I'll be with you in a few minutes. I must prepare."

We did as instructed, stopping before the door marked two. A metallic gold star and silver moon hovered near the number just in case you weren't sure you'd picked the right room. I followed Francesca inside the small space, a cubicle really.

The walls and ceiling were a dark midnight-blue, covered in posters and tapestries. The charts and graphs looked like gibberish, and did nothing to impress me. There were artful depictions of the zodiac, numerous constellation mappings, and planetary rotations overlapping one another in disarray. A table took up half the room. Pushed against the long wall, it was covered in a heap of canvas and aged yellow paper.

Francesca sat patiently in one of the two chairs. I assumed the other was for the astrologist, so I pressed myself unobtrusively into the corner.

The door opened as our entertainer arrived. Small but stately, she carried a velvet bag. Its contents she spread across the paper shrouded table. I recognized a few measuring tools and the magnifying glass.

"My name is Eclipsys." I wanted to comment on that, but held my peace. "What is your name and the exact date of your birth?"

"My name is Francesca Black, but it wasn't always that. Does that matter?" Eclipsys shook her head and Francesca continued babbling on about her birthday.

Eclipsys went to work with her charade. Bending over her papers, she shuffled through, mumbling, measuring, and checking. The magnifying glass went well with the image she was trying to establish.

I couldn't feel any real interest or effort on her part. She was what I considered 'emotionally silent' at the moment. Francesca was a bubble of excitement, but that would be obvious to anyone with all her fidgeting. I was both bored and amused, a contradictory mix. But that was the thing I'd learned about emotions, they were nonsensical and often conflicting.

Eclipsys stood slowly, as if her mind was elsewhere, and wandered absently to the chair. She was a very good actress. "I see freedom and power within you, a unique ability to live passionately, but without the turmoil of regret. You easily draw what many covet, a gift, and the center of your power, but it staunches your potential. A balance is missing in your life, something essential you'll need to progress." She paused, blinking, as if coming out of a trance.

Francesca let out the breath she'd been holding.

I continued to keep quiet. Barely.

"What's the thing I need?" Francesca asked. Becoming slightly frantic, "What's the thing I need? Is it a guy? Can't you look a little more? Maybe you missed something, it's really important. I need the details, remember, I mentioned it's dire."

Eclipsys held up her hand, stalling any further protest. "I saw nothing that indicated dire intervention. The paths we take are long and winding. You need not worry, self-discovery is a precious journey."

Francesca was irritated now, causing me to suppress a Puckish smirk. I must have made a noise or something because Eclipsys glanced at me. I had somehow stirred her interest. As she twisted to face me her body went rigid, she gasped before a spasm shook her. Her eyes were unseeing when she said, "You will meet with death."

It was creepy, and I would have been freaking out with Francesca if I hadn't known she was faking—which she was. I hadn't felt a rising panic, no hysteria, not even distress from the astrologist. She'd been cool as a cucumber throughout the entire performance.

Eyes bugging and bewildered, Francesca asked, "Does that mean she's going to die?"

Eclipsys shook her head while staring at me, pretending to look on in mute fascination.

"What is this," I asked calmly, "revenge on the skeptic?" I didn't wait for a response. I left that small dark place, wood planks creaking beneath my feet as I went.

My car didn't do air conditioning, so I had the windows rolled down when Francesca climbed in. "It cost over fifty dollars to learn you're going to die," she complained.

"What a ripoff," I commiserated.

### Chapter 5

"Sterling's Motel, how may I help you?" I asked with the phone pressed to my ear.

"Oh good, you're still alive."

"It hasn't even been a day, Francesca. Some things take time."

"I'm just not satisfied," she huffed.

"That I'm still alive?"

"No, not everything is about you, Adelaide. I'm not satisfied with my reading."

"What were you hoping to hear?" I asked, honestly curious.

She hesitated, then, "I think I'm in love."

"Is this about that nancy Reed Wallace?" I asked, with no small amount of exasperation.

"If you ever bothered to pay attention to the news, you'd know he's the most eligible bachelor this island's ever seen. He's like—the biggest catch."

"That's not news, that's gossip."

"Whatever, that's not the point. The point is that Eclipsys did say something was missing from my life. I think it's Reed."

"You'd be Francesca Wallace. Or you could use a hyphen, Francesca Black-Wallace. No, that doesn't have the sexy ring either."

"I'm serious," she interrupted. "He's not just stopping by his summer home, he's staying for a while, he said so himself."

The office door opened and I hurried to bring the conversation to its end. "Yes, it's been good chatting with you, and I'm sure the two of you will be very happy together." I hung up without waiting for a response. She'd know I had to help a customer.

I prepared to be professional, but the woman before me didn't look much like our normal clientele. And she was radiating all the shades of hostility. My teeth began to grind in response.

"I'm not interested in a room," she stated. "I'm here to speak with a Miss Adelaide Graves."

I couldn't imagine why.

"Are you Miss Graves?" She buried her contempt and bitter resentment beneath a cool professionalism.

"Yes. What do you want?"

Her dislike doubled, and she couldn't suppress her haughtiness when she spoke. "I'm Mr. Wallace's personal aide. I'm here to set up an appointment. He'd like to meet with you."

"Why?"

Aggravation, outrage, and, well, just plain rage followed my question. Maybe she preferred to do the asking. Or maybe some of those feelings were mine. Reed Wallace was rapidly climbing my shit-list.

"That's for Mr. Wallace to explain." She stood primly, staring down at me with her queen-of-the-boardroom look. With a perfectly fitted suit, feminine blouse, and sensible heels, she was well put together. Not a glossy blonde shoulder-length hair out of place.

"I'm not interested," I said shortly.

She was shocked for a moment, but recovered quickly to boil and seethe. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Nooo," I said slowly, drawing out the word. "Did you understand it that time?" If you thought I wasn't curious as to why I was being summoned, then you were wrong. But I had years of practice pushing people away, and under the circumstances that seemed the proper response. Someone said jump, and I would say piss off.

"Mr. Wallace doesn't give second chances."

"Good. That means we'll never have to repeat this conversation again. Now if you don't mind, I should be getting back to work." I scooped up my lecherous novel and buried my nose in it.

### * * *

When I got home I kicked off my shoes in the front room and climbed the stairs to my loft. I changed into boxer shorts and a T-shirt before wandering back downstairs. I then took out the trash and washed a few dishes, basically puttering around, procrastinating until I was too hungry to put off cooking dinner any longer.

I pulled a chair out from under the little table I kept pressed under the kitchen windows. Hauling it to the refrigerator, I climbed up to reach the tiny cabinets above where I kept the canned food.

I began to rifle through, setting aside a can of cranberry sauce for later while I continued to debate what type of soup sounded best. I caught myself humming and went deathly still.

It was that same feeling I'd felt before, alien but familiar. I'd say happy, maybe excited, but not in a way I'd ever experienced. It was reflex to glance around, look for the source.

The movement caught my eye, a milky white swirl hovering below my feet at the base of the chair. It shifted and churned like smoke and water, going transparent so I could see the linoleum pattern beneath it. And in a blink it was a milky mass once more.

I sucked in a sharp breath and moved away, pressing myself against the fridge. It seemed to fade for a moment, and I fervently wished it would go away. Instead it turned a sickly gray, seeming to solidify into something real, though I couldn't say what. Without warning it came at me, pouncing upward in a whirl of twisting wisps, reaching for my feet with enthusiasm.

I gave a shrill, piercing scream as I jerked away. The chair tilted and I threw out my arms, flinging a can of soup as I scrambled to catch myself. Noise exploded as I fell. First a tinkling crash, followed closely by a resounding thud. That was me hitting the floor, landing roughly on my side.

When people said they had the wind knocked out of them, they had a point. I laid there gasping for breath. My entire body ached from impact. Whatever feelings I'd been catching were gone along with that thing, whatever it was.

I stayed still for a few moments, and seriously considered if maybe I was crazy. Perhaps my accident had triggered a case of schizophrenia and this was all a hallucination. That was plausible. I was very private, and with the disappearing act I had pulled at eighteen, I'd never given anyone the chance to diagnose me.

That could also mean I didn't have the ability to feel emotions. I mean, an empath, really? When being crazy was the logical answer, you knew things had hit rock bottom. Probably I should see a doctor. But then I remembered back to the years of therapy and pills, and I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I would rather be where I was, barely keeping it together and possibly crazy, than living like that.

Something firm pressed into my neck. I gave a strangled cry and lashed out with my arm. Much to my humiliation, it was only my neighbor Lucas Finch. He moved away at my outburst and was now standing across the kitchen watching me warily. "Just checking your pulse too see if you were still alive."

### Chapter 6

I gingerly picked myself up off the linoleum. Most of the glass from the broken window had fallen outside, but a few pieces had scattered across the floor before I landed, leaving me a bit scratched.

"Don't move," he instructed. "Your feet are bare. Where do you keep the broom?" I pointed to the laundry closet. "Did someone try to break in?"

"No. I threw a can of soup out the window." He handed me the broom. "It was an accident," I added lamely. "I fell off the chair."

I began to sweep while he put said chair to rights, setting it in its proper spot. "I heard you scream, then the breaking glass. It sounded like you were being murdered." His voice was deep, gravelly, and the way he spoke gave off the impression that he usually didn't say much.

"If that were the case you would have been useless. You didn't bring a weapon." I finished sweeping and put the broom away.

I turned to find him watching me intently. I knew what Lucas must be seeing. Me, clad in only my nightclothes (not the cute pair) and covered in scratches. Long layers of strawberry-blonde hair hanging in complete disarray, with bangs that fringed my eyes sticking out in all directions. I had to be looking pretty grim just then, my brown eyes distant, my pale complexion turned somewhat wan. I sure wasn't looking my best. It was that damned swirly thing, or maybe the schizophrenia.

The longer he stared at me, the more curious I became. He was empty, no emotion whatsoever, but it was his thoughts that I wanted a glimpse of. What could he be thinking while he looked at me that way?

I didn't want to be alone in the house yet, and sensing he would soon go, I hurried to make up a legitimate excuse to stall our leave-taking. "Do you mind if I use your phone?"

He didn't mind, so I followed, trotting after him as we crossed the yard. It was dark, the lights from my kitchen spilling out from behind us. Faintly I could see his back. Muscles flexed beneath his shirt, shoulder blades moving rhythmically with each step.

His voice cut through my thoughts. "You don't have a phone?"

"No. Usually I don't need one."

I didn't know what to say after that, how to fill the silence. Our conversations were stilted. I just didn't know how to handle him, because he wasn't a customer or fellow employee. But I wasn't the only one out of practice. He was taciturn to the extreme.

Lucas, apparently comfortable with the silence, pushed past a tall shrub that was covered in clumps of frothy white flowers. I followed him over the fence. He waited patiently on the other side, holding the branches back.

As we walked the short distance between our houses, cutting from yard to yard, I noticed my eyes would wander back to the shadow of his hulking form. The layers of isolation I'd wrapped around myself suddenly seemed suffocating.

The back door hung open, as if he had rushed out in a hurry. Lucas waved me over the threshold and walked off to the front room. Left alone, I let my eyes take in the detail of his kitchen.

He didn't own curtains, just blinds. That was pretty much how the rest of the room went, very... single man. Where personal touches would have added character, he had impersonal, but well used utensils and appliances. The few pieces of furniture were plain but solid, no cushions or doilies. The place lacked frill. There wasn't even a picture on the fridge. It was a little disappointing. I guess I'd been hoping for a secret guide, some insight to navigate by as Lucas lacked emotions.

He returned, handed me a cell phone, and walked off again without a word, granting me privacy. I could hear him moving around the house as I dialed Francesca's number.

"Francesca Black," she answered smoothly.

"Hey, it's me."

"Where are you calling from?"

"My neighbor's. I broke a window at my place."

"Did you meet death?" She sounded serious.

"Nope, he stood me up." I hesitated, then, "But I did see something weird. It creeped me out."

"Weird like a big bug or filthy rat?"

"No, it was bigger—"

"—bigger like a stray dog?"

"No," I said in exasperation. Why was I even trying to explain? I'd already decided I was crazy. I sighed, "It wasn't an ani—"

I was speechless because Francesca was right. It _was_ a dog. That was why the emotions had been both familiar and alien. I'd felt them before on a few occasions, mostly with dogs, once a cat. Animal emotions came in softly, and they never quite felt human. They were cleaner, more innocent somehow. Simpler creatures, like a slug, didn't have emotional reactions as far as I knew or felt. But I'd often wondered about the more complex creatures I hadn't yet come in contact with: dolphins, horses, and even gorillas (Coco came to mind).

And the thing, whatever that blob of mist had been, it'd given the impression of a dog, having moved like one. An idea was forming in my mind, and I didn't like it one bit.

"Hello? Have you even been listening to me? You can't have a stray dog running around the house. You have to call animal control."

"No, it's already gone," I replied absently. I remembered the reason for calling her and steered the conversation around. "But I'm still wigged out, want to have a slumber party?"

"Sure, come over. You haven't met Brock yet. You'll probably think he's an ass—"

I interrupted, "Oh, I forgot tonight was the date for new carpets. Nevermind, I'll be fine."

"Brock won't care. Come over," she urged.

"No, I'd have trouble sleeping anyway."

"Do you want me to call him and cancel? I can come over there." She would too, cancel her plans in an instant to come over if I needed it. I didn't want that.

"No, really I'll be fine. Forget I called."

"Alright, but I'm entering your neighbor's number into my contacts, you know, just in case."

"Don't, he's not my secretary." Speaking of secretaries, I wondered if I should tell Francesca about my visitor. But that conversation could last a while, so I decided it should wait.

"With your death drawing near, I think it's only wise."

"Whatever," I said before hanging up.

Lucas came in a moment later, making me think he'd been waiting for me to finish. "You can use my couch," he offered.

"You were eavesdropping," I stated blandly. He didn't respond, and I took the moment to mull over his offer.

Did I want to pass the night alone with a phantom dog? No, I did not. But was it safe to bed down with a virtual stranger? No, it was not. I mean, I knew the definition of sociopath. And there I had a perfectly normal looking man, not to mention really attractive, and he couldn't feel a thing. That made him the perfect candidate, because people who lacked empathy made awesome serial killers.

"Does your house have a basement?" That was where he'd do all the murdering and stuff.

"No."

I hadn't thought it would, but better to be sure. I wanted to say yes, nearly did, but years of habit held me back. "No, thanks for the offer, but I'll be alright."

### Chapter 7

The beams of light streaming in through the loft windows made it difficult to sleep. I'd purposely left the floor-length linen drapes open, a wake-up call. I had things to do.

It hadn't been a pleasant night. I'd drifted in and out, waking often only to imagine a sickly gray shape perched at the end of my bed.

This morning wasn't going much better. I still felt jumpy. I rushed to shower and dress, looking around constantly, somewhat paranoid as I waited for that damned dog to appear.

It wasn't until entering the kitchen that I got a surprise. The broken window had been covered over. Confused, I went out the back door to get a better look. A piece of plywood covered the hole, held in place by a mound of duct tape. For a patch job, it looked sturdy. Not only that, but there wasn't a piece of glass in sight. I discovered a pile of shards in my trash bin. How Lucas had found them in the long grass, I didn't know. And it had been Lucas, I had no doubt. But why he'd done it, I was still uncertain.

I left after that, rushing to complete an errand before my shift started. I was cutting it close. But I had to know, this couldn't wait. It was still early for the tourist types, so I found good parking and hopped out, running for the door.

The Parlor was as I had left it, dark and moody with dusty creaking floorboards. I hoofed it down the hallway, stopping abruptly when I reached the reception desk.

"You!" I screeched. She was the last person I had expected to see here, to see anywhere.

Her tangle of frizzy blonde locks bobbed as she stood up. "Hello, it's good to see you again." She stretched her hand out across the counter. "My name is Nancy Bristow." With a self-deprecating smile she added, "Here I'm known as Madame Bristow, but you can call me Nancy."

Perplexed, I did nothing but stare for a moment. Her hand fell away as I found my voice. "That fake, Eclipsys, the astrologist or whatever, said I'd meet with death. And guess what? Yesterday I saw a ghost! So I come—literally running back for answers—and find you all omnipotent, acting as if you've been waiting for me the whole time!" My voice had been rising with each word, the last punctuated with a shriek. But I wasn't done. I felt totally out of control, and it made me angry. "I thought you were homeless!" I shouted.

Her calm did nothing to dampen my agitated frustration. "Come, I'll explain where we can speak privately." She walked around the counter, heading down the hall. With little choice, I followed her.

Her workspace was a small room, almost identical in size and shape to the astrologist's, though that was where the similarities ended. Foreign looking carpets overlapped, crisscrossing over every inch of the floor. Gauzy cloth in royal colors clung to the walls, draped and displayed for effect. A small table and chairs dominated the area, filmy fabric donning each. The tarot cards were laid out, incense burning beside them. Nancy sat, gesturing to the other chair.

I ignored her, warning, "If you try to sell me on a reading I'll probably punch you in the face."

She smiled, unconcerned with the threat. "You think I'm a charlatan, but to understand, you must accept that I am not."

"How about we pretend that I believe you, and you get on with the explanation."

She nodded sagely and began. "Some people are gifted, as I suspect you are. For me the gift is sight. Through the interpretation of the cards," she tapped her deck, "I can glimpse things. Sometimes it's trivial, sometimes useful, and once in a while, terribly important.

"On the morning of the day we met, I did what I do every morning. I read the cards." She began to rub her wrist absently. It was as if she was no longer speaking to me, but telling the story to herself. "They showed a very significant and specific idea, the message was clear. I would willingly give away a valued treasure to the red-headed stranger."

I was tempted to correct her. My hair was strawberry-blonde, not red.

"I couldn't understand why I would do such a thing. That is, until the moment I saw you standing there by the street. He was there too, close by you, smiling at me." Her eyes became glassy as they filled with tears. I became uncomfortable with everything she was saying and feeling. "I knew then why I would do it, why I would give away something so important to me, something I loved." She looked deep into my eyes. "I did it because he wanted me to. He wanted you to have it."

I lightly touched the milky bead that rested on my index finger. "What is it?"

"I'm not exactly sure." She waved her hand vaguely, trying to figure out how to continue. "It's, well... let me explain Percival to you.

"We met when I was young, about your age. In fact, I was a lot like you when he found me. I didn't understand why I could glance over a deck of playing cards and see that my neighbor's cat would soon get run over, or that my mother would be making brownies in the afternoon. I didn't know other people like me existed, the thought just hadn't occurred to me. But Percy knew, he explained it all." She suddenly burst into a smile. "I thought he was the smartest man alive, but he was just a boy back then. You see, he had a gift too. He could see the dead."

Now she frowned. "He hadn't always made the most of his gift, for a while he even considered it a curse. But over the years he did many great things. It became his passion, his life's work." Her frown deepened; I felt its sorrow. "When he found out he was dying he didn't mourn for himself, but for what the world would lose with his passing. The gift was like a child to him, he wanted to see it continue..."

She shook her head. "I don't know how he did it. He went away just before he died. I begged him not to go, he was so weak. He returned, from where, I never knew. The gift was no longer a part of him, no longer attached to his body I mean, but removed, placed in a ring. He wore it for only four days, and then he died."

I pulled the ring from my finger. It slid off easily. I stood over her, hand extended. "Take it. I never wanted it. Besides, you lied when you gave it to me. You said it was only a trinket, nothing more. Remember?" I asked sharply.

I felt the slightest twinge of embarrassment, but she shrugged it off. "I had to say something to make you take it. I was desperate."

"Yes," I said dryly, "I remember."

She shook her head, angling her body away from the ring. "I won't take it back. He wanted you to have it."

My hand fell. "Why?"

"I can't say for sure. I only suspect you have a gift that makes the ring worthwhile in your possession."

"I'm an empath, empathic, or however you say it. I'm not even sure if that's the proper terminology, but it's the only reasonable explanation that came up when I Googled it a few years back."

She looked up sharply. "Could you feel the ghost's emotions?"

"It was a ghost dog I think, but yeah, I felt the stupid thing."

She smiled, her happiness a rush. "That's wonderful!"

"Yeah, well, don't count your chickens or whatever—I've seen the movie _Poltergeist_." I pocketed the ring and sat back down.

She patted my arm. "It won't be like that."

I gave her a disbelieving look. My first encounter with a ghost, not even a human ghost, and I'd fallen over and broken a window.

"No one can truly understand the spirit world until they've passed on themselves. But Percy's experience allowed him to formulate theories.

"He thought spirits, or as you say, ghosts, reside in this same space, but on a different plane or realm. A veil separates our world from theirs, but when it's thin a spirit may cross over. The reasons differ, and there may not even be a reason. The dog, for example, may have crossed simply because it wanted to see something familiar. That happens sometimes.

"Percy liked to communicate with those who needed something. He tried to give them closure. It should be easier for you to understand them if you can pick up their emotions. It makes sense for you to have the ring."

Percy was going to be disappointed, because I didn't plan to wear it anytime soon. That thought made me feel guilty, so I stood to leave.

Nancy smiled warmly. "You believe me."

The strange thing was, I really did. Recalling why I ever doubted, I shook my head. "I could have sworn Eclipsys was a fake."

Nancy stood, following me to the door. "Oh, she is," she confirmed lightly. "The cards told me you would come. I thought it best to avoid an introduction until you'd seen a ghost. You would never have believed me otherwise. So I asked Eclipsys to meet with you and your friend, giving you the prediction of death so you would know where to return after a sighting."

"Do you know many people with... gifts?" The word still felt silly and strange to say.

"Percy used to host a convention every year, inviting the gifted and those sincerely interested in the occult. That's how I met Eclipsys. She's been a dear friend for many years. We own this shop together.

"A few years back, after I surfaced from the grief of Percy's passing, I took over the tradition. Eclipsys helps. We hold the convention in October here on the island. You're invited of course. Many people would love to meet you." She rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. "I can't recall meeting another empath. I think you may be the first to attend. That is, if you do decide to come."

I made a noncommittal sound and walked toward the door. I turned at the last minute as Nancy settled behind the reception desk. "Did the cards tell you my name was Adelaide Graves?"

She shook her head smiling. "It was nice to meet you, Adelaide."

### Chapter 8

I stirred the batter in lazy circles, my mind drifting. I'd passed my shift at Sterling's in much the same way, Ben had noticed. He'd also noticed my late arrival. I'd endured over an hour of his lecturing, which was really just him complaining at me.

It had been difficult to go through the motions, completing mundane chores while trying to accept the facts. The facts: Yesterday everything was predictable, today the world was full of secrets. The world where: A palm reader may or may not be a pretending cheat while your waitress was a closet numerologist.

Had I ever met a mind reader? Or passed a perve with X-ray vision? What other gifts existed unbeknownst to me? And how had I not guessed? It seemed like a logical thing to wonder, being an empath and all, but I never had.

The cake batter no longer needed stirring. I began to eat spoonfuls. I'd briefly considered baking the cake and giving it to Lucas as a show of gratitude. But upon further consideration I discarded the idea, not for any particular reason, it just wasn't something I would ever do.

Knocking sounded from the front room. Someone was at the door. The only visitor I ever had was Francesca. She didn't usually bother with knocking though. Barging in was more her style, but she was probably still mad.

She'd called while I was working, excited to spill the latest gossip. A man had been murdered on the island, stabbed to death. They'd found him a few days ago, but the police were keeping the details hushed up.

Preoccupied, I'd been unable to provide the proper response to her news, the proper response being astonished sadness. So she'd accused me of being unfeeling. It had been perhaps a bit tactless to mutter, "Don't I wish."

I could imagine her knocking as a formality to show I wasn't yet forgiven. Though why she'd come was a mystery, we didn't have plans. "Come in!" I called. I heard the front door open and close. Eating another spoonful, I waited for her to walk back.

I wasn't looking forward to having company. I was exhausted of feeling. My angry outburst at Nancy kept resurfacing to the forefront of my mind. It wasn't often I lost my temper these days, and I winced to remember. Keeping a calm face under a flood of emotion was something I strove to master. One too many fits of hysteria and I'd find myself committed to the funny farm. It hadn't really been anger that had pushed me over though, it had been fear. I'd known the world was unraveling beneath me, and I'd been terrified.

I glanced up at the sound of Francesca's arrival only to find an unwelcome visitor. I stood abruptly, my chair sliding back with a screech. "What the hell are you doing in my house!" I barked.

Reed Wallace smiled. "You invited me in."

I idly wondered if he had always had that dimple. A sense of amused triumph began to bubble up, growing every moment I stood in mute fascination. I shook my head, trying to dislodge whatever spell he seemed to be working. I reminded myself of the shit-list he was topping and said, "Get out."

"Certainly, if you'll just give me a more convenient time for us to meet, I'd really app—"

"Never would be nice," I cut in. "And if you don't leave, I'm going to call the police."

He smiled. I didn't have to be an empath to know when I was being patronized. "Go ahead," he challenged.

He knew I was bluffing, knew I didn't own a phone. Well that was what neighbors were for. "Wait right there," I held up both hands, gesturing for him to stay. "I'd prefer if you were standing in my kitchen when the police arrive." I moved to the back door, completely prepared to have him arrested.

I cracked his composure; I could feel his irritation. I was halfway out the door when he said, "I know all about you." I stilled, going rigid. "I know about the accident. It had been covered over, but not filled in, and just like a child's tale, you fell. Trapped in an abandoned well for days, you were half dead when they found you. I've read the police reports, the news clippings. And I've even paid a pretty penny to see your medical records."

I was teetering over the threshold, held in place by his smooth, soothing voice. I could do nothing but listen as he put together the puzzle of my life, seeing the picture everyone else had missed.

"You disappeared at eighteen and resurfaced on the island where you've been in the hospitality business ever since. Your reaction when we met left me feeling certain that there was something different about you. I've poured my resources into searching for an answer."

"And what did you find?" I asked softly.

"It was the emotionally overwhelming accident that resulted in your susceptibility to the emotions around you. How else could you see through what I am?"

"What are you?"

He laughed, it was the perfect sound, but I could feel his weariness. "Haven't you figured it out? I'm charming."

I turned slowly to face him. "What do you want?"

"I want to offer you a job, something that would utilize your gift."

"No."

"I would pay you well. You wouldn't have to live like this." He gestured to the room around him. "You're wasting yourself."

"I'd tell you that it's none of your business, but you obviously don't understand the concept of privacy."

"You don't understand your own potential. You could use your gift for so much more. Don't throw it away."

I was angry then, but I buried it down and spoke calmly. "Should I use my gift like you use yours? Should I influence and manipulate until I've built myself an empire? Is that my potential?"

"I have an unfair advantage," he admitted. "But the glamour is harmless. It's not a crime to have a charming disposition."

"I don't think your secretary would agree, or my friend Francesca, if either was in their right mind."

He raised both his eyebrows. It was the perfect expression for the confusion he was feeling at my accusation. "What does my personal aide have to do with this? And who is Francesca?"

I slammed the kitchen door shut and stalked toward him. With a shove, I sent him stumbling down the hall. "She says she loves you, and you don't even remember her." I continued to push him through the front room, he only resisted a little.

Astonished, he muttered, "The first woman who can see past the charm and she hates me."

"I have a feeling your ego will survive. I imagine it's rather resilient." I opened the door and tried to push him through.

He became immovable, resisting my effort with ease. He'd been humoring me before, allowing me to herd him along, but he wasn't leaving until he had his say. The realization tasted sour.

He sobered, looking down at me with chilling blue eyes. "Your life is your own, waste it if you will. I can't force you onto my payroll, but you will do a job for me, freelance, and that's nonnegotiable."

"And if I refuse?"

"Your family is still waiting, hoping to hear from you. All it takes is a phone call." The bastard was blackmailing me. "We'll be in touch," he said, stepping out the door.

I slammed it shut while considering my options. Contacting my family would be like opening a can of worms, I'd put it off with good reason. But being blackmailed rankled, and being a pawn in Reed Wallace's pocket was unthinkable. Unable to commit myself to a course of action, I wandered back to the kitchen for more cake batter.

### Chapter 9

Stephen shambled into the office carrying a stack of new phonebooks, Ben close at his heels. Being old, Ben didn't do the whole eight hours of sleep thing. He was scheduled to work from five in the morning until one in the afternoon, but typically he started his shift before the appointed time. That meant Missy got to leave early while I got stuck with Ben hovering around the office hours after he was supposed to go home.

"Over there," Ben instructed Stephen, pointing a knobby finger. "No, no, bend at the knees or you'll have a bad back when you get to be my age. Not that I'd know—I'm fit as a fox."

"Is that even a saying?" I asked. "I thought it was healthy as a horse."

"Bah," he said, waving my words away.

"Change the phonebooks out while you're cleaning," I said to Stephen. "Room seven is probably gross, the customers seemed shifty. I think they snuck a dog in or something."

"They're not customers, they're guests!" Ben hollered, sounding aggravated. I knew better, he wasn't aggravated, just his usual gloom, a misery that followed him like a second shadow. He still mourned Mary.

"This is a cheap motel, Ben, calling them guests is pretentious," I argued.

"No, using the word pretentious is pretentious."

"Fine," I conceded. "I'll call them guests if you'll only do a landlord's duty and have my window fixed."

"What window?"

"The window at my house, it's broken."

"How the hell did you break a window?"

"It's possible it broke itself. Old windows are bound to become fragile, I hear it happens."

"It broke itself," he repeated in disbelief. "That's the best lie you could come up with?"

"I said it's possible it broke itself. That's not a lie," I explained.

"Trying to take advantage of a poor old man, you ought to be ashamed." He could pretend all he wanted, but I knew he enjoyed these ornery conversations.

"What poor old man?" I asked. "I thought you were fit as a fox."

"Piss off, Adelaide," he muttered as he shuffled out the door.

"I guess that's a no to the window then?" I called after him.

### * * *

I felt her before I saw her, a shifting miasma of emotions. I wanted to hide, that was my first thought. But as she bustled through the door I was held in place by my own gruesome fascination.

She wore a knee-length pea jacket in deep purple which matched her floral print purse. Her makeup was too heavy, her hair too tall, and her jewelry too gaudy. It was easy to picture her shopping at a Hallmark store.

She approached the front desk, bringing feelings of outrage, rejection, and sadness closer with each step. "Hello," she said as she settled her purse atop the counter. "I need a room please," her voice cracked. The tears were coming.

Wanting to get rid of her, especially before the crying started, I rushed through the check-in process. I'd just gotten the needed signatures when she began to sniffle, her eyes turning watery.

"Here's your key," I said, thrusting it at her, "room twelve." That was as far from me as I could put her.

She took it slowly, but didn't turn to leave.

"Have a pleasant evening," I hinted.

Her lips flattened, the edges turning down—that was all the warning I got. Abruptly she was sobbing, tears streaming down both cheeks. Her feelings began to bubble up and boil over, suffocating any sense of propriety she might have felt. There was only hurt. It stemmed from alienation and loneliness, leaving behind a bitter disappointment. I felt it, and yet I felt nothing.

You might think being an empath made me kind and compassionate, seeing as I was capable of more than simple sympathy. But no, being an empath had made me somewhat dead inside. I saw someone crying, I ran the other way. I felt their sorrow, I tried to leave. It was a matter of survival really, self-preservation.

I watched stoically as she pulled a cloth kerchief from her sleeve, blowing her nose as she began to babble. "I mean, I paid to be here and she's just going to..." She shook her head. "...to pull this, acting as if it was all an accident!" Her outrage and indignation swelled. She looked at me. "Did you know she had the audacity to pretend the hotel had made a mistake? A bold-faced lie if I ever heard one!"

I stared at her.

Apparently that was all the prompting she needed. "She's the queen you know, so I can't do anything about it."

Now I was curious, and since she wasn't likely to shut up anytime soon, I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask. "queen?"

"Yes," she said, rubbing her nose. "She started the chapter."

"Chapter?"

She dabbed at her eyes. "Didn't I say? Oh, well, sorry, I don't know what's come over me. I suppose it's just one of those days, did you ever have one of those? You know, where everything goes wrong?"

I shook my head, but she didn't seem to notice.

"I bought this coat because I'll be graduating from pink to red soon." She stroked the arm of her jacket. "I thought it would be alright to wear. I'm only a few weeks from fifty. But Kathy, that's the queen, she said it wasn't appropriate, that I should be wearing lavender." I felt a renewal of her hurt and humiliation. "But I couldn't help wearing it, I was so looking forward to the trip. Then we get here and I don't have a room!" A spike of anger; I wondered if it might be mine. "Kathy said she'd made the correct reservations, and everyone believes her, but I know she hates me. I just don't understand why," she admitted softly.

"What hotel was this?"

"The Crowne," she sniffled. "I tried to get a room, but they're full. Reed Wallace is on the island. He's holding a work retreat so all of his employees have a reservation." A fresh round of tears began to leak, and I felt her miserable jealousy. "I bet they'll even meet Reed, and I won't!" she wailed.

"How do you know about Reed?" Up until a few days ago I'd never heard of him, and even then I hadn't taken him for a big celebrity.

"He's been on the cover of Corporate World, you know, the magazine." She didn't look for a reaction, just kept talking. "He's just so, so..."

"Charming," I supplied dryly.

"Yes, charming, and such a handsome man. I'd really like to meet him, but I'll be busy with the ladies, no time for chasing men. Red hatters are a busy bunch you know," she said with pride. Her emotions were evening out, her demeanor turning mild.

"Well," I said awkwardly, "um, things can only get better... probably. I mean, that harpy, Kathy, she'll most likely get receding gum lines, or have an extreme case of early pattern hair loss. Karma always has the last laugh."

She began to gather her bags. "Well, I try not to be too negative. Maybe we'll work out our differences."

"Yeah, or that," I agreed.

### * * *

A few hours later Stephen returned carrying a couple of phonebooks. "These are the leftovers. I did every room but twelve. It was occupied before I got a chance."

"Are you going home?"

"I think I'll stay and watch TV for a while."

"Be home by seven. I don't want your mom to call looking for you."

"Okay," he said, turning to go. Halfway to the door he bent down. "What's this?" I looked to find him picking up a red and white scarf with tiny chirping birds speckled all over.

"Appalling, it could only belong to..." I glanced at the signature scrawled across the receipt. "...Pattie Hankey, equally appalling." I held out my hand.

Passing it over, Stephen lectured, "You shouldn't judge a book by its cover."

"She's not a book. Now go away."

After Stephen left I quickly became bored. I played MASH a few times, discovering that I was either going to marry Leonardo DiCaprio or Steve Buscemi, depending on which game you counted. I wondered if MASH was a gift, and if someone was out there legitimately predicting futures with it.

The boredom persisted, so I pretended to be blind, closing my eyes to try and learn the room like they did in the movies. I counted steps, substituting a flyswatter for a cane. It didn't really work. I know because I slammed my thigh into the sideboard.

In an act of desperation I collected Pattie's scarf and a phonebook for her room, so bored I was willing to deliver both items. I left the office, checking the lot to make sure there were no customers—I'm sorry, guests—coming. I wanted to stretch out the task, so I walked slowly.

Ahead was the small breezeway that separated the two units. Stephen used it daily, a shortcut to the cleaning cart which we kept in a storage shack out back. Nearing it I noticed a mist floating in from behind the building, filling the walkway floor.

I stopped abruptly, becoming nervous because I'd seen this before. The mist moved lazily, swirling slowly, but rising higher.

I cursed and stumbled back, wondering how I could be seeing a ghost without the ring. And then I felt it, the thin wire band wrapped snug against my finger. I had no recollection of putting it on, and yet there I was wearing it.

The night was deceptively peaceful. The cicadas sang and the trees swayed, their leaves lit silver by the half moon. But I hardly noticed because I was too busy staring at the rising mist, unable to move away. It began to form a coiling milky pillar, compressing itself into the shape of a man.

We stood staring at one another until he stepped closer. Startled, not to mention scared shitless, I jerked back, tumbling off the sidewalk into the parking lot.

He wafted toward me silently, and as he passed in front of the mounted lights they obscured his image like a hologram blinking out. He loomed over me, and I could do nothing, not even breathe.

He seemed to solidify, turning that sickly gray, a cadaver's complexion. He leaned over me, his face pressed so close I sunk back to avoid him, his glassy eyes filling my vision. "Go away," I whispered.

I felt a burst of emotion, mostly it was a mix of amazement and surprise, but I felt the subtly of relief and a growing eagerness, no, anxiousness.

He straightened so fast I hadn't even seen him move. But I did see him raise his arm as he prepared to hit me.

### Chapter 10

I screamed, flinching when the phonebook flew from my arms. I opened my eyes to find the ghost had moved away, now kneeling hunched over the book and flipping pages.

"That's what you're all excited about, a phonebook?"

He turned, scowling at me, his face fading as he became transparent. I realized he could hear me, I just couldn't hear him. Not his voice, not even the whisper of his clothing or the scuffing of his boots.

With renewed anxiety he began to flip pages. Only he couldn't now because he'd lost his solid form. Frantically he continued to try again and again, his hand blurring it moved so quickly. The ghost's anxiety was replaced by torment, a feeling I particularly despised.

He turned to me, looking helpless as his face began to expand, turning a pearly white. And then his form surged outward, raining down into a puddle of slowly swirling mist.

"Uh..."

A door opened and closed across the parking lot. Pattie hustled toward me, asking, "Are you alright, dear? I heard a scream."

I looked for the cloudy mist, but it was gone, no longer hovering over the asphalt. "I'm fine, I just fell is all." Slowly I got to my feet.

"Oh," Pattie said, feeling slightly confused, "my scarf." She bent down, picking up the ugly thing.

"I was returning it to you." I reluctantly took up the phonebook. "This too, the one in your room is outdated."

"Oh, thank you."

But I was already running back to the office, pausing to yell over my shoulder, "Have a good night!" I couldn't reach the phone fast enough. Once inside, I began searching for the Parlor's number. I dialed, hoping they were open.

"You've reached the Parlor, where—"

"Nancy, it's Adelaide," I cut in. "Adelaide Graves, you remember?"

"Of course, is everything alright?"

"No! I just got poltergeisted!"

"What happened?" I could hear her concern, but was unable to feel it through the phone.

"I just saw fog turn itself into a man-shaped ghost thing. I thought he was going to hit me, but he was only interested in getting the phonebook. It was so strange, he kept changing. I watched him turn from fog into an opaque gray man. I think he even went solid, I mean, I know he did, because he hit the book from my hands. And then he turned into this faintly colored hologram looking thing before turning back into a puddle. What's this all about? Does he have some sort of ghost disease that makes him... broken?"

"I'm sorry I don't have any definitive answers, all I have are Percy's theories."

"Well?"

"Percy thought that when a ghost crossed over the veil they had a very one-sided experience. They could see things, hear things, but they could never be a part of this world, not really."

"I've figured that much, go on."

"It seems to require an effort on their part to appear in their living form, and even then it's just a projection from their memory. Percy thought whatever kept a ghost from forming properly might be the same thing that kept them from speaking."

"Is that what you believe?"

"If that's the case then why do they turn solid at all, even in brief bouts?"

"Alright, any other theories?" I asked.

"In the end, Percy believed it was unnatural for them to cross. On this side of the veil they seem drained, lacking energy. I don't know much more, Adelaide, I'm sorry."

"Well if they can turn solid, even briefly, doesn't that mean they're dangerous, or potentially dangerous?"

"Specters are rare, and a corporeal one more so."

"Oh great, there's a term for it."

"Percy very rarely felt threatened by a spirit, and when he did, he just ignored it. You see, ghosts have no way of knowing that you can sense them. It will be your reaction that tips them off."

"You might have mentioned that before."

"Well, to be honest, I didn't think you'd wear the ring so soon."

"I didn't. I remember taking it off. I remember leaving it at home." She was silent for so long I asked, "Nancy?"

"Yes, I'm here," she answered.

"I know it sounds crazy," I admitted.

"No, I'm sure there's a reason. I'm just not sure what it is."

"That's alright, you've been able to tell me more than I knew. I'll call if I have more questions."

"Yes, do that. I'll read the cards and be in touch if they can shed some light."

"Um... okay, thanks."

### * * *

My shift was winding down, and I expected Missy to show up sometime soon. So when the door opened I naturally assumed it would be her, I didn't even bother to look.

"Working hard, no doubt." My head jerked up at the sound of his smooth voice. He was dressed casually, but even so, it was an effort not to stare.

I reminded myself how much I hated him, and the effects of his charm seemed to lessen. With the ghost incident earlier, I was twitchy like an addict. Reed Wallace couldn't have picked a worse time to harass me. I glared at him as he came closer.

"You seem to have formed an aversion to my PA. I thought it best to come myself."

Apart from her choice of employer, I didn't have a problem with her. It was the secretary that was adverse. But I wouldn't say that aloud. He wanted me to react, to speak. He could smile all he pleased, but we both knew I could feel his rising irritation.

He handed me an invitation. It was for a dinner party the evening after next, held at the country club. "It's for my employees—senior members, board members, the higher-ups. I just need you to mingle and feel for anything odd."

Could he be more vague?

"You'll notice the invitation doesn't offer a plus one, that's because you are the plus one. You're going as my date."

"No," I said instantly.

"Why doesn't that surprise me," he responded with a pang of disappointment. "You can't attend as a server, you wouldn't get enough exposure." He eyed me cynically. "Besides, customer service isn't your strong suit."

"Not my problem, figure out something else."

"This group is familiar with one another. They'll know you're too..." He smiled, wielding his charm like a weapon. "...beautiful to be an employee, but it won't be hard for them to imagine we're seeing each other. You could easily pass for my—"

"Don't insult me," I cut in. "It's a bad idea to piss off the people you need."

I could feel his irritation, and maybe just a tiny bit of resentment and contempt. I liked knowing I could needle him so easily. "It's not a matter of need. I'm blackmailing you, remember?" His voice was chilling; the sound startled me into looking up at his face. His expression held something I didn't want to understand.

The door burst open. I was grateful for the distraction as it forced Reed to move away. He stepped back, fast and fluid. I wondered when he had gotten so close. It would appear I wasn't entirely impervious to his charm. I'd let him hover above me without even noticing.

"Adelaide, you'll never guess who's put up his employees at the Crowne," Francesca gushed. She was rummaging through her narrow purse, oblivious to Reed.

"Could it be Reed Wallace?"

"Who told?" she pouted, feeling a bit surprised. "No one talks to you but me."

"That's not at all flattering," Reed said with a smile.

Francesca went from slightly surprised to extremely astonished, all the while staring at Reed. She'd just pulled the lip gloss from her purse when he spoke. She still held it, her hand hovering in the air.

"Francesca was it?" he asked, stepping toward her.

Recovering from her daze, she more than met him halfway, rushing to his side. "Yes, Francesca Black. What a strange coincidence seeing you again. Or maybe it's fate," she flirted.

"No, not fate, I'm afraid," he said leaning closer. "I've come to speak with Adelaide. She's temporarily working with me on a project."

Francesca looked totally flabbergasted. Turning to me she asked, "Why didn't you mention it?" She was hurt, confused, and yes, even jealous.

Feeling guilty, I admitted what I could. "I tried to turn him down but he blackmailed me."

Reed laughed like I was joking. "Adelaide wasn't eager to offer her assistance. It's true, she did turn me down."

"Don't call me Adelaide."

"Adelaide!" Francesca scolded. Turning back to Reed, she made my excuses for me. "She's not a people person, you must forgive her."

"It's quite refreshing," he said magnanimously.

"Uh, I'm right here."

Francesca continued as if I hadn't spoken. "She'll be happy to help you I'm sure, we both will. Is there anything I can do?" She stepped closer, her boobs grazing his upper arm.

"Yes, actually," he said gazing down at her. "Ms. Graves," he didn't bother looking at me, "will need a formal gown. I can't think of anyone..."

I stopped listening to them blubber at each other. I turned toward the phone, picking it up to dial. It rang for a while and I nearly gave up. But finally she answered sounding groggy. "Uh, yes hello?"

"Pattie, it's me from the front desk. I need you to come to the office right away."

"Can't it wait? I've already turned in."

"No, and I promise you'll always regret it if you don't." I winced, those were Francesca's words to me the first time I'd met Reed. "Oh, and try to look nice, but hurry."

Pattie impressed me. She showed up less than a minute later. Unfortunately she was wearing a robe, florescent pink with matching slippers. I guess she hadn't taken me seriously when I advised her to look nice, or maybe she had. I couldn't tell.

She spotted Reed instantly, he hadn't moved. "Oh! Oh my!" She rushed him, inserting herself into his personal space.

Francesca was annoyed, no doubt at the loss of his attention. Reed was weary but tolerant; he probably dealt with this daily. And Pattie, well, she was a lot of things. Feeling her was like feeling two people have sex—mostly it was disturbing. It was also: bliss, adoration, attraction, delight, lust, elation... you get the picture. I hadn't realized she would react so strongly.

"Reed Wallace, I can't believe my luck! You've got to come to my room and sign things," Pattie insisted.

I could feel his reluctance, but he was all charm when he answered. Smiling, "I'd be glad to." He spared a glance over his shoulder while Francesca and Pattie fawned over him. The look he gave me was downright hostile. I smiled, enjoying the loss of control which made his charming façade slip.

Just then Missy stepped through the door. Her first words "Oh shit, you're Reed Wallace."

I rolled my eyes, had everyone heard of him? Discreetly I gathered my things and left. I doubt they even noticed I was gone.

### Chapter 11

I stared at the ring, feeling undecided. It looked inconsequential lying atop my dresser, just a cheap bead and some wire. I didn't want to wear it, but I was afraid the damn thing wouldn't give me a choice.

"Fine," I said out loud. I slipped it onto my index finger. It fit perfectly, nice and snug, but not too tight. I glanced around the room, waiting for something to pop out. When nothing happened I shrugged, continuing on with my morning routine.

I spent some time in the living room, concocting a puzzle. Teetered on the tip of my couch, I hunched over the coffee table staring down at the classic red truck I'd pieced together. The puzzle was, well... laughable. The truck was boldly parked king-of-the-mountain style at the top of a grassy green incline. Amused, I'd been unable to resist buying such a hillbilly gem.

A bowl of half-eaten cereal was perched to my right. Soggy and forgotten, it left a wet ring on the glass tabletop. I was totally preoccupied, and yet I noticed it immediately this time. No subtle sneaking, though the feeling was still subtle.

The little ghost pranced in from the kitchen, swirling and shifting, fading and misting. Details appeared when its form flashed in solid. This only happened for a few brief moments, tiny blips, and even then the ghost was nothing more than a lumpy blob with four dainty paws and a nub tail. Nancy had said they projected the image they remembered, which made more sense just then.

I sat completely still as the little dog flounced about the room for a minute, then it ran through the front door. The _closed_ front door.

I sat for a moment longer, staring after it. I reluctantly got up and walked to the window, wondering what Percy would do. It was, after all, his gift I was wearing.

Outside the dog was busy trying to dig up my front lawn, but it was unsuccessful. I couldn't put animal feelings in human terms, but all the same I recognized neediness. As it danced in circles, I didn't doubt that there was something buried out there that it desperately wanted.

I deliberated for a second or two, though I'd already made up my mind. I left the house through the back door, walking the ever more familiar path. I doubted Lucas would be home, but it was worth a try. He surprised me, answering the door amid my knocking.

"Do you have a shovel I can borrow?"

It must be his day off as he wore only a pair of cargo shorts. I tried not to look at his muscly chest, and I especially tried not to look at his preposterous tan lines. I couldn't help it though. His arms and neck were ten shades darker than his stomach. It was funny, but he wasn't the type of person you could laugh at.

He stared at me in his typical fashion, face masked of any emotion but unnervingly direct. Finally, "Yeah, hold on." He disappeared inside the house, returning a minute later with a ring of keys.

The shovel was inside his shed, which he kept locked. It was a place I recognized as every man's treasure trove. An endless variety of tools neatly lined the walls while other manly gadgets filled the space between. He held up two different shovels. One had a wide but rounded edge. The other's was narrow and pointed.

I shrugged.

"Have you ever used a shovel?"

I gave him a condescending look, though I couldn't recall an exact instance.

He kept the pointy one and left the shed, walking barefoot to my yard. "What do you want me to dig?"

If he had been anyone else I would have refused the offer. "It's out front." I took the lead, guiding him around the house.

The ghost hadn't moved. The stubborn little snot had even managed to swipe up a bit of dirt. I pointed, "There."

While he worked I moved a few paces back, allowing him some space. After a minute of shifting from foot to foot, I sat, twirling grass as I idly watched. It was nice.

The shovel met resistance all too soon. I stood abruptly. For the first time I wondered what was buried there. Lucas bent closer, using his shovel to scrape away the dirt.

A horrible image came to mind and I turned away so as not to see. "Oh gross, it's a dead dog, isn't it?"

Lucas was silent so long I was forced to look. He was kneeling over the newly dug hole, unaware of the little ghost dog jumping all over him. He was also staring at me funny.

"What?" I demanded.

"You are very strange," was all he said.

"I have a logical reason for the assumption," I assured.

Dubious, he asked, "Did you bury a dog here?"

"If I had buried a dog I wouldn't be wondering what was down there, now would I?" I took a step closer, trying to peer inside. "Just tell me what it is."

The ghost went wild as he extracted a bone, half-chewed and dirty. Oh, duh, I should have guessed. He handed it to me and I immediately set it down. The ghost was so happy, springing and bouncing about. I nearly smiled.

"You're just going to leave it there?"

I nodded.

"Do you want me to fill in the hole?"

"No, I might need to bury it again later."

He watched me, probably worried I was crazy, but too soon turned to go. I blurted, "Will you clean out my gutters?" It was lame, I know, I hadn't even meant to say it.

He stopped, glancing at my house. "When was the last time you cleared them?"

"Uh..." I pretended to think it over. "...never."

He was quiet for a moment, deliberating. "Yeah I'll clean out your gutters, but you have to clean my bathroom."

"What?"

"Clean my bathroom," he repeated gruffly.

"But bathrooms are gross. When was the last time you cleaned yours?"

"I clean my bathroom more often than you clear your gutters." He didn't smile and he didn't feel, so I couldn't tell if that was a joke. I thought it was meant to be.

"Not a bathroom," I said, completely unwilling to go that far. "I'll clean your kitchen though, twice."

He nodded and left. It was a bit disappointing. I would have liked to talk some more. But it was probably for the best, we both had trouble with conversations. Baby steps. Today he dug a hole in my yard, and tomorrow he might be cleaning my gutters. So long as I found a few more chores, we might end up dating.

### * * *

Francesca arranged her work schedule so we could go shopping the day of my dinner with Reed. For that we had to leave the island. Her car was up and running thanks to Brock, so she drove. We left early (she might have been able to rearrange her schedule, but I didn't have that luxury). I had to be back by noon.

She complained the whole way, asking for the umpteenth time, "Why does he need _your_ help?"

"I told you exactly what he said. I'm supposed to mingle during dinner and feel for something odd." I wouldn't tell Francesca I was an empath, but neither would I lie.

"That can't be what he said. It doesn't make any sense!"

I sighed. "Just say the word and I'll refuse." I was sure he'd carry through with his threat to contact my family, the notion was upsetting. But Francesca had been giving off pings of jealousy all morning long, and I would cancel in a heartbeat for our friendship.

It was Francesca who was unwilling to let me. "No! I'm not saying you shouldn't go, I'm just confused why he asked you."

"It's not like he asked me on a date."

"But he did," she whined.

"I'm only pretending to be his date, and I'm getting paid, remember?"

"I know, I know." She took her eyes from the road to glance at me, looking sheepish. "I'm being unreasonable, I'm sorry."

"It's hard to be logical when you're in love." I said it as a joke, but she nodded like it was sage advice.

In an attempt to change the subject I said, "So while we're on the topic of men, I should mention that I met one." She looked at me sharply, the car swerving. "Shit, Francesca!" I screeched. "Eyes on the road!"

She veered back into place. "Sorry, sorry. I just... you took me by surprise." She gave me a furtive glance. "You don't mean Reed do you?"

I threw up my arms. "For fuck sake, Francesca, what do you think?"

She shook her head, honestly confused. "I don't know why I asked that."

I forgave her. It was his charm, it made them unreasonable. Meeting his secretary made me worried, even scared, that Francesca was turning into that—an obsessed, angry woman.

"So who is he?" She was curious and excited now.

"My neighbor. He's a mechanic."

"Did he just move in?"

"No, he's been around for years."

"Why didn't you ever mention him?"

"I didn't notice him before," I admitted.

I felt her disappointment, and she didn't bother trying to hide it. "So he's not good-looking then?"

"No," I contradicted. "He's... intensely attractive, but in a rough southern sort of way."

She was bubbling with excitement now. "When can I meet him?"

"Never," I said severely.

"What for?" she asked like a child being denied a treat.

It was a fairly obvious answer. "Because if he sees you then he'll never be interested in me."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating." I wasn't.

"It's not like we've been flirting back a forth. Things are always awkward between us."

"Like how?" she asked, intrigued.

"Like when he looks at me, I can't tell if he's repulsed or attracted by what he sees. Honestly, it's a toss-up."

"Why would he be repulsed?" Her confusion was flattering.

"He's only seen me acting strange."

She wasn't surprised by my confession—that wasn't so flattering. "So if it's not chemistry, what's the attraction?"

Good question. I thought about it for a moment, trying to be as honest as I could. "You know... I just don't know. Maybe it's the mystery."

"He's mysterious?"

"Extremely so."

She smiled. "Don't forget hot."

"Yeah, that too."

### * * *

Francesca took me to a little boutique where you didn't simply pick off the peg. Instead we had a consultant, a young wisp of a man with perfect posture named Dominique. Dominique and Francesca put their heads together, speaking softly. They sounded as if they were trying to solve a particularly delicate crisis—and maybe I was.

I tried on a little black dress first. They said it washed me out and we moved on to the next. It was a stunning red number that swept the floor regally, but they said it was at odds with my red hair. I corrected them. My hair wasn't red, it was strawberry-blonde. We tried a strappy cream and a low cut yellow, but neither fit me well. There was no door on my dressing room, and Francesca took pleasure in popping through the curtain whenever I was indecent to thrust a new gown my way. The winner ended up being an emerald gown I'd been forced into last, perfect in its simplicity. They said it was also at odds with my hair, but in a good way.

Francesca charged it to Reed Wallace. He'd given her a card for the occasion. She made sure I had shoes, a clutch, and other accessories. And since Reed had insisted she treat herself to something, Francesca bought some dirty lingerie. She said they were naughty; I said they were nasty.

On the ride home she asked, "Will you put in a good word for me?"

"Since I'm temporarily in his employ, I assume you mean in a professional capacity."

"No," she said, matching my snarky tone. "I mean you should tell him I'm single."

"I thought Brock didn't leave town for a few more days."

She waved a hand. "He's practically gone anyway."

"So in other words, you already got the carpets."

"You should see them. They're so soft."

### Chapter 12

Room nine had the best lighting, so that was where I went to get ready. Stephen sat on the bed, attentive and curious. The door was propped open so that we could keep an eye on the office. Outside the ghost paced, or gave the impression of pacing. He was agitated, but I didn't have the time to figure out why.

I was trying to pin my hair into place when headlights flashed, signaling a car had pulled into the lot. Stephen jumped up, jogging to the door. "It's him!" he said, unable to contain his excitement. I knew it wasn't mine.

"Go get him," I instructed, still struggling with my hair.

Stephen loped off, running through the ghost, oblivious to the fact that it had been blocking the doorway. As if blown by the wind, the ghost swirled in Stephen's wake, but didn't dissipate, rather, seamlessly converging with fluid grace. The misty cloud restricted into a man of alabaster smoke. He drifted through the room, coming closer.

His features were difficult to distinguish, but I thought he might have once been handsome, and young. I put him at around thirty when he died. He came to loom just behind me. I watched him through the mirror, unable to look away. His eyes weren't hazy but glassy pools of awareness. He needed something, just like the little ghost dog. I could feel it, and it was overwhelming. His desperation and anticipation warred with each other, and there was misery, a deep misery.

I shook it off. Gaining control over myself, I whispered, "I know you want something from me, but tonight I don't have time to figure it out. And I'm only going to make time later if you make yourself useful." He shifted around me feeling slightly relieved. I added, "And no more popping out unexpectedly. Do not scare me, or even surprise me. I hate it." Earlier when I was pulling into the lot at Sterling's he'd breezed through the passenger door, forming a solid gray mass of the sickliest hue on my passenger seat. I had screamed—obviously.

The ghost shifted suddenly. It was not with caution, more of an awareness that warned Reed was coming. Sure enough, he coasted through the open doorway a moment later. "Adelaide, you look lovely."

"I told you not to call me Adelaide," I said to his reflection.

Stephen followed Reed in, reclaiming his seat on the bed.

"I'll have to call you Adelaide if we're to act the part of a couple." He was looking extremely attractive, and I usually didn't go for men in formal wear.

I had to give myself a mental shake. I wasn't immune to his charm, and it snuck up unexpectedly. I'd have to be careful tonight. "We're not acting yet." I nodded at Stephen who was watching us with a keen eye. "You need to pay Stephen. He's covering the rest of my shift."

"Of course," Reed said, while pulling out his wallet. "I don't mean to appear gauche, but truly this is the smallest bill I have on me." He handed over a one hundred dollar bill, nice and crisp. He gave Stephen a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'm sure you deserve it."

"He deserves three hundred dollars, a bill for every hour." I gave Reed a pointed look as I applied a pale blush.

"Adelaide!" Stephen spluttered, appalled at my temerity.

I shrugged. "Put it towards your college fund."

Reed was irritated, but he covered it like a champ, extracting two more bills and passing them over to Stephen. "Most of the women I see try to at least pretend they aren't interested in my money," he said wryly.

I feigned surprise, "Why? It's your best quality."

He ignored the insult with grace. "The women I see don't get ready while I watch, either."

I smudged on some clear mascara. "Why not?"

His annoyance was only growing, but he answered calmly. "I suppose it makes them uncomfortable to be seen when they're not looking their best."

Stephen piped up. "I think girls only get ready in front of men they're not attracted to."

Reed Wallace was so aggravated I thought he might explode. I smiled and turned around as I glanced down at myself. "I guess I'm ready."

"Not yet," said Reed, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.

"If that's a piece of jewelry," I said, pointing at the box, "then you can shove it up your ass. This isn't a movie and I'm not really your date."

Reed was pissed, and that was putting it mildly. It was more a contemptuous outrage. I was supposed to fall at his feet in adoration. After all, I had no money or social standing, insignificant in his eyes.

"Have fun, Adelaide," Stephen said hesitantly.

I handed him the room key. "Thanks for covering for me. I'll see you tomorrow." I left the room, not waiting for Reed to follow. Unfortunately, I knew he would.

The driver waited, hulking next to the sleek town car. I thought he seemed strange though he didn't give off any unfitting emotions. His large and square shaped head was filled with exaggerated features. It was hard to miss the bulging eyes, bulbous nose, thick lips, and I won't even go on about the gapped front teeth. He was like a caricature, though his body was nothing to laugh at. Large and muscular, he towered over me as he opened the back door. He was big enough to be a bodyguard, and maybe he was. Maybe he was Reed's.

The ride was uneventful. Reed and I didn't speak. His emotions had calmed and were shallow enough to ignore, though his charm was a different matter. It was like a sickness, a plague, hovering unseen, just waiting to infect you when you least expected it.

The charm made me aware of his breathing, slow and steady. It made me curious of his thoughts, were they of me? It made me take notice of his sleeve and how it brushed against my arm. It made me want to strangle Reed Wallace.

The ride ended not a moment too soon. The large circular drive was filled with cars, all shiny and expensive. An attendant ran up and opened the door. I slid out, ungracefully I'm sure, and started walking toward the entrance. Reed caught up, his hand finding the small of my back as he led me to dinner.

Sleeping Oaks looked a lot like the White House, sprawling with pillars. The main doors were overlarge and left open for the evening. Reed didn't have to give his name. He just swept me straight through.

The foyer had a vaulted ceiling, complete with chandelier. I'd never actually been inside of the country club, though I'd dropped Francesca off a number of times. A set of double doors to our left led to a ballroom, and Reed took me inside. Small round tables covered in creamy cloth and candles filled the cavernous space. Women in gowns and men in suits chatted in casual clumps, most middle-aged and white.

"What's the name of your company?" I asked.

"I have more than one, but you can refer to any of them as Wallace Enterprise."

"Your employees aren't a diverse bunch," I noted aloud.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It was just an observation," I said innocently.

"You're supposed to be my latest... paramour. You might try to act as if you like me," he suggested. He rested his hand on the back of my neck, an intimate and possessive gesture. The feel of it made my stomach strangely queasy and I shivered in response.

He was triumphant and smug. His reaction brought me back to reality, effective as a dunk in icy water. I elbowed him in the side, not bothering to whisper, "Fuck off!"

He only moved closer, cocky and conceited, he smiled down at me. "Why don't you find our table, it should be near the front. I've got some business to take care of." He moved away before I could respond, leaving me alone in a room full of strangers.

Across the ballroom a small platform and podium identified the front which Reed had indicated. I made my way slowly, stepping between tables in a roundabout fashion. This was the exact situation I usually avoided—stuffed inside a room full of people. A few years ago I'd have been hysterical by now. But I'd come a long way since then, pushing myself, learning tolerance and control. But this wasn't a simple Sunday stroll through the center of town. This was a potential nightmare.

Lucky for me most of the guests were at ease. It wasn't a new environment for them, these functions were commonplace. And commonplace was good. I felt for the unusual, emotions you wouldn't expect at a dinner party. It wasn't easy. It was like playing hot and cold.

Classy jazz drifted through the room, setting a quiet background tone. No one paid much attention to me as I wandered, most didn't even look away from their conversations, totally engrossed. It suited me just fine.

I was nearing the front, but wasn't ready to sit so I doubled back to the bar. I accepted champagne, though I had no intention of drinking. It was not that I didn't want to drink. I was relatively young, so of course I did. But being the perfect candidate for alcoholism had always made me hesitate. Although in this particular situation holding a drink made me fit in with the rest of them, so I carried it around like a security blanket.

I was stepping between two separate groups when a wave of emotions crashed over me, drowning out everything else. Pure pleasure, ripe with passion and rippled with a thrilling carefree, it was glee. It was bliss. It was strong.

This was where the hot/cold came in. I had to wander around trying to gauge if the emotions were more potent or fading away, hoping to follow the feeling trail to its source. This time wasn't a challenge.

She stood surrounded by admirers, attracting more than her fair share of attention. She wore red, making me glad I hadn't. The dress was cut low, her cleavage high. She had long legs, tall heels, and perfect hair. Honestly, she reminded me of Francesca, except I hated her.

I didn't join her group at first, hanging back to eavesdrop. I learned her name was Danielle Smathers, and she was engaged to a prominent figure at Wallace Enterprise. One man joked that her intended had gone off to fetch a drink, but had forgotten what he was doing halfway there. I took this to mean her fiancé was old.

I was wrong, he wasn't old—he was ancient. A small and stooped man shuffled past, shouldering through the small crowd of men. In each hand he held a champagne flute, and slowly, almost painfully, he extended one to Danielle.

Men who should have been chatting up their wives scattered to the wind, staying only long enough to greet the senior employee as if they hadn't just been shamelessly flirting with his fiancé. It happened so suddenly I didn't have a chance to flee along with them.

Danielle noticed me immediately. She smiled sweetly, "Oh, hello, I don't believe we've met." She radiated a euphoria that was irresistible. Offering her hand, she said, "I'm Danielle Smathers."

Unable to resist her happiness, I found myself moving closer with a goofy smile plastered across my face. Abruptly I gained control, cursing myself and sedately saying, "I'm Adelaide Graves."

She turned to her intended. "Harold, would you mind terribly if we went off to chat. You know, just us girls?"

He gave her a lecherous look and I felt the stab of his lust. I grimaced, trying to control that pesky gag reflex. He squeezed her arm, the wrinkled spots of his hand sagging to and fro. "Not at all, dearie, you two girls go have fun."

She gave him a farewell smile and hooked her arm through mine, leading me through the room. "It's not often I find someone my own age to talk with at these events," she confided cheerfully. It was true. We stood out from the crowd. "Who are you here with?"

I considered taking offence. I mean, I could work for the company, couldn't I? But I wasn't really hurt by the assumption, not to mention I was buzzing from her happy thoughts. So I said, "Reed Wallace."

"I've been trying to land him for months! How did you manage?" Surprisingly, she wasn't jealous, just impressed.

I shrugged. "This is a one-time thing. We aren't, you know... together."

Her breasts came uncomfortably close to my nose as she leaned down to whisper, "If I was you, I'd do everything and anything to get his ring on my finger." That wasn't news to me. "Your best chance is to get a bun in the oven." Deliberately she looked to my stomach with a knowing smile.

"Well, thanks for the advice."

She didn't stop there. Danielle continued to give me unsolicited advice for another quarter-hour. By the time dinner was being served I knew the best breast doctor (Danielle had strongly suggested I get some work done). I also knew the four men she would dump Harold for in a heartbeat. She'd said all this and more in a jolly fashion. I didn't respect her, but I was finding it hard to hate her as I'd originally intended.

I sunk into the chair beside Reed, having finally separated myself. It hadn't been easy, Danielle's emotions were addicting.

Reed was busy speaking to a couple of peons when I arrived. He stopped talking to introduce me, thankfully not as his girlfriend but simply Adelaide Graves. I smiled like a robot and shook their hands, bored to tears. I didn't understand a word they said, but I didn't really care either. Reed wrapped his arm around the back of my chair, leaning close. I would have shaken him off but we weren't alone, so I pretended to like it while reminding myself that I really didn't.

When they left he asked, "Did you feel anything interesting?"

"Oh yeah," I said. "I found your female counterpart." I glanced in her direction.

"Danielle Smathers?" He smiled. "I think not."

"Why so?"

"She's an attractive woman, but beyond that she's nothing but fluff. I'm sure Danielle classifies herself as a social climber, but no, she's not even that."

"She's charming." It was true.

"How clever of her," he said dryly.

"She's also high as a kite," I admitted.

He laughed. "She'd have to be if she's with Harold Determeyer." He leaned closer, speaking into my ear. "Most are under the impression that Harold has retained his position at Wallace Enterprise because he's passionate about the work." Reed shook his head faintly, I could feel it. "He's mismanaged his money, investments gone bad. Danielle is in for a shock when he passes."

"You mean he has no money?"

"He still makes a pretty penny, don't get me wrong, but he has no substantial savings. Ultimately, he works because he has to."

"That's not fair!"

Reed looked at me like we'd never met before. "She's after his money, there's a term for that you know..."

"Yes, she's a gold digger, I know. But it's not as if he doesn't know what she's after, and vice versa. So if they're both aware of the other's motives, then no one is being taken advantage of. It's just a sordid arrangement, but something they've both agreed to."

"This sounds like the opinion of that friend of yours, Francesca."

Realizing he was doodling circles on the back of my neck, I swatted his hand away. "Speaking of Francesca, she asked me to put in a good word. But obviously, since I know what a schmuck you are, I won't. Instead I'm telling you to fix whatever mess you've made. She thinks she's in love with you and it's making her... well, not herself. Fix it."

His good humor fled in an instant. I'd made him angry. "I'm as incapable of turning off the charm as you are of tuning out emotions. It's impossible to get rid of the gift. If there was a way I'd know about it."

I looked down at the ring on my finger knowing he was wrong but unwilling to tell him so. Instead I said, "Fix it some other way then."

He ignored me. "So is that all that you've been doing, leeching off Ms. Smather's high?"

"Pretty much," I said without remorse. "But I'd prefer to be gone when she starts crashing."

He was now mad _and_ disappointed. "I had hoped you would be more useful than that."

I shrugged. "Everyone else felt typical, well, other than Harold Determeyer. He's an exceptionally wrinkled, old letch." He brooded in silence over my response. Finally I asked, "If you're not looking for perverted old men and greedy young women, what _are_ you looking for?"

"Guilt."

"Embezzlement?" I guessed.

"Something like that," he agreed.

I didn't need to be an empath to know that he was lying.

### Chapter 13

Unfortunately the evening had just begun. Word went out that dinner would soon be served and shortly thereafter guests started searching for their seats. The tables were small, seating four only. I suppose the arrangement was meant to be cozy, encouraging intimate conversation.

A woman I guessed to be in her sixties greeted Reed. He stood and kissed her cheek. "Adelaide, I'd like you to meet Eleanor Bryant. She's the chief finance officer for all of Wallace Enterprise." Gesturing to me, he said, "Adelaide Graves, my guest this evening."

She gave me a regal nod and turned her attention back to Reed. They sat, with her taking the seat to his left, and were quickly immersed in a business discussion. I yawned, unperturbed by the loss of his attention. It was oddly relieving.

Moments later a somewhat ruffled young man joined the table. His eyes flickered over me briefly as he took the seat to my right. Reed looked up at his arrival, shaking hands and greeting him warmly.

Turning to me, Reed said, "This is Tim Beckett." I shook Tim's hand in turn. Reed continued, "Tim, this is my guest Adelaide Graves. And you know Eleanor Bryant, I believe."

Conversation picked up after that. I didn't say a word, my only unspoken requirement: to look interested. They talked money, they talked politics, and they made me want to tear off my ears. Luckily, I had my emotions in check. The ballroom's occupants were still feeling pleasant and mild.

The servers came around to offer up options for entrees. Reed selected my meal. I was annoyed, but allowed it as I was out of my league. I didn't know how to pronounce half of what they offered.

Though he wasn't much older, Tim didn't try to talk to me. Actually, he did his best _not_ to talk to me. Under normal circumstances this would bother me not at all, but I was bored so I decided to mess with him.

While Reed and Eleanor were chatting I abruptly asked, "Did you ever watch Sesame Street?"

He fiddled with his collar, trying to avoid eye contact. "No, I never did."

"Well, do you know the big yellow bird?"

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, "the what?"

"You know... the big yellow bird from Sesame Street?"

"Yes, yes, I believe I know who you're speaking of."

"I heard that bird was a hermaphrodite."

He went still. "Excuse me?"

Reed and Eleanor finished their conversation and turned to us. I jumped at the opportunity I'd been granted. "Reed," I said, "you're never going to guess what Tim just told me."

"What's that?" he asked, already amused.

I nudged Tim with my elbow. "Go on, tell them. Tell them what you just told me."

He was staring at me like I was cracked, which only further encouraged me. "He said the most outlandish thing about Sesame Street. He said—"

Tim stood abruptly. "If you'll excuse me for a moment."

He tried to stalk off, but before he could go I said, "Don't worry about it, you can tell them when you get back."

Reed found the episode diverting. He had no idea what I'd been up to, but he knew I'd been up to something. "I don't think Tim appreciates your demented sense of humor."

"You don't know me well enough to classify my humor. It's not demented, it's refined."

"Refined?" he queried, twirling a piece of my hair.

I flicked his fingers away and turned my attention to eating.

Eleanor was also eating, but I was sure she'd witnessed our brief exchange. She didn't have an emotional response. In fact, I hadn't felt so much as a twinge from her all evening.

Tim returned. He scowled at me and sat down. I didn't bring up Sesame Street or hermaphrodites. He was relieved.

"I was sorry to hear about Theodore," Eleanor said to Tim. She didn't feel sorry. "Have you learned anything new?"

He pushed the food around his plate like a child. "Mr. Wallace would know more than me, he's been keeping in contact with the police."

Eleanor looked to Reed.

"I know very little, everything is being kept quiet." Emptiness and grief grew as Reed spoke.

Eleanor shook her head. "It's too late for that. Everyone already knows a murderer is running loose on St. Simons."

Dumbfounded, I stared at the three of them. "You knew the man that was murdered?"

"Yes, I've known him for a number of years. He was a friend and colleague." Reed spoke evenly, but I felt him hurting. "Theodore was also Tim's mentor."

I looked at Tim. Tim looked at his plate. I said I was sorry for his loss, using the opportunity to lean closer, but the results were the same. Tim wasn't feeling sad. Tim was just pretending to feel sad. I didn't much like Tim.

### * * *

"Dessert will be served before the speech," a small bespectacled man announced from the podium.

"There's going to be a speech?" How boring.

Reed turned to answer. "Yes, but don't fret, it will be riveting."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm the one giving it." He stood, pulling me up with him. For some reason I let him, noticing how nice his hand looked wrapped around my upper arm. "While the servers clear the tables most guests mingle in the lobby or lounge. Go do what I brought you for," he said, giving me a gentle shove. "And stay away from Danielle Smathers," he added for good measure.

I didn't follow the crowd. They poured into the lobby, continuing to seep into an adjacent ballroom I took to be the lounge. Instead I went in search of the bathroom. Regardless of Reed's instructions, I needed a break from all the emotions.

They were just starting to disappear when a sharp concentration of hatred swamped me. Hastily I turned back, glancing down the empty marble hall toward the lobby. She was easy to spot. Sporting a little black dress and standing near the elevator was Reed Wallace's secretary, or personal assistant, or whatever she called herself. Her eyes were narrowed, her posture rigid.

I considered telling her that if she hadn't been so bad in bed, Reed wouldn't have dumped her. I discarded the idea; it just wasn't practical. I was a non-confrontation type, plus, I didn't want to get my eyes scratched out.

So I watched as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. She pinned me with one last withering glare and sauntered inside.

Further down the hall a swirling mass made me groan. "You've got to be kidding," I muttered. The ghost tried to slim down, but his desired form wasn't cooperating. He faded in and out, doing that creepy hologram thing. I recognized the transparent tones of his clothing even from a distance. My bladder forgotten, I backtracked, rushing a little when he began to wave his wispy arms in earnest.

The gesture matched his emotion—urgent. I would have questioned him, but people were scattered throughout the large lobby. Stupid stragglers. So I complied obediently as he shooed me along, hurrying me toward the slightly smaller ballroom where most of the guests had gathered for a quick drink.

I was about to walk inside but his cloudy arm shot out to stop me, and I took his sharp anxiety for warning. I heard them talking then, catching the conversation the ghost had wanted me to hear.

"You shouldn't be here." A male voice I didn't recognize.

"I've got a cover," came the deep and rumbling reply.

"We don't know how informed he is, your identity may be no secret. Do you want to be recognized?"

"You worry too much," the second man replied harshly. "He's already seen me."

"You're playing a dangerous game."

"I'm beginning to think it's you who's playing," said the hoarse voice. "You said he'd have it, and he didn't. I'm not a patient man."

"Remember who's moving the pieces before you do anything hasty." A small silence and then, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have someone to meet."

"We're done here," was the husky reply.

When I was certain that they weren't going to say more, I hurried inside. Looking to the left where their voices had come from, I was disappointed to see nothing, not even a retreating male figure cutting through the crowd. No one stood out.

I would have asked the ghost to identify them, but he'd already disappeared. Figured. I was starting to learn that ghosts were partially convenient but mostly unreliable.

I was willing to wander the crowd again, but only after I went to the bathroom. Peeing didn't last nearly long enough. Too soon I found myself surrounded by the rich and glossy. I felt Danielle once or twice. Her smooth excitement called to me, both seductive and addicting. It was a good thing I had so much self-control and managed to steer clear.

I felt some angry vibes and checked around expecting to see the evil secretary. To my surprise, I followed the flow to an old guy. He sat at the bar, beer in hand.

After dealing daily with Ben, handling old men seemed to come quite naturally. I sat next to him, ordered a drink I didn't intend to drink, and said, "It's cold in here, don't you think?" If you wanted someone to complain, complain first.

He spared me a sideways glance. "Put on more clothes."

"Is this your typical behavior, or are you in an especially foul mood?" I already knew the answer.

"Both," he huffed.

"Drown your sorrows and tell me all about it."

He took a swig, stealing another glance. "You're a nosy one."

I shrugged and waited.

He cracked. "I have better things to do than attend this damned event. I might be old, but I'm still busy. I've got work up to my ears waiting for me back home." His anger came in natural waves as he spoke, so I knew he was telling the truth.

"This dinner is mandatory?"

"The whole damned retreat is mandatory!" he roared in disgust.

"You should complain to Reed Wallace."

"You think I want to get fired?"

I assumed it was a rhetorical question, ignoring it accordingly. "Fine. I'll do it for you," I offered.

He waved a finger at me. "Don't you mention my name. I want no part in your meddling."

"Maybe you're too senile to remember, but I never asked your name." I stood and walked away, leaving him no angrier than I had found him.

### Chapter 14

I'll admit (begrudgingly, of course) that Reed's speech was good. I forked down a fluffy chocolate thing while he went on about the future of the company. He had everyone's undivided attention, a look around confirmed their rapture. Even Eleanor Bryant gave off her first emotion—pride.

He made them laugh, he gave them hope, and by the end we were all confident that Wallace Enterprise was the most successful business in the whole world. He was a powerful speaker.

And though the emotions were all good, they were running much too high for my taste. I excused myself as the speech was winding down.

I was just leaving the ballroom when I started feeling guilty. It was only a twinge and I accepted it as my own, attributing it to my early departure. But then I remembered I didn't like Reed, and wouldn't give a damn if I'd killed his cat, let alone left during his speech. I glanced around as was my habit, searching for the guilty party (no pun intended).

She was walking toward me, heels clacking away, that damned secretary. She hadn't seen me yet because her head was down, the guilt growing stronger the closer she came.

Curiosity ate at me, it was definitely all my own emotion. I wanted to know why she was suddenly feeling guilty. In fact, I was dying to know, but I wasn't willing to confront her. So I hurried across the lobby, trying to duck into the other ballroom before she saw me.

I wasn't that lucky. Unused to heels, I turned my ankle, skidding to a stop and ramming my hip into a mahogany sideboard. The flower bouquet centerpiece swayed and I jerked to catch it. I managed in the nick of time, though a gush of water sloshed out of the vase.

I was suddenly angry—obviously she'd seen me. I didn't turn to check, choosing to retreat out of sight.

Reed found me sometime later. I was wandering the empty rooms. "Why did you leave?"

"Because your speech was awful," I lied. "Everyone hated it. I couldn't handle all that loathing."

He ignored the insult. "Come on, this way," he said, leading me through the halls, walking like he owned the place. And maybe he did, supposedly he owned half the island.

I followed him into a medium size room. It had floor to ceiling partitions that slid back, currently tied to the walls. A few folding chairs were propped up, and a locked cabinet made of particleboard clogged the corner. This was, by far, the cheapest place at the country club and most likely used by staff only.

Reed, loosening his tie and shedding his jacket, walked the length of the room. "What did you learn?"

"Eleanor Bryant is an ice queen, with little to no emotion."

"Forget Eleanor, she's a valuable employee. I respect her," he said simply.

His quick disregard of my insight did nothing to endear him. "Okay, you're really starting to piss me off. You've hardly given me any instructions, feeding me vague details along the way. I'm not a fucking machine, and there's no program for finding secrets."

"That was thoughtless, I apologize."

"Don't bullshit me, I can tell you aren't sorry."

He nearly smiled. "Fair enough, I won't interrupt you again, please continue."

I waited a moment, trying to shed my irritation. Finally I admitted, "I don't much care for Tim Beckett."

"Yes, I had noticed. Any reason why?"

"The man that died, his mentor, it doesn't bother him. He isn't sad and he isn't mourning."

"That doesn't make him a criminal," Reed said.

"But why bother with pretending?"

"There is an explanation," Reed admitted. "Theodore Dunn never worked for my company and neither does Tim, though I pay for their services. They're dream interpreters. Theodore was experienced and Tim sought him out, needing guidance.

"Shortly after they met Tim dreamt of Theo's death and hurried to warn him, hoping to change the outcome. But Theo stopped him from revealing the details.

"Theodore wanted to teach Tim the first lesson of interpretation, which is: learning to understand the purpose of the message. Sometimes they're warned so they can change the future, but sometimes not.

"Tim came to understand that he wasn't meant to stop Theo's death, and probably couldn't even if he tried. Tim was only meant to be prepared for the inevitable. So if he isn't sad, it's because it wasn't a shock for him. In fact, he's been expecting it for a long time."

"Did they tell you? Did your friend Theodore tell you he was going to die?"

He shook his head, the sorrow invading. "No. Tim told me all of this after Theodore's body was found." He pulled at his collar. "And as for the pretending, I suppose he does it out of respect."

To change the morose mood, I said, "I met an employee of yours who is none too pleased to be here. He said this whole retreat is mandatory."

Reed was unworried by his employee's complaint. "I needed a reason to get them all together. I'd hoped that the guilty party might become evident."

"Guilty, guilty of what?"

He gave me a bland look, unwilling to tell.

Fine, whatever, I could be coy too. "Well," I said slowly, "I did run into one very guilty individual."

"Who?" he demanded.

"You won't believe me," I said lightly.

"Adelaide," he growled, growing impatient.

"What was the name of your secretary?"

He knew where this was going and didn't believe me. I could feel his resistance to the idea, but he was smart enough not to say so outright. "I believe you're speaking of Karen, my personal aide."

"Karen is a very unstable woman. I suspect she's jealous, but I can't feel anything past all that anger. Before you gave your speech she was mad, but after she was guilty. Very very guilty. She hardly noticed me her head was sagging so low."

"Karen has been with me for years. I don't think she's capable of duplicitous behavior. But," he said, cutting off my argument, "I'll take your word for it and speak with her." He pulled out his cell phone as if he was going to call her just then.

"Wait," I said, stalling his call. "Before you confront Crazy Karen, don't you want to know about the seedy conversation I just happened to overhear?"

His eyes were sharp, drilling holes into my own. He was out of patience. "I'm not interested in gossip."

"So if there was, let's say, a snoop hiding beneath your very nose, you wouldn't be interested?"

"What did you hear?"

I thought about drawing out my answer just to annoy him. But the look he was giving me had an edge I didn't much like. I found myself wishing we weren't shut up in a room together. So I explained everything I heard without preamble.

I could tell he understood, the words meant something to him. I felt his sense of discovery, his comprehension. After that his emotions became a stewing turmoil of complication. I pressed myself into the wall, putting as much distance between us as I could manage.

It was a while before he noticed me, and a bit guilty-like he tried to tamp down his emotions. It was a futile gesture, he lacked my emotional control. "That was inconsiderate of me."

"You understood what they were speaking of."

He turned, pacing with his back to me. "Yes."

"Well?" I prompted.

"You don't need to know," he said coolly.

I scoffed, but I wasn't surprised. Throwing up my arms, I said, "The party's over. Can I go?"

"In a moment. First I'd like you to stay while I interview Karen." He began to unfold chairs.

"Uh, that's not appropriate."

"You'll stay out of sight. She won't know you're behind the partition."

"That's even less appropriate."

"Yes I know, but I feel it's necessary. You see Karen in an unflattering light, and I'd like to dispel the image from your mind once and for all."

"That's ridiculous! What does my opinion matter?"

He arranged the chairs so they faced each other. "When you're done suspecting Karen you can focus on the truly guilty party." He took up his cell phone once more and began to dial. "Close yourself behind that section."

I didn't want to, but I did as he instructed. Unhooking first one side and then the other, I pulled the partition closed. I could hear Reed's half of the phone conversation and then his pacing.

When the door opened I assumed it was Crazy Karen, though I could never have guessed by her emotions as she wasn't being hateful. But I doubted being alone with Reed stirred that feeling.

"Hello, Karen. Please, won't you have a seat," I heard Reed offer graciously.

She was thrilled to. "Is everything alright?"

I heard him move, guessing he'd taken the chair across from her like a good therapist would. "That's actually what I wanted to speak with you about. You didn't seem yourself this evening. How are you?"

She was both ecstatic and ashamed. I'd like to say this made her crazy, but it didn't. Everybody feels in contradictions. "I'm surprised you noticed," she said. "You were so busy with the speech and that... and your date." She was angry again.

"Have I said something to upset you?" Reed asked.

"No! No, of course not," she rushed to assure. "You could never say anything to upset me."

"Well something obviously has."

"I... I made a mistake, I..." Her voice cracked. She began to cry softly.

I could hear Reed moving closer to comfort her. She began to feel a longing desire, and I began to feel uncomfortable. "Tell me what happened," Reed coaxed.

I waited a bit breathless to hear the dirty deed that was filling us both with guilt and shame. "I slept with Rich Addler!" she sobbed. "I'm sorry... I don't know why... I'm sorry!" She was babbling through her tears.

Perplexed, Reed asked, "Sorry—whatever for?" She kept crying, but from hopelessness, not guilt. She had hoped that he would care, be jealous or something. Any reaction would have been better than his indifference. Obtuse as ever, he continued, "Seeing someone from the office is usually discouraged, but I'm certainly not going to penalize you for it."

"No, I didn't think you would, but... but if you tell me not to see him again, then I won't!" I assumed this was her last ditch effort to force a reaction.

Reed had none. "That's not for me to say. You may see whomever you like."

I found his last statement ironic as the 'whomever she liked' was currently giving her the letdown. Eventually she stopped crying. Reed talked business for a little while, giving her time to collect herself. And when she finally left she took her disappointment with her.

I pushed open the partition. "That was a great idea," I said sarcastically.

He glared, feeling slightly irritated. "It served its purpose. Now you won't waste time suspecting her of deceit."

"It wasn't my intention to prove she was guilty of deceit, only of being crazy. And I think she more than proved that all by herself just now."

He began to fold the chairs back up, ignoring me. But I couldn't ignore his frustration. "I'll be waiting out front," I said as I strode out.

He met me in the foyer, it was nearly empty then. Most of the guests had cleared out while we were meeting with Crazy Karen. I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't meet her as she was leaving. Reed's town car waited out front, its strange driver standing at attention like a soldier.

Reed stopped walking to stare at something. I followed his gaze to the figure of a man. "Who is that?" I asked, watching the man get into his car.

"Richard Addler," he said grimly.

I did a double take then, interested to see. The lamps offered little light, but I could just make out a dark head of hair and fair skin, maybe handsome. Crazy Karen probably chose him for the features he had in common with Reed. There was an obvious resemblance, though Rich paled in comparison.

After watching him go we continued to walk along the circular drive. Reed asked, "Why did she sleep with him if only to cry after?"

I shrugged. "She's crazy."

"And why did he do it?"

I looked at him like he was crazy. "He's a man, what other reason do you need?"

"Cynic," he accused lightly.

To my surprise he took my wrist, pulling me to stop. Around us the oak trees made a soft rushing noise as the wind blew slowly, pushing the moss until it swayed. The cicadas sang their shrill song, the sound carrying over the open space. Behind us the club sat, lit like a hulking silent beast, empty and white. It felt as if we were the last two people alive.

His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. "Thank you for coming."

I wanted to lean into him, to encourage him. He was attentive, and I recognized the interest he felt. But all I had to do was picture Crazy Karen to be myself again, pushing away the lazy comfort of his charm. I tugged my wrist free. "You blackmailed me into coming, but I was under the impression that the coercion didn't extend to sleeping with you."

I riled him into an angry state, reveling in how easy it was. "Must you always be so difficult?"

Wishing the conversation would end, I refused to reply. I'd pricked his pride again, effectively ending the evening stroll. He nearly rushed to the car after that, with me following in his angry wake.

The driver had the back door open, anticipating our arrival. Reed moved to slide in first.

I muttered, "I'm just glad this night is over."

I spoke too soon.

The driver lifted his arm, swinging a small round cudgel. It met Reed's flesh at the base of his skull. It was unexpected and abrupt. I stood stock still, eyes wide in shock. Just like a deer in headlights.

I watched in helpless horror as the driver stooped down to shove Reed's crumpled body inside the car, sliding it along the backseat. And when he turned to me, I barely had time to say "Oh shit!" before the flash of pain and swallow of darkness.

### Chapter 15

My mouth felt dry and mossy as I came to, but small discomforts were soon drowned out by the pain above my ear. It was a throbbing ache, consistent as a beating drum, but sharp like a lightning strike.

I wanted to touch it, needing to reassure myself it wasn't serious, but I couldn't. My hands were bound. I jerked a little, and then a little more frantically. Wrenching my shoulders forward didn't help either, my hands wouldn't budge.

My mind was catching up with my emotions as reality set in. At first I was merely alarmed, but a look around made me afraid.

I was restrained in a concrete room. It was perfectly square in shape and somewhat small. Each ankle was tied to a chair leg, my arms pulled back, and hands secured behind me. Reed Wallace, tied likewise, sat in the middle of the room facing me, watching me.

"I guess there's no point in screaming for help," I said miserably.

"We're most likely in an isolated location or he would have gagged us." Reed spoke calmly, but I could feel everything that boiled beneath the layers.

"I'm going to have a panic attack."

"Calm down, Adelaide. Breathe," he said sternly.

He should have told me not to breathe because I'd already started to hyperventilate, taking in desperate, gulping breaths. The trembling began in my fingers and worked its way up my arms and down my torso until I was nothing more than a shaking mess. It felt like I had heartburn, but even that couldn't compete with the dominate ache in my head. But worse than that, worse than any pain, was the fact that I couldn't move.

I was overwhelmed by the fight-or-flight response, needing to get away, to protect myself. But I couldn't move, could barely struggle, though I tried.

"Calm down!" Reed hollered, the sound of his voice ringing against the cool bare walls.

"Calm!" I shrieked. "How can I be calm while you're dumping all your distress on me?" I began to cry, a hysterical sobbing that made Crazy Karen look placid.

From experience I knew I would come to regret the crying. Logically my fit did nothing to help, but logic had little to do with emotions, and the fear was all consuming, eating away reason. "This is your fault!" I screamed at Reed.

The door behind him opened and he had to turn his head to watch our captor enter. The gap-toothed driver moved his weighty bulk through the door, carrying a leather bundle. Behind him was a puffing cloud. It was swirling and streaming in agitation.

Without thinking I said, "Thank goodness." Pleading "Rescue me!" to my ghost.

Gap-tooth thought I was talking to him and laughed. "Sorry, darlin', but you aren't going anywhere." The bastard wasn't sorry.

He knelt, setting his bundle where Reed and I could see, and unfolded the leather gently, slowly, like a horrid striptease. I caught a glimpse of smooth metal and glinting blades, but quickly turned away.

"You must be the gifted soldier Lars has been boasting about," Reed said with pretended equanimity. "But I must admit, this is very unlike Lars. He didn't order the kidnapping, did he?"

From the corner of my eye I could see Gap-tooth fondling his blades. "Nope, he didn't, but I doubt he'll mind when I bring him the book."

"I'm surprised Lars appreciates such initiative in his employees. He's usually the controlling sort."

Gap-tooth grunted noncommittally.

I could tell Reed was up to something by the way he carefully continued. "I'll bet you have more combat training than all his other employees combined." He tsked in disapproval. "It's a shame you have to sneak around trying to prove yourself. Lars should be asking you for advice."

Personally, I thought he was laying it on a little thick, but Gap-tooth had stopped polishing his knives and was almost nodding in agreement, a dull look on his face.

"He doesn't appreciate the gifts of others, never has. If he had any sense at all, he'd put you in charge."

Reed continued to flatter Gap-tooth in the most outlandish fashion, and unbelievably, Gap-tooth bought it. The longer Reed talked the more hypnotic he became, addictive even. I found myself drawn in as well, unable to look away, wishing Reed was mine. But then he ruined it by speaking the wrong words too soon.

"Why don't you just let us go and we'll sort this out together."

Gap-tooth shook his head as if trying to dislodge a distasteful thought. His own feelings had been suppressed by Reed's little speech, overlaid by the desire to please this larger than life man he'd tied to a chair. But now his cartoonish features scrunched unpleasantly as he waded out of the mental fog Reed had cast with his charm.

I felt it all and knew Reed had pushed too soon. He'd grown impatient, and Gap-tooth was now shrugging off his influence. Reed saw it too and hurried to coax him further, but Gap-tooth jerked upright, eyes flashing. "Lars warned me about your bullshit. Try that again and it'll be the last thing you do."

Reed grew frustrated, biting out, "Kidnapping me won't help you. I don't have the book nor do I know where it is. Theodore Dunn was the last person to have it and you killed him."

I watched the wispy smoke settle over the floor, condensing into the transparent man. He was staring intently at a small knife that had a nasty curving blade.

"I expected you to say that, but soon you'll talk." Gap-tooth selected something from the bunch and stood gripping it lightly. I refused to turn my head to see. Apparently I didn't need to. He came to stand behind me, resting the blade gently on my shoulder where its tips touched my cheek. It was pronged, which I didn't think was practical, but it had the desired effect. I was scared out of my mind.

On the floor in front of me the ghost's hand shifted just below the wrist, going from transparent to opaque. In that instant he lashed out, swatting at the little knife. But it was too late, his body had misted from the effort before he could even touch the blade.

Something came to rest on my head. I jerked unintentionally, forcing a prong deep into my cheek. The only thing I could do was hold perfectly still while he caressed me, letting down my hair to run his fingers through it. "I'll give her a go," he said. "And if you haven't told me the location of the book by the time I'm finished, then you'll know exactly what I'm going to do to you." My breath hissed out as he yanked my hair back sharply, angling my face up at him.

But I didn't look, my eyes rested on the ghost. His hand had gone gray, the sickly solid gray. He swiped at the knife, and with a snick it came skittering across the floor toward me.

I stopped it with my bare foot, not bothering to wonder where my shoes had gone. I looked up hesitantly, hoping Gap-tooth hadn't seen. But he wasn't paying any attention to me. He was staring at Reed, daring him to speak.

Slowly he began to drag the prong across my cheek. I whimpered as it bit, feeling a warm trickle slip down my face.

"Stop!" Reed barked. "She has no part in this. She's just the latest slut I'm seeing!"

Gap-tooth let go, walking around my chair toward Reed. The instant his back was to us the ghost misted straight through me. I imagined him trying to turn solid behind my chair, so I pushed the knife back with my foot as far as it would go, hoping he could reach it.

"You don't date sluts, Wallace, and you don't date poor young women that work at cheap motels either. I don't know what she is to you, but I'm sure you don't want to see me cut her into tiny pieces."

Behind me I heard a light scuff. The knife was moving. He must be solid. I pulled my hands apart as far as they would go just as he dragged the knife down through the rope. I gave an involuntary cry as the blade snagged the skin below my thumb.

They didn't notice. I imagine Reed was desperate just to keep Gap-tooth talking. I heard them arguing, but I no longer heard the words. I was focused entirely on the ropes restricting my ankles.

My fingers were stiff, almost numb, and I was clumsy. The knots seemed impossible, they wouldn't budge. It felt as if minutes passed, but I didn't allow myself to look up. I heard their voices and kept going as quietly as I could. At the first sign of slack I began to hope. In seconds the rope slid off and I went to work on my other ankle.

When I was completely free of my restraints I finally looked at the pair in front of me. Gap-tooth was whispering something into Reed's ear, and Reed looked green.

I crouched down, my intention to grab a knife and stab the bad guy in the back. He stiffened suddenly and I paused, my hand outstretched toward the leather bundle. "Would you like to know my gift, girl?" he asked without turning around. "It's called combat sense, the ability to know my opponent's move the moment they decide to make it. So go ahead and pick your weapon. I'll know the instant you do, just as I'll know the instant you move to use it."

I would have sat there like the stupid deer if it hadn't been for the ghost. His hologram form was flickering in and out, but I could tell he was pointing at something. I almost looked. Almost. But it wouldn't do to give Gap-tooth unnecessary information.

With a deep breath I lunged forward, groping to curl my fingers around whatever weapon the ghost wanted me to have. I sprang upright, lurching at Gap-tooth with the weapon raised.

He turned slowly, almost casually, with a smile. Stepping forward, he moved to block my blow, throwing up his arm so my weapon would glance harmlessly away.

Using both hands, I swung downward with all my strength, feeling the blade cut deep. Gap-tooth let out a bloodcurdling scream, pulling away from me and stumbling back. The machete went with him, stuck in his arm, embedded to the bone.

I scrambled around looking for anything to beat him with. If I didn't knock him out he would surely kill me. I grabbed a hooked torture-thingy because its handle seemed to be made of a strong, sturdy wood. Holding it backwards, I crept up to Gap-tooth, knowing he knew I was preparing to beam him.

He was afraid, raw with fear I realized as I shuffled closer. He stood half-turned away, fingers gently touching and probing his grotesque wound like a confused child, as if he'd never seen his own blood before. And maybe he hadn't.

I aimed for the spot above his neck and swung. He raised his good hand as if to sweep dust from his shoulder. He flicked his wrist and knocked the hook from my hand as easily as one might bat a fly.

His fear became anger, and he rounded on me. I stumbled back, knocking my ass into Reed's chair. I skirted around trying to hide behind it as Gap-tooth lunged, his meaty hand reaching for my ankle. I screamed as he tore the hem of my dress and held on to the chair to keep from falling. It tipped backwards from my weight, Reed spilling with it. The chair's legs whipped up most unexpectedly, one catching Gap-tooth right between the eyes. He grunted and fell over.

It couldn't be that easy, it simply couldn't. I expected it to be like in the movies where the bad guy pulls the knife from his throat and just keeps coming. He didn't move, didn't twitch, and I didn't feel a twinge of emotion either.

So I set about cutting Reed free from his chair. He kept a wary eye on our captor but didn't attempt to touch him.

"Well should we," I waved vaguely at the body, "I don't know... kill him, or maybe call the police?"

Reed stared at the inert form while rubbing the blood back into his wrists. "Kill him or call the police? Those options don't fit in the same sentence."

"Well we can't just leave him!"

Reed turned, heading for the door. "I'll take care of it."

I hated being dismissed. Obviously I had more to say, but for the moment I was willing to shut up and get the hell out of there.

I followed Reed out the door and up a flight of stairs. They were plain concrete, solid and sterile. I couldn't decide if that room was meant for shelter or storage. The stairs spit us out on the first floor of a farmer's barn. It was filled with hay and everything. The town car was outside. Reed found the keys in the ignition, I found my shoes and purse in the backseat, and together we left.

### Chapter 16

A persistent scuffing sound woke me. I very much wished it hadn't. I had an ache for every muscle, my joints protesting any and all movement. Was this what it felt like to be old? If so, I hoped to die young. Maybe I was meant to have died yesterday.

The scuffing droned into a dull scraping. My mind cleared instantly, pushing away the sleepy daze of first wake. Unexplainable noises were irregular in my home. Suitably alarmed, I lurched from bed.

It was Gap-tooth, it must be. My heartbeat picked up its pace as I glanced around for some sort of weapon. Cursing myself for not having killed him when he was unconscious, I grabbed the slim glass thigh-high vase I'd never gotten around to filling. Yesterday I wasn't capable of killing anyone. Today I thought I'd give it a try. Hefting the vase, I held it by its narrow top like a baseball bat.

Reed and his bullshit about taking care of it, he never did explain. Even after the adrenaline had worn away and I'd stopped feeling strung out and shaky I'd continued to scream a bit, demanding answers. He had ignored me, leaving me clueless beside my car.

I lowered the vase, feeling like a jackass. If Gap-tooth really was coming then he'd already know I was waiting for him, vase in hand. Damn it! I couldn't even defend myself. If Reed was any kind of man, he'd have killed Gap-tooth when he had the chance. Calling the police hadn't seemed like a permanent enough solution. And he hadn't even done that!

The sound continued, odd though, it didn't seem to come from inside the house. Cautiously I walked to the window, using the vase to push the curtain aside.

Lucas sat on the lip of my roof, a leg dangling over. He scraped at the gutter, scooping up a handful of sludge, the wilted, wet leaves clumped in his gloved fist. I watched his arms and back flex, mesmerized. There was something bold about him; maybe it was just his masculinity. I didn't deal with men like him often, and I found he intimidated me in a way others couldn't, not even the charming Reed Wallace.

I put the vase back in its proper place, wondering if perhaps I'd overreacted. No, I decided, I hadn't, and I couldn't live like this. Reed was going to tell me exactly how he'd taken care of the situation, at which point I'd decide if he'd done enough. I guess I was going to have to eat my words, the last being, 'Shut the fuck up! And don't ever speak to me again!' He'd been about to apologize. I hadn't been interested.

I pushed aside the curtain and opened the window. "If you want to take a break I can get you something to drink," I offered.

Lucas spared me the briefest of glances. "I'll be done in a few minutes."

I left the window open, like trying to coax a stray cat, hoping he'd climb through instead of using the ladder. I grabbed some clothes and ran to the bathroom, cursing when I saw my reflection.

Yesterday I'd done nothing more than drive home from the motel and fall into bed. My hair was a knotty mess, my face crusted in dry blood, and the dress ruined. I slipped it off, changing into a pair of jeans and T-shirt. I ran a brush through my hair, gave up, and tied it into a ponytail. Lastly, I washed my face and hands, smoothing away the blood and leaving behind two ugly gashes. I'd shower later.

I dug my first aid kit out from under the bathroom sink before hurrying back to the loft. Lucas was still outside. I pretended to ignore him, choosing to sit on the floor and patch up my wounds.

My hand was easy enough. I lathered on some antibiotic ointment and covered the cut with a band-aid. I was indecisive about my face though. Vanity was not my personal vice, but even I didn't want to wear a band-aid on my cheek for the next week. I used the excuse 'the cut needed airing out' and settled for gingerly rubbing it down with the same ointment.

I didn't know if either cut needed stitches. I knew they were deep, being able to see the pink flesh inside. But if they stopped bleeding and didn't get infected then I didn't need a doctor. I could live with the scars, but not without the money a doctor would cost.

Lucas stepped through the open window. It was large, taking up most of the triangular shaped wall, he hardly had to stoop. I tried not to look too happy. "Finished?"

He nodded somewhat aloof as he stared around the room. I tried to imagine what his impression might be, attempting to look at my things through a stranger's eye.

It was a large bedroom, but the sloping walls made me feel as though I was in a constant hug. The wood was dark, almost black. The linen curtains and bed sheets were light, creamy, matching the rug. I had left over furniture from Mary, Ben's wife, an antique armoire, standing mirror, and trunk. The room felt old, but airy and fresh.

Lucas still hadn't said anything. Frustrated that I couldn't guess what he was thinking by gauging his emotions, I blurted, "What?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't look like my bedroom."

I nearly laughed. "I'm not surprised."

He looked at me as if waiting for more.

"I've seen your kitchen," I explained. "It was, well, like a bachelor's house, I guess. Or at least the way I imagine a bachelor's house should look, you know... bare."

He moved to the chest of drawers, eyeing the doodads arranged on top. "You like perfume."

I couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement. "No, not really. I wouldn't wear half of those, they smell like old lady. I like the bottles, they're antiques."

"Who's this photographer?" He wandered around looking at my meager collection.

"Weegee, he was a photojournalist, among other things. His photos are black, white, and gritty, often taken at crime scenes. I try to hang the less depressing ones in the bedroom."

"The puzzles?" he questioned, staring at my stack of boxes.

"They fill the time."

"You don't have a TV?"

"No."

He was silent, and it became awkward. "You can use the bathroom to wash your hands," I offered. "Or I can get you a drink or something." I couldn't recall a time I had ever played hostess, it didn't come naturally.

He moved as if he'd just remembered where he was. "No, I'll clean up at home." He left the loft, moving down the stairs.

I followed him to the front door. "I can clean your kitchen tomorrow morning."

"Fine," he said, stepping outside to collect his ladder. I thought he'd take it and leave, but he turned back before walking around the house. "You can use mine if you want."

"Use your what?"

"My TV."

### Chapter 17

"Sterling's Motel, how may I help you?"

"Did you sleep with him?"

I hung up.

Francesca called back.

"Sterling's Motel, how may I help you?"

"Alright, alright, that was a stupid thing to ask. But how was it?"

"I barely survived," I replied honestly.

"Did you put in a good word for me?"

I struggled to maintain that honesty. "I did mention you."

"What did you say?"

"He knows you're interested."

"Do you think he's going to ask me out?" she asked breathlessly.

"I can't say. We didn't discuss it for long, most of the time I was focused on working."

"So you figured out why he asked you there?"

"Not quite. I was confused the entire night. Reed doesn't really share information."

"You are so lucky," she gushed.

In an attempt to change the subject, I said, "You know my neighbor, the mechanic? Well I'm seeing him tomorrow."

"He asked you out?"

"Um, no, it's not... like... a date. I'm cleaning his kitchen."

"WHAT!" Francesca shrieked.

"We have an arrangement," I said defensively. "He cleaned my gutters out this morning."

"That had better be code for something sexual."

"Ew," I said somewhat repulsed. "It's not."

"Adelaide," Francesca said, matching my disgust. "Men appreciate what they work for."

"I've heard this speech before."

"Alright then, let me phrase this differently. Do you know why I like men to buy me things?"

"Is this a trick question?"

She ignored that. "I like men to buy me things because it defines our relationship. A man doesn't buy a woman something expensive unless he's really interested. So my question is, did the mechanic clean your gutters as a romantic gesture, or because he felt a neighborly obligation?"

"Neighborly obligation?" I echoed.

"I just don't want you to get your hopes up, Adelaide. You may be misinterpreting things."

"Francesca, our ideas concerning relationships are bound to differ," I excused. "We aren't looking for the same things."

"It's not about our views so much as experience. And how much do you really have?"

Feeling like total shit, I said, "Someone's just pulled up, I've got to go." I hung up before she could protest.

I would have liked to say that Francesca didn't know the first thing about a real relationship. But I couldn't use that as an excuse because, well, neither did I. Lucas was the first man to catch my eye since the accident. I wanted to think the attraction was mutual, but I couldn't say that either. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought Francesca had a point. Unfortunately that wasn't the only thing I found troubling about the phone call.

I was finding it harder not to lie to Francesca. Even the truths I told felt like lies. I blamed Reed Wallace, totally and completely. Before he came around my empathy wasn't an issue. Francesca knew I had a few fits, we just didn't talk about it. But now the empathy was more of a secret, and I was actively keeping it from her. And if that wasn't bad enough, Reed was ruining the rest. Francesca was becoming equal parts obsession and jealousy.

Maybe I should just tell her. I imagined multiple scenarios, different wording, but I could never picture her reaction, and therefore remained reluctant.

Brooding didn't help my mood any, so I went looking for Ben, a suitable diversion. I guessed right, he hadn't left yet. I found him puttering around the picnic table.

He hadn't seen me approaching. I watched as he took aim and threw. The sparrow hopped forward, barely avoiding the hit.

"What are you doing?"

Leaning back to look at me, he said, "What's it look like? I'm feeding the birds."

"It looks more like a game of darts. And what's this?" I grabbed the box from his hands.

"Bread crumbs."

"Croutons!"

He snatched the box back, rooting around inside. I remained silent as he went through the process once more, taking aim before he pitched. This time he doinked the little creature right in the head. It fluttered its wings, but stayed grounded just long enough to seize its treat.

"Oh sheesh," I muttered.

"What's got you so uptight?" Ben asked, before shoving a few croutons in his mouth.

I shrugged, noticing his melancholia was gone. He was feeling slightly amused at the moment, no doubt at the bird's expense. "I guess I'm having boy problems," I said lamely.

He munched a few more, dusting off his shirt. "I didn't think you were the type."

"Neither did I." He offered me the box and I ate a few before halfheartedly throwing some at—I mean to—the few birds that had gathered. "What's got you..." I stumbled over the words. "...nearly cheerful?"

He scowled at the personal question, but wasn't angry. It was his turn to shrug. "I've been doing old people things. It started out as a joke, I guess, but I've managed to entertain myself. Today I'm feeding the birds bread crumbs—"

"Croutons," I cut in to correct.

"—tomorrow, hell, who knows, maybe I'll play bingo."

"Or chess in the park," I suggested.

"Nah, I never learned how to play."

"Me neither, way too hard."

I stayed out under the big oak with Ben for a while. It was nice. I was feeling slightly better by the time I went back to the office.

Ben had been living in the past. All it took was the decision to move forward and already he was feeling better. When would I do the same? When would I give up hiding? When would I give up merely surviving and really start to live?

### * * *

Stephen breezed into the office while I was sorting through the mail. "How was the party?" he asked, plunking his backpack down behind the counter.

The ghost filtered through the door, a murky mass come to hover. It was the first time I'd seen him since the torture incident, and if we'd been alone, I would have thanked him. I couldn't remember ever being this grateful to a person, let alone a dead one.

"So how was it?" Stephen repeated, assuming I hadn't heard.

"The food was good." He was feeling unsettled, so I didn't beat around the bush. "What's wrong?"

He sighed in relief. Apparently whatever it was, he wanted to talk about it. "It's about the money Mr. Wallace gave me."

"Yeah, what about it?"

"I don't feel good taking it. I mean, just because he's rich doesn't mean I should take advantage. I mean, all I did was cover a few hours. I stay late most nights anyway. It was—"

"Stephen," I cut in, unwilling to hear any more of his moralizing babble. "Mr. Wallace loses more money while sneezing than what he gave you last night."

"That doesn't make sense."

I huffed. "Whatever, it doesn't matter anyway. My point is, it's all Reed's fault."

He cocked his head, simultaneously sliding his glasses back into place. "How do you figure?"

"You didn't take advantage. I did. I was in the position to take advantage because I had something Reed wanted and was willing to pay for. And do you know who put me in that position?"

"Mr. Wallace?"

"Mr. Wallace," I agreed. "So you see, he only has himself to blame. Not that he does, because as you've said, he's rich and has no doubt already forgotten about the measly three hundred dollars."

Stephen stopped feeling guilty.

I threw the keys at him. "Now go away."

He did.

The ghost drifted over, seeping behind the counter. He wasn't his usual light mist or fluffy cloud; today he was like a moving shadow. I didn't know what to think about it, but since his emotions were normal I didn't worry.

He came to settle behind me, giving the impression that he was peeping over my shoulder. I squirmed a bit and finally spit it out. "Thank you," I all but yelled.

I knew he couldn't answer, but I waited for a response all the same, and when it didn't come I went back to sorting through the mail. I did my best to ignore his hovering, but my gratitude was beginning to wear thin and feel heavy like a burden.

I flipped over a piece of junk mail and nearly jumped out of my chair when the ghost went wild. His shape began to shake and twitch, like a cloak being blown in the wind. His emotions were all over the place. I didn't bother trying to sift through, I knew enough. He had a sense of urgency about him. He wanted to show me something.

His shadow came to linger over my desk, boiling and churning. I waved my hand through him the way a nonsmoker tries to beat back a cigarette's waft. "Calm down, you're making me feel crazy." He moved aside, allowing me to pick up the local ad. "This?" I asked, and his emotions confirmed it. It was an ad for Singh's Dry Cleaning. "What do a ghost and a dry cleaner have in common?" I wasn't smart enough to deliver the punch line.

### Chapter 18

Francesca's doubts became my own. Had I misinterpreted Lucas' motive, taking charity for interest? Maybe I'd been too forward. Lucas probably thought I was too forward. Shit... I'd just have to kill myself.

My thoughts continued to move in nonsensical circles. I became aware that I was obsessing like Francesca, except I didn't have some charming superpower to conveniently blame it on. Perhaps I was just compensating for all those teenage years I'd missed. I was beginning to understand the term _teen angst_ , it was wonderfully terrible.

I was still adult enough to be properly ashamed of my crush, though it didn't make much of a difference. I continued reliving every word he spoke, searching for a hidden meaning. Such as his brusque goodbyes, which obviously meant he didn't want me to know just how much he'd miss me.

By the time morning rolled around I'd come full circle, deciding it was time to end my foolishness. It was simple really. I needed to ascertain his feelings, and for that I needed to be a bit more forward.

Lucas answered the door wearing grease stained jeans and a raggedy brown T-shirt. He pushed the door open, stepping back to usher me inside. I almost flaked, but I knew I had to do this before I was all gross and sweaty from cleaning.

With my heart drumming furiously inside my chest, I stepped inside the house... and kissed Lucas. He was so tall I had to lean upward, missing his mouth at first and then abruptly clicking our teeth together. I had little experience, but even so I knew the whole thing was a mess. I pulled away, turning to avoid his gaze.

I swear five minutes must have passed while neither one of us moved nor spoke.

Finally I cleared my throat. "You should probably move into a different room while I clean." I began to organize my supplies, unloading them onto the counter.

"Why?" he asked.

I purposely misunderstood. "Because you'll be in the way."

"You kissed me."

"NO," and then less defensively, "I tripped."

I heard the back door close and prayed he was leaving the kitchen. The whisper of his bare feet padding across the linoleum made my stomach feel queasy. The sound disappeared down the hallway. He'd gone.

I'd never cleaned anything so fast in my entire life. In less than an hour I was driving a mop across the floor, finishing the home stretch. I gathered my supplies and bolted for the door, nearly sprinting for the fence.

Shit... I'd just have to kill myself.

### * * *

I was a bit hostile at work, growling my way through the day shift. Stephen and Ben steered clear, but the customers weren't smart enough to follow suit.

A woman of late years, not quite old but past the middle age mark, came in needing a room. I tried to go through the check-in process quiet but civil. She made it difficult.

Her hair, that strange combination of light brown and gray, was worn in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her clothes were conservative, and maybe a bit prim. Prim if you considered a turtleneck worn in the Georgia heat prim. I did. But all and all I thought she would act like she looked—a school teacher. If only.

Her entrance was strange, setting off red flags and warning bells. She strode in, a large purse hanging from the crook of her elbow, and stopped at the counter to stare at me in silence.

I waited for her to speak, but all she did was look at me from head to toe, memorizing my outline. Her feelings were edged with a cruel detachment that worried me. Finally I said, "Can I help you?"

As if the spell was broken she looked away, taking in the office decor. "Unfortunately you can," she muttered. Turning her attention back to me, she said more loudly, "I need a room."

"Just one night?"

"Three nights." She began to click her nails on the countertop, a passive-aggressive pace. "I assume the rooms are cleaned daily?"

I nodded.

"Thank god for small miracles," she mumbled to herself.

"There's no need to thank anyone. Cleaning the rooms daily is a standard practice for even motels." I slid a paper across the counter. "Sign there."

She scribbled her signature with a furious flourish. "I doubt management would be pleased to hear of your attitude."

I handed her the key. "The owner's outside under the big oak, feel free to make your complaints."

"I think I will." She grabbed her receipt, took up her bag, and left, striding through the door just as stiff and bitchy as she'd entered it.

I sincerely hoped she would speak with Ben. He'd tell her where to shove it.

A few hours later Arnie pushed through the door, Renee skipping in on his arm. They used to be subtle, meeting at the room. But now there wasn't anyone left to care because everyone already knew.

They nuzzled at each other, Renee giggling while I inwardly gagged. I slid the room key across the counter hoping Renee would take it. She did, giving Arnie a flirtatious smile filled with silent promise before flouncing off to prepare for their tryst. Thank goodness she'd gone. I would have done anything to separate them. Their emotions were wonky.

Arnie scowled. "Why you always gotta be such a bitch about things, Adelaide?"

"What? You're mad I gave her the room key?"

"No, it's not the key." He struggled to figure out what was wrong with me. "You could be nicer's all."

"So you're saying it wasn't nice of me to offer Renee the room key?"

"No, it's not the key!" He threw up his arms in frustration. "You're doing in now, being... difficult. You're always difficult!"

I ignored him. "Sign there." Scrawling like a second-grader, I watched him finish his chicken-scratch signature. "Be out on time or I'm charging you for a second night. No more warnings." I flicked the receipt at him.

His hairy knuckles snatched it up. "You know, Adelaide," he said, lifting the receipt to get my attention. "Maybe you wouldn't be so uptight if you got laid once in a while."

Reed Wallace chose that moment to turn up, stepping inside the office just in time to hear Arnie's parting shot.

### Chapter 19

I hated to let Arnie have the last word, but it felt wrong to shout an insult at his back.

"An adoring fan?" Reed asked in that judgy, sarcastic voice only the rich could carry.

My ire found a new target. "What do you want?" I snarled.

"I'd assumed it was the stressful circumstances that made you testy—"

"It wasn't."

"—when we parted. So I'll disregard your hasty comments."

"I meant the part about not speaking to me again."

He made his way to the counter, strolling slowly. I hardly noticed how good-looking he was—progress. "Impossible that. You see, you haven't finished the job I hired you for."

"Blackmailed," I corrected. "And I went to your stupid party."

"Stupid? You seemed to enjoy the food well enough."

I turned the conversation, charting the course I was interested in. "What did you ever do about that guy that tried to kill me?"

"I've taken care of it."

"So you killed him then?" I asked hopefully.

He was honestly surprised by the suggestion. "Of course not!" He looked at me askance. "You're a blood thirsty one, aren't you?"

"No. I don't want him to die. I'd just feel better if he was dead."

"Why are you worrying? I said I took care of it." He twirled a pen and waited for me to answer. He found me curiouser and curiouser, or whatever.

"I don't trust you, so your word means nothing to me. And why should I help you? You almost got me killed!"

"You're going to help me because I'm blackmailing you. Any payment you receive is just an act of goodwill, an exercise in building trust. And don't be dramatic. It was torture, not death." He smiled, feeling playful.

I was not. "You can't buy trust, and you can't blackmail me into helping you either. That man would have killed me. I'm totally clueless and in way over my head. I'd rather confront my family at this point than get any more tangled in your web of... whatever it is that you're into."

He was frustrated, or maybe it was me.

Reed took a step back as if accepting defeat. "If I tell you what's going on will you acquiesce?"

"I don't know about that. But maybe I'll help you. Maybe."

He gestured at the space around him. "This isn't the place for such a conversation. Come to my home when your shift ends tomorrow."

I didn't mean to, but I made a face. "Can't we meet somewhere neutral? Like McDonalds?"

He was offended. "I can assure you that I'll be the perfect host. And there is someone I'd like you to meet."

"Fine."

He handed me a Wallace Enterprise business card, his home address penned on the back. Reed had known all along how the conversation would end. The thought made my teeth grind.

### * * *

I pulled my Chevette up to the curb and stared at Singh's Dry Cleaning. It was a dinky white box with big glass windows. I must have driven past it a thousand times and never noticed. The place was closed, though the neon lighting and the abundance of streetlamps had the place glowing.

It was the perfect spot for loitering, and that was exactly what the group of three out front was doing. They'd watched me pull up. I wasn't really surprised. I knew it wasn't my stunning good looks that had their attention, but my car.

The Chevette made funny noises while it was running, and sometimes when it was not. The passenger door was a vibrant lime color, the back panels hunter green, and the rest was done in a startling shade of turquoise. Did I mention it was from the eighties? Oh, and I mustn't forget that the hood and trunk were held shut by hooked bungee cords. The car had cost less than my perfume bottle collection.

The punks out front shifted from foot to foot, waiting to see what I'd do. I turned to the ghost in my passenger seat, waiting to see what he'd do.

I'd tracked him down earlier. He'd been drifting around the cleaning cart like a gloomy smog. But he'd cheered considerably when I told him to meet me later, admitting that I would be sleuthing on his behalf. So there I was, parked at Singh's with no idea why.

The ghost wafted apart, rising to the roof and drifting through it. I watched as he swirled across the road like a puff of car exhaust, disappearing into the dark. I cursed a seamless stream of obscenities as I hauled myself out of the bucket seat. Damn ghost had gone the wrong way.

The loitering group of misfits slunk in close while I was preoccupied. I recognized the thrill. I always felt it before talking to Lucas, so I knew what was coming even before the little weasel thought up his idea of a sexy line.

The skinny one said, "Pretty girl like you shouldn't be out in the dark. There's a murderer on the loose, didn't you hear?"

I eyed the entourage in disapproval. When I was a teen, groups like this had something that bound them together, a hobby, like skateboarding or Hacky sack. The only thing this bunch had in common was baggy clothes they used to mask their lack of masculinity.

"Yeah, I know him."

They guffawed, thinking I'd made a great joke.

"You're funny Red," said skinny.

"Friends with a murderer? You don't look like the stabbing type," the tallest one pointed out.

I stuffed my hand into my purse, lifting it so it was poised horizontally at arm's-length. "You're right. I'm more into guns than knives. Do you know why they always cover the muzzle with a pillow in the movies?" I asked with inapt steadiness. Their laughter died off. They wanted to assume I was joking, but their smiles were forced, betraying their discomfort. "It muffles the sound." They shared uneasy glances. "What's across the street?" I asked them, waving my hairbrush in that direction.

They stared at the bottom of my purse, waiting for a hole to pop open and a bullet to come out. They were hoping it was a joke, which was an embarrassment to their pride.

I waved my hairbrush more aggressively, the purse wagging under the closest one's nose. "What's across the street?" I pressed. "Is it a business, a home, what?" I could see lights, but they were somewhat covered by a barrage of shadows I took to be trees. Sleuth be damned, I wasn't about to go ghost hunting in the dark to find out.

The talkative skinny kid began to mumble, nervous excitement making his voice rise two octaves. "It's an apartment complex. They have a sign, but it doesn't light up at night. The place is cheap and run-down."

"The name?"

"Wildwood Apartments."

Since I knew it was illogical for me to be nervous, I was assured of their feelings, and they were pretty sure that I had a gun. I lowered my pretend weapon, the purse sliding down my arm. They never saw the brush handle that was poking out, too busy running away. I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. I shouldn't enjoy fucking with people so much.

### * * *

My sleuthing detour brought me home a bit later than usual. Divot Drive was pitch black, hardly any neighbors to blink out the stars with ambient light. Frogs croaked, competing with the hum of numerous bugs. The temperature had cooled, taking the edge off the warming climate. It was perfect.

I walked slowly to my door, trying to erase the tension left by the buildup of emotions. Some days were worse than others. Today had been terrible, but not just because of the empathy, but because of Lucas. I'd really ruined things. Maybe if I hadn't pushed, if I'd just let things happen naturally...

I continued to doubt myself right up to the front door, right up to the door and my present. The rectangular cardboard box was left leaning on the stoop. The cover was a picture, bright and colorful even in the dim porch light. It was a puzzle, and when it was finished it would be a flower garden.

Lucas had left me a puzzle.

Lucas had given me flowers.

### Chapter 20

I stared at the words on the page. I must have read them three times already, but they still didn't make any sense. I couldn't focus. I was distracted, distracted in a good way.

Giving up, I tossed my dog-eared novel onto the picnic table. Ben had long since gone, probably off playing bridge somewhere. I was soaking in the mild and pleasant weather while it lasted.

My mind drifted to thoughts of Lucas like a moth to the flame. I'd wanted to see him after finding the puzzle, and almost walked over. But something had stopped me... probably the memory of my previous humiliation. So I'd stayed away, though I wasn't playing it cool or anything. I didn't even know how to do that.

But the puzzle had left me feeling hopeful. That morning I woke up with a smile. Of course that may have had something to do with the little ghost waiting at the end of my bed, wiggling its wispy butt back and forth. I hadn't seen it since Lucas pulled up the bone. I'd made the assumption that I'd finished its unfinished business and Fido was halfway back through the veil or whatever. Obviously I was wrong.

Surprisingly I didn't mind the dog being around. It was kind of the perfect pet. I didn't have to worry about feeding it, or taking it out. It never got under foot to trip me. And it was always happy, but subtly, so as not to get annoying. I swear the thing worked better than Prozac.

Earlier, before work, I had gone shopping in Brunswick for groceries and such. I'd passed the pet aisle and backtracked. I honestly don't know what possessed me to buy the dog bed... or the chew toy. I was in danger of becoming one of those obsessed pet owners, but for a dead dog that had belonged to someone else.

I also went searching for a Ouija board while shopping, which was why I'd made the trip to Brunswick. I didn't think they'd sell spirit boards at the local supermarket.

After I had unloaded my groceries I'd gone back out. An errand left unfinished, I drove to Wildwood Apartments intending to speak with a super. That had been the extent of my plan.

The place was old, as old as Sterling's but not nearly as maintained. The ramshackle hunk sat off the street, a dirt path the illustrious entrance.

The apartment's façade had the misfortune of resembling a butt. An indentation in the grimy flesh-toned siding split the building in half, with the door nestled between. I grimaced and went in.

I ignored the stairwell that dominated the front entrance, skirting around to walk the dim hallway behind it. I looked for any indication of management, some marked mailboxes, something, anything? Nothing.

Two doors faced off at the end of the hallway. I glanced between them before choosing the one on the left. My knocking roused a tousled looking twenty-something, and from the laughter and joking I heard through the paper-thin walls, he had roommates. "Yeah," he asked expectantly.

"Does a superintendent live in the building?"

"Superintendent? Like someone that fixes things?" He shook his head. "No, we don't have one of those. But Heather manages things. She takes our rent and stuff."

"Which apartment does Heather live in?"

He gestured to the door behind me.

"Thanks," I said, turning to knock. I glanced back. "You can shut your door now, we're finished talking."

He did, though I was sure he could hear the entire conversation that ensued.

Heather answered. A tear-stained toddler waddled up before I got a word out and started bawling. Heather hauled the little girl up, propping her on a cocked hip. "Can I help you?"

I was in the middle of an anxiety attack, and so was the emotional grenade staring at me with watery eyes. I tried to be normal. "You're the manager," I stated like a moron. Shaking off the distress, I tried again. "Have you lived here long?"

She began to shift from foot to foot, trying to jiggle the squalling child into silence. "A couple years, why? You lookin' for an apartment?"

"No..." I couldn't think of a polished way to say it, so I didn't try. "Did someone ever die here? A man, thirtyish and alright looking... that ring any bells?"

"No," she said with certainty. "No tenant ever passed on while I was living here." The child was calming, not calm, but calming.

Able to think more clearly, I asked, "Are there any tenants who've lived here for a while?"

"No, it's a high turnover kind of place. Most of the tenants stay here temporarily just before moving to a new house or during a divorce," she explained. "I've been around longest."

I thanked Heather and left. The trip had been useless, a dead end. What had I expected? Just because the ghost had floated off in the apartment's general direction didn't mean anything. He'd been excited about Singh's too, and that hadn't panned out either.

I knew for certain he was trying to tell me something, but that something remained unclear. Not for long, we had a date with the Ouija board. I'd tell him as soon as he wafted out of hiding. He was just like Ben, or like Ben used to be a week ago, wandering around feeling sorry for himself.

Stephen broke my reverie. "Hey, Adelaide," he said, dropping his backpack next to the table before folding his lanky frame onto the picnic bench.

"How was school?"

He pushed the mousy colored curls away from his eyes. "End of the year, teachers are wrapping up with a lot of tests."

"That blows."

He shrugged. "Only if you didn't study."

I made a noise of agreement and took the opportunity to ask, "Do you know three guys about your age that hang out at the dry cleaners?" I gave him their descriptions the best I could remember.

Stephen didn't have to think about it. "Yeah, Tony, Ted, and Greg, they're in my grade."

"They're not friends of yours, are they?"

"No, more like... passing acquaintances." His eyes narrowed as he grew suspicious. "Why, what'd you do?"

"It was nothing," I said, waving away the topic. He didn't believe me. "Really," I repeated, "it was nothing." I told him the entire story, but left the ghost part out.

"So you led them to believe you were friends with a murderer and had a gun pointed at their heads?"

"Stephen, don't be ridiculous. You can't point a gun at more than one target. And who mentioned heads? Now you're just exaggerating."

"Honestly, Adelaide, I don't know why you do the things you do."

I didn't enjoy being lectured by an overly mature teenager. I retorted in my usual fashion. Ordering, "Go clean something."

### * * *

Missy swished in a few minutes before nine. She wore a wispy black dress that sat stark against her skin. We were both pale, but pale wasn't her natural skin tone. I imagined her at the beach, slathering on sunscreen to maintain her image.

"Hello, Adelaide." She said it nice enough, but I knew better. Feeling sour inside, I opened the bottom desk drawer, removing my bag and stuffing my paperback inside. I stayed only long enough to pass along the daily updates. We both managed our pretended civility.

Stepping outside the office I took a deep breath, waiting for the negativity to dissipate. I hated being an empath. Every task became exhausting. The resentment sat like a lump; it didn't fit. I stepped off the curb, walking across the lot toward my car. The distance ate away my bitterness, leaving me feeling like an empty cup.

### Chapter 21

Raindrop Road was where all the rich people lived. Their mansions lined the beach, a would-be perfect location if not for the tip of Sea Island which obscured the view. It was only a stretch of sand that far south, so they probably didn't mind.

I headed northeast, wondering if maybe I should have printed directions off at work. I had very little experience with the fancier side of the island. I coasted along in the dark, squinting for house numbers. Of course rich people were too classy for clearly marked mailboxes.

Reed lived at fifty-five Raindrop Road. I found not only the gate but the gatehouse, equipped with a security guard and all. He wore a uniform, white short-sleeve dress shirt and black slacks. I told him my name and he didn't seem surprised. Reed had invited me; I was expected. But the prick still made me fish out my license, not an ID, but my license, as if he was a cop. And after a ridiculously thorough inspection he handed it back, giving me directions (like I'd never traveled up a driveway) and telling me where to park.

It was dark, so I didn't get the best look at Reed's house, but I still got an eyeful. It was a three story massive rectangle of gray stone lit from the outside and yet shadowed by the age old oaks that hugged each corner. It was... monumental.

Disregarding the instruction to drive around the side, I parked out front instead, wanting to use the main entrance. The door was imposing, standing a few feet taller than most. I searched for a doorbell, or even a knocker, finding only an old-fashioned hand pull.

A tall, solid woman answered the door, face flowing with little definition into the sturdy column of her neck. Her hair was thinning, a situation made more obvious by the extremely bright, and completely unnatural, red hair she sported. She wore a maid's outfit—not the kind Francesca had—a real maid's outfit.

"I'm here to see Mr. Wallace."

She looked me up and down with a dour expression and no nonsense attitude. "Yes, he's expecting you. Come in."

It was a seasonal vacation home, but it lacked all things cozy. Reed had spared no expense outfitting the place. With dark polished wood and glossy marble floors, it had an old English Regency feel. For example, there was even a library.

Reed was waiting for me there, behind an impressive desk made of ebony with a light burl inlay. His house dripped money, and yet it lacked in style, no, not style, but personality. It was as devoid of character as Lucas' kitchen had been, maybe more so.

He hadn't noted my entrance, and was absently swirling his crystal glass, amber liquid swirling inside. My disapproving guide cleared her throat. "Ms. Graves to see you." With that, she whisked herself away.

As he stood, he pushed the strewn papers together into a rough pile. "Hello, Adelaide," he smiled.

I glanced at the towering shelves, each row carrying an arrangement of books. I couldn't tell where the room ended. "So you live in a castle," I said casually. He gestured for me to sit across from him, which would put me in the hot seat just like an interviewee. I ignored the chair, choosing to wander around the room instead. "And you keep servants."

"I assume you're referring to Marta, my housekeeper." He came out from around the desk, hooking a leg over the corner to sit on the edge and watch me.

I forewent my snarky reply, getting straight to the point. "So tell me what the hell is going on."

"I think the less you know the safer you'll be."

"I don't have a security crew watching my house, you're right, but I'll take my chances."

He wasn't happy, but I doubted it had anything to do with my safety. Reed Wallace was an information hog. He sighed. "I assume you've realized that Theodore Dunn was killed by Beagban."

"Beagban?"

"The man that kidnapped us," he explained.

I guess Gap-tooth had a real name. It was stupid. I nodded for him to continue.

"Beagban is acting on orders, Larson Hurst's orders. Beagban is a pawn really, the muscle."

"Who is Larson Hurst?"

"He's an old acquaintance of mine. Once a friend, but now a rival."

"Rival?" I asked in disbelief. "He had your buddy Theodore Dunn murdered. The two of you must be very competitive," I said sarcastically.

"Lars no longer has a conscience, and if he did he wouldn't listen to it. The stakes are too high."

"That guy Beagban mentioned a book?" I prompted.

Reed's emotions spiked, though he didn't so much as twitch. "Allegedly Anastas Demidov could contact those from another realm."

My heart stopped. "Ghosts?"

"No, demons."

I was stunned speechless.

"Anastas kept a record of his findings, a demon diary so to speak."

"Allegedly," I reminded him.

"Allegedly, yes, there was no witness to his demon encounters. In fact, no one even knew of his gift. The book came to light after his death. The family found it while sorting through his things and word spread."

"So you and Lars went racing after it?"

"No, I don't believe Lars knew. Typically he'd have minimal interest in such things."

"So why is he murdering for it now?"

"Theodore heard about the book. He was deeply interested in history, especially relics of the occult, and had a network of gifted acquaintances.

"The journal was being held by Anastas' niece in Canada. She'd had offers on it, and though she discounted it as superstitious nonsense, she was willing to sell. I provided Theodore with the money to bid and a private jet.

"I spoke with him just once after he procured the book. He'd briefly read through and found it to be genuine. Anastas really had the gift. Theo also found the information highly dangerous.

"I made immediate arrangements for him to return to the States, thinking St. Simons would be a nice quiet place for him to study the book more closely in relative safety."

I was overwhelmed by his guilt. He blamed himself for Theodore's death.

"As you know, he never made it here. Beagban was waiting on the island."

"So that's why you want me to search for a guilty person," I said as it dawned on me. "You think someone from your company told Lars what you were up to."

"I made all of Theo's flight arrangements from my New York office. No one I met by appointment ever entered unsupervised. Only the senior members would have had access to waltz in unaccompanied."

"Or the cleaning crew, or your secretary, or any other number of people. Maybe Theodore talked to someone," I suggested.

"No, I've already investigated those options. I'm certain it was someone from my company. Lars is paying one of my employees to pass along important information, I've suspected it for some time."

I believed him. Having overheard a conversation at the dinner party between this Beagban character and a cohort, it seemed logical to suspect a Wallace Enterprise employee. "Okay, so Lars finds out about the book, knows it's potentially dangerous, and that you want it. Naturally he sends in the muscle to kill your friend and steal the book. But that doesn't make sense," I said, shaking my head as I paced. "Beagban kidnapped us, willing to torture the book's location from you."

"It would appear the book is missing."

"Missing?" I echoed.

"Beagban took Theodore's briefcase. It was empty. He went back to search for the journal, thinking Theo stashed it before he died, but it wasn't there."

"How do you know all that?"

"Lars told me."

"What, did you just call him up and have a chat over the phone?" I mocked.

"It was an unpleasant necessity. I needed to ensure that Beagban wouldn't continue to pull rogue stunts."

"Rogue stunts, as in killing off another friend?" I said dryly.

"No, Lars told him to kill Theo. I was referring to the kidnapping," Reed explained.

"So Lars, your rival, just agreed to put Beagban on a leash? That seems unlikely."

I could feel him struggling to explain properly. "Having Beagban kidnap me—"

"—us," I corrected.

"—was..."

"Sloppy," I supplied.

"...embarrassing. To have your employee calling the shots while you have no clue what's going on is embarrassing. It made Lars look a fool. If for no other reason than his own reputation, he won't let Beagban step out of line again."

"That's not much comfort. What happens when Lars decides it's in his best interest to have one of us offed? It's not like he had to have Theodore killed. Beagban could have stolen the briefcase without going stab-happy."

I instantly regretted the callous remark, feeling Reed's guilt and sadness, but he never let it show. "No one is standing between him and the book, so no one is in immediate danger. Lars and I are both aware the book is missing, it's now a matter of who will find it first."

"You told Lars you didn't have it, and he believed you?" I asked incredulously.

"If I had the book I wouldn't be on the island."

"So what now?" I asked. "Any leads?"

"None whatsoever. But in the meantime I want you to attend retreat functions searching for the leak."

I stopped pacing to ask, "What's Lars up to? I can't imagine he's twiddling his thumbs while you're poking around St. Simons."

"He boasted about sending someone who could sense the book."

"Is it true?"

"Lars doesn't give idle threats."

"I thought you said he was boasting."

Reed stood. "The two are not mutually exclusive."

### Chapter 22

Aleuromancy, as I soon found out, was the use of flour as a means of divination. Reed took me to the kitchen, a large space tucked away on the ground floor. That was where I met Betsy Cross, his cook.

Short and thin with graying hair, Betsy created the illusion of fragility. Watching her haul an iron skillet with one hand while tenderizing a lump of meat with the other somewhat dispelled the image. She moved from counter to counter, picking up some things and discarding others, looking like a bird, quick and decisive.

"This must be the empath you spoke of," she said without looking at me. "Have a seat, have a seat."

Reed sauntered to the center island, parking himself on a barstool. Betsy ignored him, maybe the only woman alive who could. Even I, somewhat immune to the charm, couldn't help but appreciate his charisma.

The allure had nothing to do with his clothing, though I liked the sentiment. He'd left his jacket and tie behind in the library, unbuttoning the collar of his starched white and rolling the sleeves up past his elbow. Even undone he was the perfect picture, just your average executive enjoying some downtime.

I could see his muscles flex beneath the fine cloth of his shirt. He bent forward to pick over a cheese platter Betsy had provided, and I watched in fascination. But the allure wasn't his body, either. It was his attitude.

Reed Wallace moved like an emperor of old, not just confident in his superiority, but certain, as if destined by the powers that be to rule over us lesser folk. What was it he knew, what made him so sure about... well... everything?

He spared me a glance over his shoulder, brows knitting before a smile spread. His smug amusement rocked me into reality where I found myself standing in the doorway, gaping like a fool. I'd been watching Reed eat cheese, wondering if anyone had ever looked so concise and fluid while consuming finger food.

Reed nudged the platter in my direction as I sank onto a stool. I ignored it, unwilling to even look in his direction.

It was as if the charm was a separate being, sentient and scheming. It waited until I was comfortable, and after having an entire conversation with Reed without so much as a spark, it struck, spelling me into a stupor.

Reed broke the silence, saying, "Betsy practices aleuromancy. I thought you might like to meet someone capable of divining the future."

I already had. Apparently Reed didn't know about Nancy Bristow. Good to know, and somewhat comforting. I often worried just how much Reed knew about me.

Betsy set down a loaf of bread. It was straight from the oven. "Did you bake my fortune inside?" I asked.

"Certainly not," she said, producing a variety of jams and butter. "This is for eating."

"Oh."

Reed was amused. I could easily imagine him swirling his wine in a lackadaisical manner while he laughed at me. His emotions were at odds with Betsy, whose brisk movements wafted an steely intent as she went about the kitchen, focused and alert on her work. But their feelings were soft, easily ignored, just a background whisper barely heard over my own ambivalence.

"It's not an unreasonable guess," Betsy assured. "The Greeks often hid paper fortunes in dough. And of course now we have the fortune cookie, though they hardly ever have a prediction inside. Useless advice more often than not."

"So the practice didn't start in China?"

"No," she said, pulling a ceramic bowl from the top shelf. "Aleuron is Greek for flour, and it was believed that Apollo presided over this particular form of divination."

"How do you do it?" I asked with unaffected interest.

Betsy carried the bowl under her arm and propped on one hip. It looked Dutch-Amish, the foreign lettering circled around an outmoded couple. She absently tossed handfuls of flour inside while speaking. "There are different ways, some more dramatic than others. For example, I could sprinkle the flour over a sacrificial victim."

"Lucky for you, Betsy doesn't take herself that seriously," Reed joked.

"I could throw the flour onto a fire," Betsy continued, "or even the floor."

"Is that how you do it?"

"Too messy," Betsy answered. "Marta hates trying to sweep under the stoves." I watched her lower the bowl under a facet, filling it with water. "I'm just going to rinse the flour out and look for a pattern in the residue." And she did just that.

The air became thick with anticipation as we waited for Betsy to forecast the future. She moved away from the sink, turning the bowl toward the light.

As her sense of discovery grew, so did her delight. Betsy Cross loved her gift and she was thrilled to use it. "I see..." Betsy squinted, lowering her nose until it touched the rim. Abruptly she lowered the bowl, turning to Reed. "She finds it," she said, nodding toward me. "She finds what you are searching for inside the turtle."

And just like that the air was muddied with confusion. Reed was silent and thoughtful, but I didn't know enough to be preoccupied. "Are you talking about the book?"

"I know even less than you," Betsy admitted. "Mr. Wallace asked me to do a casting with the both of you in mind—this is what I see. I don't know what book you speak of, but whatever he's looking for, you will find."

"Inside a turtle?" My tone implied that I found the idea improbable.

She shrugged.

Suddenly I was hungry. So while Reed turned reflective, I shoveled down some cheese and bread. Betsy returned to being busy, racing around the kitchen and fixing me a drink in the process.

"Did you become a cook because it was convenient to your gift?" I asked her.

"No, I always loved working in the kitchen. I spent a lot of time baking as a child. I grew up on a farm," she explained.

"Me too," though I hardly baked.

"Without my passion for food I may have never discovered my additional abilities, funny to think. But I doubt that happens often. The Universe is too smart for that."

"Is that what you believe? That the Universe has a personality, and it gifts us with extra abilities as it sees fit?" I didn't have a circumspect belief system, but if I did, a cosmic brain wouldn't be it.

"No, not as it sees fit, but as is needed." She responded with finality, and I supposed she did have a well thought out belief system.

### * * *

Reed was showing me to the door, though I suspected he was taking me the long way. We'd walked down a number of dimly lit hallways, or should I say corridors, with no end in sight. My suspicions that he was using the opportunity to waylay me were confirmed when he asked, "Are you still so against working for me?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation.

"Your gift is rare and extremely useful—"

"Not more useful than seeing the future in a cloud of flour," I cut in.

"The various forms of divination are gifted from birth, and while the gift is advantageous, it is not rare."

I stopped walking to clarify, "All diviners are born that way?"

He stopped too. "Betsy Cross and Tim Beckett are like any oracle, seer, clairvoyant, or mystic. Whatever the term, they were all born with the gift. It's the other gifts, such as your empathy or my charm that are rare, brought on by an incident from our past."

"And what unhappy circumstance made you so charming?" I said snidely, but was too curious to sound convincing.

His face was impenetrable, as if chiseled in stone, and his emotions only conveyed a distance. He didn't intend to talk about his past. Ever.

"I could teach you," he offered, gaze fixed to my face. "There is so much you don't know. I could explain it. I could search for another empath, someone who could help you cope, train you. I would find them for you."

"Find them for yourself, because this empath isn't interested."

Suddenly he was frustrated and half yelling in my face. "What? Is your useless job too important to give up? Or maybe you'll miss that overabundance of friends if you leave the island behind!"

Well I guess he knew enough to know I didn't have many friends. "Insulting me? Is that your idea of a convincing argument?"

He let out a deep breath, clenching the fists that rested on either side of my head. When had he pressed me against the wall? Radiating frustration, he answered, "No, it's not." He struggled to calm his breathing. "Typically I would never say such things, but you seem quite good at provoking me."

"Maybe it's another gift I never knew about."

All was quiet as I let the moments tick by, waiting while Reed calmed. I could feel his breath in my hair, on my cheek. The hallway seemed to have grown much darker, and again I felt like we were the last two people alive. If I moved forward just a tiny bit we would be touching. I leaned...

Somewhere faraway a housekeeper was clearing her throat. The aggravating and unwelcome sound drilled into my mind, driving off the enthralling stupor.

It was about that time that I began to give Reed a thorough thrashing.

Marta's heavy tread sounded as she barreled down the hallway in Reed's defense. He assured her everything was fine while stooping under the rhythmic pounding of my fist.

Feeling somewhat satisfied, I instructed Marta to take me to my car, but not before shrieking 'Pervert!' one more time.

### Chapter 23

The drive home was a blur, and if my car gave me trouble, I didn't notice. I was angry. I was angry at Reed's attitude, acting as though the charm was a harmless glamour. He let it wear me down, proceeding to take advantage of my soppy remains. He knew I wasn't interested! I'd made that abundantly clear. So why did he continue to press me?

I knew the answer: self-preservation. Reed pretended his gift was insubstantial for the same reason I avoided people. If I didn't, things would become unbearable.

What would it be like to know that everyone around you was duped? That you had no genuine friends? I didn't like thinking about it because I didn't like making excuses for Reed. He was a pervert. End of story.

Alright, technically nothing happened. I had Marta and her phlegm to thank for that, though I very much doubted she would say 'you're welcome.' I'd felt her accusatory stares, not to mention her beating disapproval, during the walk back to my car.

No point in thinking about any of that now. As I hopped the fence into Lucas' yard, it was easy to forget all about Reed and his hustling charm. It was late, probably nearing midnight, but that wouldn't deter me. I was dedicated. Dedicated was a good word because it implied a noble cause.

Alright, so pursuing Lucas at this hour wasn't exactly noble, but it was really brave. I adjusted the puzzle box, tucking it up under my armpit before knocking softly.

I was seized by doubts—obviously my common sense had kicked in. I couldn't help but wonder how I was going to explain myself to Lucas. Unfortunately he didn't allow me enough time to concoct a reasonable story, opening the door just then.

The TV imprinted the hallway walls with flashes of soft color, the noise of it a gentle hum from the living room. Good, he'd been awake then. "Did you get this for me?" I asked brazenly, waving the puzzle between us.

I could see very little of his face, the buzzing porch light offering up meager visibility, but I thought he looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I was out buying stuff. I saw it and thought..." His voice trailed off. Not a good sign. He was trying to downplay the gift, but didn't men usually crow about these things? Francesca's dates always did.

"I like it," I said, trying to pretend my voice hadn't cracked. "Do you want to...?" I gave the box a shake, hinting.

"What?" he asked blankly.

"Do you want to put it together?" I asked in exasperation. Clarifying, "With me."

"I've never done one be—"

"Good," I cut in. "Then compared to you I'll be really good at it." I stepped into the kitchen without having to push my way past. Lucas had opened the door as I moved forward, offering me access. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn't telling me to go away. I was beginning to suspect that he was just as clueless about these things as me. It was like a touch and go mating ritual, except more awkward.

Deciding the situation needed a leader, I asked, "Can I have an apple juice?"

He shut the back door, flipping on the kitchen switch. "I don't have juice."

"Yes you do, it's in the fridge door. I found it while cleaning."

He opened the fridge, and after staring at the shelving for a moment, extracted a palm size juice box. I briefly considered grasping it clumsily so our fingers would touch, but decided against it, having not yet regressed to such a state of juvenility.

Lucas ushered me into the living room. His coffee table was big enough for a puzzle, but it was covered in oily gadgets that needed tinkering. So instead I dumped the puzzle out in front of the fireplace where the carpet had been replaced by tile. It was a nice flat surface, bigger than we'd need, plus it offered an unobstructed view of the TV screen.

I instructed Lucas to separate the edge pieces from the center ones. We worked in companionable silence. After a few minutes my knees went stiff, so I changed position. Lucas looked comfortable enough with his back to the wall and his legs sprawled out. As was his typical fashion, he wore a pair of cargo shorts and nothing else. It was a bit distracting, and I couldn't help but ask, "Are you always half-dressed when you have guests over?"

He paused, looking down at himself. "I can put on a shirt if you want," he offered. His forthright manner convinced me he hadn't even thought about his appearance. There was no pretension to him. He would never say one thing while doing another. He would never lie. I didn't know him at all, but I knew that for certain.

"No, don't bother. I don't really mind."

I continued to ask him questions, simple things. We talked about his shop in Brunswick and some of the people that worked there. I got the feeling he didn't want to talk about his family, though I wasn't guessing based on his emotion or expression. In that respect he was a blank slate, and it was impossible to read something that just wasn't there.

He asked me some questions in turn, about my job, my hobbies. He didn't pry, just gave me the opportunity to talk. I thought everything was going well. I was no longer nervous like a rabbit, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. So I nearly choked on my apple juice when he asked me why I'd run off after kissing him. Seriously, he asked just like that.

We each had a different approach when it came to puzzle making. Mine was trial and error, constantly fitting the pieces together until I made a match. Lucas was the opposite. He'd stare at the unfinished puzzle for minutes at a time before fitting together an entire section.

So he'd just finished the whole purple plant when he casually asked, "So why'd you run off after kissing me?"

As I said, I nearly choked on my apple juice. I stared at him wildly while wiping my mouth, wondering what to say. I wasn't above lying, though he obviously hadn't fallen for my 'I tripped onto your mouth' scenario. In the end I told the truth. "It's your fault!" I accused. "You're too tall! And you didn't lean down! What's worse than not leaning in when someone kisses you? Nothing! Nothing is worse than not leaning in when someone kisses you."

Yelling at the man you intended to woo was not something I would suggest, though Lucas handled it well. Really well, in fact, he apologized. "I'm sorry. I won't make the same mistake twice," he said in a low, rough voice.

I hardly heard him. My cheeks were flushed with the flames of mortification, my breathing fast and shallow. Throwing a fit in front of Lucas was... the worst. I stared at our semicomplete puzzle without really seeing it, unable to look at him. "I've got to go," I said a little too loudly.

"We'll finish it later," he replied.

I was halfway to the door, unable to answer. He caught up quickly, his hand on my shoulder, turning me around. "Always running off," he said. And then he was kissing me.

He leaned, his hands on my neck, my waist. The pit of my stomach shivered and I felt warm all over. I never knew just how intimate kissing was until that moment, the vulnerability.

I wasn't sure what was expected of me, so I just mirrored his movements, letting him lead. And when he pulled away, I found myself clutching his shoulders just like the women in my romance novels did.

"A definite improvement," I said, tugging my shirt down. It had risen up at some point, showcasing my waist. "I guess we'll be seeing more of each other," I said, before slipping out the door.

### * * *

I drove toward the village on the tip of the island, passing the Parlor and continuing south on Mallery Street to Neptune Park. I had to circle around a few times before a parking spot became available. Soon I'd have to give up my usual haunt all together. Summer was coming, just a hot, sticky breath away, bringing in the crowds and cramming the island full.

I usually followed the sidewalk that ran parallel with the shore, connecting Mallery and Beachview until it ended at the lighthouse, but not today. Today I was feeling ambitious. Pushing through a crowd didn't seem nearly as daunting as it usually did.

I wandered up the road, heading toward the general store for a snack. Two clerks behind the front counter were having a disagreement, though they tried to hide it, hissing in soft tones when my back was turned. I assumed they were married since they looked so comfortable arguing together.

I was torn between Starburst and Skittles, trying to make a worthwhile decision when I got mad, really mad. I wasn't going to get a better opportunity to hone my skills, so I settled in, covertly watching the couple with interest. There was no need for my stealth. As a simple disagreement escalated into a screaming match of epic proportion they forgot me entirely.

I tried to pin down the minor emotions. The man was impatient, no that could be the woman too, or even me. But indignant definitely belonged to the wife. They weren't arguing in English, but I could tell by her body language that she felt wronged. And when the husband started talking at her, I got a whiff of pride. But from the daggers look she gave, I thought it unlikely she was feeling proud to have married him.

They'd probably disagreed about something small. The husband saying he knew better with all the experience he had, hence the pride. I liked to imagine the wife rebutted with 'I know how much experience you have, I've been working next to you the entire time.' But what the hell did I know? I could be wrong about all of it. Emotions, body language, they could only tell you so much, and it was never enough.

Now it was time to test myself. That was the real reason I came to town each week. I grabbed a pack of Starburst and headed toward the register. My goal was to act normal under the onslaught of emotion, namely the frothing anger. I did better than the couple, that was for sure.

The argument broke off at my approach. The man rang up my purchase while pretending I didn't have a face. Sweat broke out on his bald pate and his fingers shook slightly. His wife stood back, staring at the back of his head, her lips pressed into a grim crinkled line. It was painfully apparent that they were both fuming. In contrast I had the steely discipline to act indifferent. Each week my control improved. This week was no different. I was in such a good mood over my success that on the way out I offered them a cheeky goodbye.

I'd accomplished enough this trip, it was time to go home and get ready for work. I fumbled to open the pack of Starburst, wending my way without paying much attention. So it came as something of a shock when I got snatched right off the sidewalk.

### Chapter 24

I guess it would be more accurate to say that I was preoccupied, not merely inattentive or careless. I was thinking of Lucas and obsessing over our kiss. He was a good kisser, an expert really. It didn't make sense. Why was he so awkward when it came to talking, but not with kissing? Logic would have it that he was a scoundrel, but I wasn't going to listen to logic. I felt it best not to worry about it.

Something I would worry about was how things hadn't gone as expected. It hadn't been like in the movies where two lovers embrace while an orchestra crescendos, cuing the couple to fall into a mindless passion. I'd felt the passion part, but my mind had never shut off. I'd been worrying about my breath, what he was thinking, his bare chest, and all while we were kissing! Appalling and totally unexpected, someone should really warn you that no matter how great a kiss, you can always multitask, finishing up your grocery list while touching tongues (though I swear I didn't do that). I was just saying it was possible was all.

Mostly I thought about my parting words. I told Lucas we'd be seeing more of each other. At the time I'd just meant, you know, I'll see you later. Upon further consideration I worried he might misinterpret my meaning, thinking it had been a sassy sexual innuendo, like I'd suggested getting naked. Shit. He probably thought I was a floozy. _Lucas thinks I'm a floozy._ That was what I'd been thinking just before I got snatched.

I had no warning.

A kidnapper should feel something before he did the deed, right? If anything he was calm. Calm just like the night he bashed me and Reed over the head.

His arm snagged around my chest, pinning my elbows to my waist. He walked backwards, dragging me into a smelly side road. I recognized the place. I sometimes parked there because no one would complain. There was no point. I'd only be blocking the dumpster and a few back doors. This alley was for foot traffic, and it didn't see much. No doubt the reason Beagban chose it, no witnesses to see me die. Of the dying part I was certain. In his other hand he held a knife.

A nine inch long butterfly knife, the blade slim as my pinky, rested just under my chin. I dropped the pack of Starburst as he pulled me further from sight. His deep harsh voice sounded from just behind my ear. "Do you know where we are?"

My thoughts were too frantic and frightened, I was unable to reply.

He turned me, pivoting so I could see down the alley. "Around that corner is where I killed a man," he rumbled in my ear. "Stabbed him to death," he whispered, the sound hoarse and grating.

I began to shake.

"Did you think you were safe?" he ground out, his voice choked with rage. "Did you think your boyfriend would stop me?"

I could only whimper. His arm had constricted around me, tightening with each moment that passed. I could barely breathe.

"I killed them, I killed them both! Did he tell you that?" he raged. His hands began to tremble, the knife nicking me softly as he lost control. "I took their guns, shot 'em with their own guns!" he bragged hysterically. "But not before I bashed in their faces with my fist."

That was when I noticed it, the reek of blood. Blood, the sticky substance that layered him like a second skin. His hands were stained, everything I saw was stained, even me.

The arm that held the knife was a sodden mess, wrapped in wads of cloth to stop the flow. He hadn't gone to the hospital after I put a blade in his bone, hadn't even cleaned it. The fresh stench of blood and sweat told me more than that he'd merely neglected tending his wounds. Beagban had killed, and it had been recently.

He shook me brusquely, unmindful of the knife scratching away at my throat. "I'm going to kill you both!" he promised.

I began to hope, filled with a comforting relief. I blinked my eyes open. They were warm and swollen, filled with tears. The ghost floated at the far end of the alley, coating the shadowed crossroads with a soft mist. He couldn't help me now, I knew. Was he trying to console me, ease me to the end?

"I'm going to kill you both!" Beagban shrieked. "You're dead! YOU ARE DEAD!"

Three scrawny figures dressed in sagging black rounded the alley entrance just then, stopping abruptly with eyes gone wide.

Beagban growled. Being interrupted only ratcheted his anger up a notch. I hunched over, gulping in air the moment he loosed me. Then his fist was tangled in my hair, pulling me upright sharply. Only when my chin was pointing to the sky did he whisper in my ear, "I'm going to chop off your arms before I kill you." And then I was flying through the air.

Beagban had pushed on the small of my back with all his strength, sending me halfway down the alley. I landed on my side, cheek to the asphalt. My long apricot hair lay puddled on the ground, red with blood where Beagban had grasped it. My hair was red. He'd made my hair red!

I moaned pitifully, pushing myself onto all fours, then to my feet. The teens were clustered around me, worried but wary. I didn't understand what was making them so nervous, Beagban had gone. But then I understood. They were afraid of me. And what was more, I recognized them. Not long ago I'd held them up with a hairbrush. Was that ironic or what? I wasn't sure, irony was a tricky word.

One of them, I couldn't tell which, was talking, asking me a question. It was hard to focus. My mind and body weren't on the same page. I felt scared, longing for someplace safe. My home. I wanted to go home and shower. But my body was suffering from either adrenaline or shock, I couldn't tell which, maybe both. I stood there for a moment, shaking, crying. The boys kept talking at me, and they were getting harder to ignore. Finally I asked, "Which way did he go?"

They pointed past the dumpster, the way he'd dragged me in. I went the opposite direction. Stumbling became jogging, and jogging became running. I'm sure I passed people on the way to my car, but I recall none of it. I don't even remember the drive home.

### * * *

I went to work later that day.

I was still reeling from my Beagban encounter, but sitting around the house wasn't going to fix anything. And I meant that literally—I didn't have a phone. And the first thing I planned to do was call Reed Wallace. His account of 'taking care of it' and Beagban's cryptic ranting didn't add up.

I briefly considered asking to borrow Lucas' phone, but this wasn't a conversation to be overheard, especially by Lucas. So I went to work, though I didn't much feel like looking at anyone.

I had to wear the ugliest shirt I owned. The scratch on my face hadn't received much attention. I'd been able to pass it off with a vague explanation. But if I showed up to work a few days later with more marks it would stir concern. So I dug around the bottom of my closet until I found an outdated turtleneck. Of course it just happened to be in puke brown.

Usually I wore my hair in a simple way, down, up, or in a ponytail. Today I gave myself two loose French braids, going for a whimsical look. It failed. I didn't look whimsical. I looked like shit, which was exactly how I felt.

I found Ben in his usual spot, parked at the picnic table under the oak. "You look like shit," were the first words out of his mouth.

"I've had a problematic morning. What's your excuse, old age?"

He glared at me with a frown etched on his face, carving lines beneath his grizzled beard. If Helen's was the face that launched a thousand ships, then Ben's could have sent them scurrying home again. It sometimes miffed him that I never responded to his cantankerous behavior or baleful expressions. He'd sent Stephen into a dither on more than one occasion, and even our own Queen of the Damned, Missy, was intimidated by him. Maybe I would be too if he was half as ferocious as he liked to think.

When he only glared, I asked, "So what's on the agenda for today? Checking the airfare for trips to Atlantic City? The internet can be tricky, but I can help you—"

"You're a real pain in my ass," he griped.

"So no special plans then?"

Feeling a bit abashed, he mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Isaidswimminlessons."

"Your larynx must be gnarled like your fingers."

"I SAID SWIMMING LESSONS!" he bellowed.

"No need to shout. I heard you the first time."

He huffed his anger, standing to stalk off no doubt. His knees cracked in protest.

"Maybe swimming lessons will do you some good, or any form of exercise for that matter."

"I'm fit as a fiddle," he protested before turning to leave. Over his shoulder he called out, "Someone's expecting you in the office."

Of course he would wait until now to tell me. Fear struck like a lightning bolt. "It's not a man is it?"

"No, she's a lady that one, a real class act."

The lady in question was none other than that mega-bitch secretary, Karen. She wasn't sitting down or even leaning like a normal person would. No, she stood at attention, straight and stiff, her haute couture purse clutched in both hands.

"What?" I barked, heading for my chair.

She was stunned by my rude manner. I believe she had expected me to say something like 'so sorry to keep you waiting.' Oddly enough, she wasn't mad—a first. In fact she was... happy. _No, not happy_ , I thought, evaluating her emotions, _smug_. I soon found out why. Smiling sweetly, she turned to face me while I got settled. "Reed thought it would be best if you didn't see each other for a bit." Of course she was smug; she thought Reed had dumped me. Hardly, he was probably afraid I'd unman him if we met again so soon. She was waiting, anticipating my indignant response.

I stared at her blankly for a moment before asking, "And?"

"And?" she repeated hollowly.

"What does he want? I assume he sent you with a message."

Disappointed, she nearly scowled, but quickly hid her darker side behind that chilling professionalism. "Yes, of course. Mr. Wallace has requested that you find time to visit the Sea Turtle Center, preferably tomorrow morning."

"The Sea Turtle Center?"

"Yes, the Georgia Sea Turtle Center," she clarified. "It's located on Jekyll Island, not far. Mr. Wallace said you would understand."

I understood, but thought it a bit far-fetched. Did Reed expect a sea turtle to just vomit the demon diary into my lap? Unlikely, but who knew, maybe I'd find it under a statue or something. It was worth a try. "Is there anything else?"

She was back to being her normal angry self. "Yes, he's requested that you attend a picnic. It's tomorrow at the club, another Wallace Enterprise event."

"Sure, fine, whatever."

"There will be tennis and other recreational activities. Reed suggested you dress accordingly, a polo and some khakis will do."

"Alright," I said, knowing I didn't own either.

"That's it then," she said, sliding her purse handles up to rest on one shoulder. "Reed will meet you at the gate, noon sharp, don't be late."

I watched her leave. As her body swayed with each step, her hair remained unmoving. Most unnatural. I passed a great deal of time daydreaming that she was a robot after that. Eventually I realized I couldn't put off calling Reed any longer. It didn't matter that he thought we shouldn't see each other, in fact, I quite agreed, but we still needed to talk.

The phone rang the moment my hand touched it. I picked up. "Sterling's, how may I help you?"

"He's involved with someone else!" Francesca wailed. "He came in to see one of his employees, we got to chatting, things were going great, and then he says he's involved!"

"That is a bit shocking," I agreed.

"Can you believe he's got everyone thinking he's a bachelor, all the while he's got a woman waiting back in New York?"

"Yes I believe it, that part isn't such a surprise. But what I do find shocking is that he admitted it. I'd have expected him to try for a one night stand at least, girlfriend or no."

"I know right! I'm so unlucky."

I wondered if Reed really had a girlfriend in New York. If not, then why lie? I'd seen them together, I knew he was attracted to Francesca, everyone was. Maybe he was doing as I'd instructed, fixing the situation by putting her off before she turned out like Crazy Karen. But then I remembered his less than honest explanations and doubted it. Whatever his motivations, they would always be self-centered.

"Where are you calling from?" I asked.

"The Crowne. I don't get off for a few more hours."

"Don't worry about this now, just finish work and tonight I'll stay at your place."

"But you hate sleeping over."

Not when there was a crazed murderer set on revenge, not to mention dismemberment, after me. "I think I can manage," I replied.

### Chapter 25

Everything would have gone swimmingly if not for Reed turning up at the Turtle Center. I hadn't called him after all. I couldn't say why. Probably because I already knew what he would say. That I should go home and relax, that he'd take care of it. His lies would give me little comfort. No thank you, I'd prefer to hide at Francesca's.

I almost regretted it.

Francesca was a proud sort. She didn't cry, but only just. Her misery was like a wet blanket, smothering me all through the night. I had debated bringing the Ouija board, knowing a make-believe séance would get her mind off Reed. But considering the ghost's propensity for following me I decided against it, putting off the task for another night.

When Francesca was still feeling lousy the next morning I invited her to join me and Stephen at the Sea Turtle Center. Stephen I'd invited the night before, obligated to cheer him up after the predicament I'd put him in.

Just before he left I'd asked him to cover my Saturday shift, needing the afternoon off to attend Reed's picnic. No sooner had he agreed, then Missy arrived (a half hour early) begging him to cover her Saturday shift as well. Things went downhill from there. Missy, unable to take no for an answer, continued to press an increasingly uncomfortable Stephen. I'd pointed out that even if he could manage a sixteen hour shift, his mother would never let him work through the night. My interference only served to upset Missy. She heaped her resentment upon me by the boatload, and to make matters worse, Stephen was crumbling under the guilt. It was to spare him that I had salvaged the situation, agreeing to cover her night shift. Not once during the entire argument had we stopped to grumble over our lack of help.

When I first got a job at Sterling's there had been a passel of employees, but one by one they'd gone. And as the workers left we would vaguely remark on the need to replace them, never really meaning it. In truth, Sterling's offered each of us something we required. For Ben it was a reason to wake up in the morning, a place he was needed, a place to extinguish the sadness. For me Sterling's offered safety, allowing me to mix with others on my own terms. And for Missy... who the hell knew? It was probably the late night hours. We juggled shifts, we worked long hours, and Stephen relieved us when his school schedule allowed. It was as we liked it, and usually it worked, with the exception of yesterday's hiccup. Which brings me full circle: Everything would have gone swimmingly if not for Reed turning up at the Turtle Center.

Jekyll was a little sliver of an island just south of St. Simons where the blue bloods used to gather on holiday over a century ago. Francesca gripped the steering wheel, heading for mainland, then south, and finally out toward sea once more. The drive was a C formation, involving more than its fair share of bridges to cross, the Sidney Lanier being the most impressive with all its cables.

I muttered from the backseat when it was time to pay the five dollar parking fee just to enter the island. I passed up the crumpled bills, cursing Reed for the loss. My accusations only added to the number of complaints Francesca had already laid against him. From the passenger seat Stephen was silent, but he was taking in every word, doing his best to more fully understand the female persuasion, Francesca in particular.

In a matter of minutes, with Stephen playing navigator, we found the historic district where the Sea Turtle Center was located. I was following behind Francesca, staring down at the crushed shell pavement beneath my feet when her emotions spiked.

It was Reed that shocked her.

I watched as he moved away from the brick exterior to greet my friends. He completely ignored my outburst. Obviously my first reaction was to demand, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"It's good to see you both again," Reed said, addressing Francesca and Stephen. He was lying. I could tell he'd hoped to find me alone. "Would you mind terribly if I tag along? I need to speak with Adelaide about some business."

Stephen hadn't forgotten the car ride over. Smart boy. He remembered our complaints, and loyal to the last, he refused to thaw. Unwilling to assume the eager admiration he once wore, Stephen turned to Francesca, waiting to see how she would respond.

Even as she despised herself for the weakness, Francesca desperately hoped he'd stay. Afraid to speak and appear overzealous, she smiled, going for demure.

I was discomfited by her response. To Reed they'd shared a casual conversation in passing at the Crowne, nothing more. To Francesca the conversation had been a shattering of all her hopes and dreams, shallow as they were. I'd spent the night before trying to piece her back together. It was all for nothing. With one casual meeting Reed had managed to undo all of Francesca's common sense.

I snarled, "Fine, but you're paying."

"Of course," Reed agreed.

"And you owe Stephen more money. He's covering my shift again today."

Stephen was prepared to splutter, but I shushed him.

Reed nodded, pulling the front door open and ushering us through. If anyone else had done it, I would've taken it as a courtesy. But with Reed's charm a simple act of kindness felt more like a promise, something meaningful. Already Francesca was excited, deluding herself into thinking he cared. I was betting she'd already rewritten his admittance of being involved with someone else as a small misunderstanding.

He caught my arm, as I was the last to march by. "Use the restroom."

I tried to shake him off. "I don't have to."

He released me, but in a menacing tone repeated, "Go to the restroom."

In a loud and awkward way, I announced, "I don't have to use the bathroom, but I think I'll go and have a look-see anyway."

Francesca and Stephen didn't bat an eyelash at the disclosure. They were used to my antics. But Reed was annoyed. I'd managed to frustrate him already.

The bathroom was a small space, made smaller by the busy artwork on the walls. I halfheartedly searched, glancing in the stalls, but mostly I fluffed my hair in front of the mirror. I plucked at the raised collar of my borrowed shirt, ensuring it covered the gouge marks. It was Francesca's, so it was neither outdated nor hoity-toity.

A movement from behind had my immediate attention. A cloud of smoke wafted upward, swishing near my spine and around my neck. I went completely still, watching through the mirror. The rising tendrils sifted back and forth, hypnotic, mesmerizing.

It was not my ghost. It was nothing like him, strange as it was to say. His movements were different, less teasing. He didn't invade my space, not like this ghost.

The smoke thinned into a mist, pressing in about my face like a caress. I decided it was a woman, her movements reminiscent of a swishing skirt. I didn't know what she wanted, if she'd even realized I could see her. Maybe she was in the habit of haunting the bathroom stalls, having herself a one-sided flirtation with their occupants.

With a great force of will I returned to fluffing my hair, pretending that I hadn't been gawking. I left shortly after, putting as much nonchalant as I could muster into each step. I wanted to look back, see if she was following, but I didn't.

Reed had purchased our tickets, among other things. Francesca was standing close behind him, a stuffed sea turtle under her arm. Tremendously pleased, her smile was near blinding. She measured relationships by material means, and to her a stuffed animal was just the beginning. He had no idea what he'd done.

I ignored them to wander around the gift shop. A massive sea turtle skeleton hung suspended from the ceiling, demanding attention. Fat as a cow, the thing could have easily swallowed a demon diary. But I could see straight through to the rafters and there was nothing there.

Stephen walked over to hand me a T-shirt. "Mr. Wallace bought souvenirs. I got a book." I looked up to see a shy looking manatee posed on its cover. "It was Francesca's idea," he added defensively.

He'd misinterpreted my consternation, thinking it had something to do with allowing Reed to buy us things. No, that wasn't it, that wasn't it at all. I was horrified that a T-shirt was selected on my behalf. Even though it shouldn't have mattered, it was quite depressing. I would have preferred anything else, even a keychain. Who picked it out? Did they even know me at all? I wanted to ask, but I didn't.

Our tickets weren't actually tickets at all, but a game for children. We were meant to wander through the display stations, marking a sea turtle journey as we went with embossing stamps. I handed my pamphlet to Stephen, saying, "Have at it."

I walked the room in a matter of minutes, stopping to skim a few plaques. I'd already determined that there was no demon diary hiding here either. The trip was a waste of time, which wouldn't be so bad if I was spending it with Stephen and Francesca, but I wasn't. Instead I was watching a loggerhead glide by, watching the blurry and distorted image through her tank. Across the room Reed was making my friends laugh. Francesca stroked his arm casually (though there was nothing casual about it) and even Stephen was back to being smitten. I was suddenly lonely in a room full of people, terribly alone, crushingly so. I hoped it was coming from someone else, that it wasn't me that felt this way, but I suspected it was.

The ghosts swirling about, filling the room with milky pockets, did nothing to make me feel better. They only isolated me more. I ignored them for a while, but there were too many, and I found myself distracted. Eventually I slipped the ring off and stowed it in my pocket, the milky stains disappearing in a blink.

### Chapter 26

I was staring at a variety of turtle remains that had been encased in glass when Reed swooped in on me. Without a word of explanation he pulled me through the doors to my left. We were outside and I was being dragged down a little brick path. I protested, but Reed's severe expression turned me mute.

He reminded me of Bernini's _David_. I loved that sculpture almost as much as I loved Bernini himself. Rumor had it that he used his own facial features as inspiration. He would had to have been good-looking then, like Reed. They looked similar, sharp and almost harshly handsome.

Reed caught me staring and gave my arm a shake. "Stop," he snapped, hauling me up the wooden ramp and into the pavilion.

I was ashamed that the charm had taken hold. Why else would I be comparing Reed to a piece of artwork? And what was worse, he was the one that pulled me out of my dazed reverie. "Hands off!" I said, trying to salvage a little dignity.

"Excuse me, Ms. Graves," he said smoothly while his hands slipped away. "I was under the impression that you wished to speak with me."

"How do you know that?" I demanded.

"A group of teenage boys went to the police, reporting that they'd seen a pretty young red-headed woman," he lifted a strand of my hair and flicked it free, "held at knife point. Apparently it happened just around the corner from where Theodore Dunn was recently stabbed to death."

"You have an informant at the Brunswick Police Department," I said dryly. "Of course you do." The accusation had Reed glancing about to make sure that no one was listening.

Circular blue and white tanks sat on either side of the raised walkway. They looked like tall kiddy pools, and housed sickly turtles. Humming machinery and bubbling water drowned out all sound. On the opposite end of the pavilion a father strolled slowly, his daughter seated atop his shoulders where she excitedly patted his forehead. Below them was a pair of employees. They bustled about labeling and fussing over a grid of tiny containers where infant turtles ceaselessly flapped.

Reed watched a behemoth leatherback float listlessly. Its shell was a patchwork job, covered in tape or bandages of some sort. "I don't suppose you would believe that I meant to see you yesterday, but you weren't at home."

"No, I don't suppose I would," I replied. "It sounds a bit contrived. Contrived like trying to waylay me in a public place where I can't yell at you properly. Were you afraid I'd make a scene at your precious picnic?"

"You do have a temper."

"Everything you say is bullshit." Bullshit came out just as the father and daughter walked past, heading for the door. I made amends by lowering my voice, though we were now the only visitors present. "You led me to believe that a simple phone call was the solution, that Lars would rein in Beagban. But that wasn't true, so what did you really do?" When he didn't immediately turn around I grabbed a fistful of his Harvard T-shirt, pulling him to face me, demanding, "What did you do?"

He was unmoved by my antagonism, but answered all the same. "The night we escaped from the barn I sent a few men back. They were to keep him there, to watch him." He looked into my eyes, the expression daring me to disbelieve. "That's all, they were only meant to keep him out of the way until the book was found. If he could be tied to a crime in any significant way then I would turn him over to the police when this business was concluded."

I stared at him, trying to gauge the truth by his emotions. It was impossible. All liars were dishonest, and dishonest people didn't usually suffer from a guilty conscience. I had believed his explanation before, hadn't thought to question it. That was a mistake I wouldn't make twice. I didn't for a second believe that he only intended to detain Beagban, the man that had killed his friend. And the longer I stared into his apathetic eyes, the more certain I became that he was lying. Reed Wallace was not above revenge. And his reprisal would not involve the police.

Reed must have sensed my skepticism, discerning the distrust from my silence. "I don't understand the complication here," he said impatiently. "After all, you were the one to insinuate that he should die."

"I wasn't foolish enough to think that I could, or even would, be capable of doing it. And you called me bloodthirsty for suggesting that it would be a convenient turn of events, you hypocrite!" A man wearing a bright orange baseball cap came in through the swinging door. I waited for him to pass before whispering, "And now we've got more dead men and one very unhinged murderer running loose."

Reed started to speak, but I cut him off. "I swear, if the words 'I'll take care of it' come out of your mouth, I'll kick you straight in the balls."

Reed offered up a crooked grin, saying, "I believe you would." He stepped closer, leaning his forearms against the wooden rail to my right. "Did you know that the group of boys who reported the incident I spoke of also admitted to being held at gunpoint by the same red-head only days before?"

"No," I said absently, "I hadn't heard." I watched the newcomer stare at us from under the brim of his hat.

"Knowing the red-head's identity would be useful, the perfect leverage really. All it would take is one anonymous phone call to have the police poking around with some very awkward questions."

Baseball Cap caught me watching him and turned away. It wasn't his fault. Reed turned heads wherever he went, usually women's, but gay men's too. "Don't bother with the threats. It couldn't be me. My hair isn't red, it's strawberry-blonde."

"Of course," Reed agreed in the most charming of ways.

"I don't know how you can patronize me at a time like this. Beagban promised to kill you too."

"What I said before is true. Without Lars' permission, Beagban won't kill either of us."

I pulled down my collar, revealing the fresh scratch marks on my neck. "Excuse me if I'm not convinced."

He eyed my neck while saying, "I didn't think you would be. That's why I brought you this." He pulled a ring from his pocket, a bulky silver thing covered in lumps of turquoise and coral.

Sourly I asked, "What does it do?" thinking I already had one ring too many.

I watched as he pressed the stones down. They disappeared beneath the decorative silver plating which he then slid aside unhindered. Inside, wedged between two stones, was a small black button. It was tiny really, like the reset button on a watch. "Press this and it will alert my security. They'll send someone to your location in a matter of minutes." He slid the cover back into place, the stones snapped up, and it was a ring once more. A very large ring.

"Couldn't you find something less... obtrusive?"

He brushed his fingers across my hand, gently touching the bead and wire wrapped around my index finger. "It's not delicate like this." I jerked away and he pretended not to notice. "It's Tibetan, but with a panic button and tracking device hidden inside, what it truly is is useful."

I took it, sliding it onto my middle finger where it filled the space between my knuckles. It dwarfed the ghost ring which sat equally as cheap, but with much more decorum. At least the little ring knew its place, though it continued to do that creepy materializing trick. I couldn't decide whether it held some sort of compulsion, so that when my mind was preoccupied I'd slip the ring back on without a thought, or if the moment I stopped thinking about it, it would appear on my forefinger all by itself like magic.

"So that's it?" I said, waving my hand around. "Hope I get to the button before he chops off my arms?"

"Yes, that's the idea."

"I Googled you at work, you know, and according to Wikipedia you have an abundance of money and influence."

He eased closer. "You Googled me?"

I ignored the implication. "So why aren't you doing anything with all that money and influence?"

"I can't go to the police and accuse Lars Hurst of sending Beagban to kill and kidnap for a demon diary, now can I? I believe proof is required to convict a man, and we've no evidence to tie Beagban to any of it." He was growing frustrated, most likely at my obstreperous behavior. "Believe it or not I'm pulling my resources, the best I have being a young woman who is not only destined to find the book, but can also discover who is leaking information to Lars." He gave me a pointed look. "But it's hard work getting her to cooperate, she's... difficult."

"Well it's not here," I said, trying not to sound too sulky.

"Yes, I'd reached the same conclusion," he said, pushing off the railing to stand upright. "Now it would be best to return before your friends come to find us."

### * * *

Leaving was next to impossible. Francesca inserted herself between Reed and his car, unwilling to part until she was sure she had a reason to see him again. She was hoping for a date, but willing to settle for an invitation to the picnic this afternoon.

Overhead the sun climbed high, a reminder that summer was upon us. I waved my hand back and forth trying to fan away the heat and humidity. Unlike Stephen I was not titillated by their flirtatious exchange, and I did my best to space-out. Through the trees and shrubs I could just make out the island's Club Hotel, the old building sprawling over itself and topped off with a turret. Once upon a time it was a playground getaway for the rich, made more famous for its romantic role, starring as the location used for the creation of the Federal Reserve. But after today it would forever be ingrained in my brain as only one thing—haunted.

### Chapter 27

Ghosts peppered the historic district in smears of white, moving over the grounds each in their own way. Between two cars a column of mist shivered, trying to press itself into shape. Further down the sidewalk a young girl blinked in and out, transparent in her late Victorian gown as she followed the visitors. It was unnerving to see so many, having only found a few on St. Simons. A curtain of fog, out of place on such a sunny day, drifted out from behind the Turtle Center, a building that had once been the club's power plant. I did my best to ignore them, all the while keeping watch with my peripheral vision.

The words "She can be a bit off-putting at times" snapped me to attention. Francesca continued, saying, "I'd be more than happy to tag along, make sure she doesn't get into any trouble." I considered being offended, but didn't bother, reminding myself that it was the charm's effect talking.

Reed said something like, "Adelaide's work requires discretion, and a stunning woman like you would attract far too much attention." But I couldn't be sure that was exactly what he said because a gust of wind pushed at my back, distracting me.

The palm trees that fringed the lot to my left swayed restlessly. Odd, apart from that corner of the parking lot everything was still. I turned to find a filmy white presence pushing the palm fronds, and me.

It slunk about, sliding in from behind like a lazy puddle. It pressed against everything in its path, acting the part of an errant breeze. I focused my eyes on whoever was speaking, but my attention remained fixed to the snowy smudge.

It hovered for a moment, but then moved away. I exhaled in relief, having worried it knew I was watching.

My relief came too soon. At about fifteen paces away it stopped drifting. I went equally still. Twitching with agitation it circled around my body slowly from afar, then it was barreling towards me, picking up speed and rolling fast like a freight train. I automatically cringed, my muscles tightening as I braced myself, but the impact never came. Whether it went through me, I wasn't sure. I opened my eyes to find the ghost flourishing back and forth. I got the feeling that I was being watched, maybe studied and tested.

I would have taken the ring off then if I thought it would do me any good. But the damn thing had a mind of its own, and removing it had proven futile. I settled for pretending, forcing myself to ignore the specter and interact with the living. Reed was giving Stephen money, paying him in advance for covering my shift. Francesca was unhappy, knowing her time was nearly up and she hadn't yet made much progress with Reed. In a last ditch effort she said, "I'm hungry, how about we go to the wharf and get some seafood."

Reed checked his ridiculously expensive watch. "Not enough time, I'm afraid."

Francesca used the watch as an excuse to touch him, gripping his wrist and turning it gently. She clicked her tongue regretfully, admitting, "You're right, it's nearing noon. Another time then?"

I looked to Stephen with no small curiosity, wondering how he wasn't jealous watching Francesca throw herself at Reed. He studied them with interest, eyeing Francesca as if she was a rare and exotic creature. It wasn't the first time I realized how wise he was. But it never failed to impress me how he used every occasion, every situation, to learn something. No doubt he was discovering what Francesca looked for in a man, and how Reed fit the bill. No doubt when he shed the acne and filled out a bit he'd be tragically handsome and completely appealing.

It was as if the troublesome ghost could see his potential. It had been hanging around, taunting me, and now it was sidling closer to Stephen. The mist coalesced, thickening into a writhing white mass.

She appeared, filling in from the smoke, a woman who had clearly lost her life in the seventies. She wore tight, high-waisted flaring pants, and tucked beneath were chunky cork wedge shoes. Her hair was feathered in the Farrah Fawcett flip. With a wide face, eyes set too far apart, and a dimpled chin, she wasn't pretty, but she had a vital look about her, even dead.

I watched without watching as her hands moved over his shoulders and up his neck. He didn't seem to notice, that was, until she pinched him. He winced, slapping at his neck as if there was a mosquito.

I knew then that it was a test, that she was looking for my reaction. I wasn't keen to please her. She made me nervous. I didn't need another ghost following me around. I already had one, one and a half if you counted the dog. I'd like to see Percival do better.

I'd been ignoring ghosts all morning, but she proved to be a challenge. She moved on to Francesca, circling around in a predatory sort of way. Insubstantial fingers whispered over my friend's body, through her hair. The ghost smiled at me and leaned in as if she'd talk into Francesca's ear, but instead she blew. Francesca shivered, that was all. I, on the other hand, was totally freaked out.

I tried not to think about the ick factor, pretending instead to be a bit bored and impatient, not hard as it was partially true. But Stephen must have seen through it because I caught him staring at me with a worried expression. And then he said, "Can we go? I need to get ready before I cover Adelaide's shift."

I'd never been so grateful to Stephen in all my life. And though Reed would never know it, he was grateful too, because the ghost had been stroking his thigh when we parted ways. Apparently he could charm even the dead.

### * * *

My fingers shook as I rifled through the closet looking for my slate gray shorts. I impatiently dropped a handful of clothes before crossing the loft to continue my search in the armoire. My movements were sharp and precise, channeling my frustration.

Earlier, during the ride back from Jekyll, Francesca had lost it. As Reed's charm withdrew so did her buoyant personality, leaving behind a bitter crust. Throughout the car ride I felt her stinging from what she perceived as yet another Reed rejection. And like Karen, she chose to blame me.

The ghost dog hopped around my ankles, moving like a wriggling sausage. Even its perk couldn't lighten my mood. I stepped through it to kick a squeaky toy across the floor. "Go fetch," I ordered, wanting it to go away. Obligingly it scrambled with haste, pouncing on its quarry.

I then noticed a scrap of gray poking out from beneath my bed. I stalked over and snatched it up. Sure enough, it was my missing pair of shorts. I knew I hadn't stowed them there, and wondered if the ghost had dragged them under. It didn't seem likely. He had been turning solid more frequently, but only in spurts that lasted no longer than a wink.

I hauled them on with a bit more force than necessary. They weren't khakis, but they would do. Plus they matched the shirt Francesca had loaned me. Admittedly it wasn't polo, but it had the same stuck-up summer feel.

I knew she wouldn't want me to continue wearing her shirt, not while we were fighting. She'd probably tell me to take it off, stuff it down my throat and choke. Fighting with Francesca wasn't something I was familiar with, neither was it something I particularly enjoyed.

She had glared at me through the rearview mirror, demanding, "What do the two of you do when you're alone together?"

"Usually we argue," I'd admitted easily.

"What do you have to argue about? You hardly know each other."

"I know him well enough to know he's an asshole."

Her anger had swelled. "You don't care do you?" Her eyes had narrowed in the mirror's reflection. "You don't care that I'm your friend, that I've put up with your moody, antisocial bullshit. That I stayed with you all those times you broke down and cried for no reason, you don't even care!"

I'd been trying to fight off the anger, separate myself. But then she had to start humiliating me by throwing all the things we never spoke of in my face. I struggled for a response, something to say, but she hadn't finished ranting. "All you had to do was put in a good word or invite me along. But you don't, you don't want me with Reed. You want him for yourself!"

Stephen, who'd happily called 'shot gun' just a few minutes before was so uncomfortable in the passenger seat that I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd clawed at the glass to escape. And I, I had been angry. I was willing to excuse a lot—I knew the charm's effect—but I couldn't stand how selfish she'd become, subjecting Stephen to her pity party. "Enough!" I had blurted sharply. "He's not interested in you. You said it yourself that he's involved with someone else. So stop hitting on him, and stop blaming me when he rejects you."

No one had said anything after that, but the silence spoke volumes. Francesca might have held her tongue, but contrite she was not.

It had been past noon by the time I got home. I was late before I even started to get ready. Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I let it trail down my back as I scattered my bangs into place. Good enough for a bunch of corporate hosers.

### Chapter 28

My car made a horrid retching noise as I put it into park. Add the door's metallic squawking and I'd attracted quite a bit of attention from the loitering yuppies.

Reed wasn't waiting for me at the gate, unsurprising as I was nearly an hour late. Even if I was willing to forgive this transgression, it was still a hassle. The bouncer (for lack of a better word) held a list of all the Wallace Enterprise employees invited to the event. I was not on it.

I heehawed until the club was called, insisting they speak with Reed Wallace himself. As it was Reed who rented the club for these events, it only took his say-so to get me inside. It would have taken less than that to put me on the list. The oversight was intentional. No doubt this was Reed's choice of punishment for my late arrival, and it had not gone unnoticed. Soon the freshly pressed housewives would be whispering about Reed Wallace and his latest trollop. 'Did you hear?' one would say. 'He left her waiting at the gate for over an hour.' I ground my teeth at the thought. Reed had just topped my shit-list. Again.

Eventually I was let through, and when entering the foyer the first person I saw was Tim Beckett. He wandered out of the auxiliary ballroom, hair awry and pants too big. Harried to see me, he turned on his heel, sprinting for the men's room.

"Wiener," I muttered as I watched him run off. I'd made him uncomfortable from the get-go, though why, I wasn't sure. Whatever Reed's excuse for him, Tim Beckett was still a suspicious character.

I went the way he had come from, entering the big room on my right. Many of the tables had been removed and only a few people, those trying to escape the heat, stood around to chat in the cavernous space. Three sets of French doors were kept open, leading to the massive half-circle balcony where Reed's employees were holding court.

Outside, tables were scattered in clumps. Women dressed in pastel tennis wear sat eating fruit beneath the cloister of their sun umbrellas. Men stood in golf shorts and boat shoes, laughing and bragging. People came and went using the stairway that led to the grounds below where they could reach the amenities.

I honed in on the buffet table and wandered the long way to get there. Attitudes weren't subdued like at the dinner event. This was a picnic and people wanted to have fun. Amusement, excitement, pleasure—they weren't the worst to feel, but they swelled inside of me like a bomb waiting to detonate.

I loaded a plate full of food and took a seat, turning my back to the smorgasbord of people. The illusion of being alone helped, it was better not to see them.

One by one or in small groups, everyone eventually made their way to the buffet table. Not only could I pick the emotions off them, but it was the prime location for eavesdropping as well. Mostly I was bored, struggling to stay attentive. But I did notice a definite trend in topics. The women talked about their children's accomplishments and various charity events they'd either attended or organized. The men talked a little about sports, boating and such, but it was mostly business. The exception to this was Eleanor Bryant.

I heard her voice at my back, but it was the lack of emotion that I recognized. "It's good that you caught him on the island. When he's in the city it's hard for him to find the time."

"So I've heard," another female responded. Her emotions were faint, but there was an icy detachment about her that was both familiar and repugnant.

Eleanor asked, "What's the angle for your story?"

"Something relevant to investors," was the vague reply. Her disdain for Eleanor was evident to me, as was her contempt of their conversation. But these are things only an empath would pick up on as she was both polite and conversational.

Wanting to glimpse the biotch I turned, tucking my chin to my shoulder and peeping past. She was leaning against the balcony's stone balustrade, half blocked by Eleanor, but even so I knew her. She still looked like a school teacher, a very professional school teacher. She wore a black pencil skirt that went just past the knee and an ivory jabot blouse. She matched Eleanor's look, the two both out of place, ready for the boardroom and not scheduled recreation. They even had matching chignons.

As if she knew I was watching, she leaned past Eleanor to stare straight at me. We locked eyes. There was recognition in hers, but not surprise.

Raising her voice so I knew I was being addressed, she asked, "Taking an afternoon off from the grueling hospitality business?" It was meant to sound playful, but I felt the intended stab.

Having run out of food, I had no reason to skulk. So I stood, prepared to join their conversation and mingle a bit. "Something like that," I said.

Eleanor turned, her body language inviting me into their group. "Good to see you again, Adelaide. I take it you've already met Ms. Thompson."

"No, not formally," I said, reaching out to shake her hand. She took it, her gaze skating over my face and down my body. She studied me as if she could see through me, it was creepy. She was creepy. I had to forcefully ignore the impulse to wipe my hand after she released it.

"Raina is writing a piece on Wallace Enterprise. She's hoping for an interview with Reed," Eleanor explained. Turning to Raina, she continued, "And Adelaide is—"

I was curious to hear how Eleanor would explain my presence, but Reed interrupted, sidling up unexpectedly and snaking a hand around my waist. "My girlfriend," he finished, greeting me with a kiss to the temple.

Ignoring the elbow in his ribs, he smiled at Raina and casually reached out to shake her hand. "The journalist I presume?"

I took perverse satisfaction from the fact that Miss Raina Thompson was not immune to Reed's charm. She gave him a piercingly thorough examination, with looks so intense I thought she might devour him on the spot. "Yes," she agreed, pumping his hand, "the journalist." She actually smiled. "I was hoping for an interview. I haven't managed to confirm an appointment yet. Your assistant, she's cagey. But I'd be more than willing to drop by your home whenever it's convenient. The interview shouldn't take more than an hour or so of your time."

"No need," he said easily. "I've been meeting with my employees at the hotel all week. I'll just have Karen fit you in."

"She's not staying at the Crowne," I interjected.

Raina spared me a glance. It wasn't friendly. "The Crowne didn't have any rooms to spare," she agreed.

"If you're here on behalf of Wallace Enterprise, then you should have a room. I'll take care of it," he offered.

"What's wrong with Sterling's?" I asked innocently enough, but I'd left him no right answer.

He gave a roguish grin, like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Nothing's wrong with it," he said, giving my waist a squeeze, "it's charming." His smile turned sincere, sharp blue eyes laughing at the pun only we would understand.

Watching us intently, Raina was more interested with our interplay than she'd been about her own work. "Coming here to the club must be a nice treat for you," she said with venom.

Reed spoke before I thought up a scathing reply. "On the contrary," he said affectionately, nuzzling my hair with his chin. "I had to beg her to come."

I was about to add that money had been exchanged, with blackmail involved too. But before I had the chance to say a single word the bottom of my stomach dropped out, and at the risk of sounding dramatic, my world fell apart.

On the walkway at ground level, not ten feet from the stone railing, Lucas stood immobile. He watched me, not Reed or anyone around me, just me. His face was an expressionless mask, and I sensed not even a hint of emotion. The moment dragged on. I felt caught, unable to move, to even breathe beneath his intense stare. And then he turned and stalked away.

Released from the trap of that terrible moment things jumped back into motion. Sounds were seemingly louder than the seconds before, and the emotions came rushing to swamp me. I turned and ran, ducking through the throng and hurrying for the stairs. I jumped the last three and turned so sharply my feet went skidding. I didn't see him as I ran, but figured he was heading for the parking lot out front. And when I made it to the gate I saw his tires kicking up dust as his old Ford Bronco four by four traveled down the road, and away from me.

### Chapter 29

The situation felt surreal. It was too unlikely to be more than a dream, or a nightmare really. I mean, what was Lucas doing at a country club anyway? And what had he seen? That was the question that continued to roll through my mind. What had Lucas seen? Me in Reed's arms? Obviously, but had he seen Reed kiss my hair, nuzzle it? Had he heard Reed claim I was his girlfriend? I replayed the conversation, picking apart the nuances, and then I imagined Lucas watching the whole thing. To say I was dismayed would be a gross understatement.

Reed caught me getting into my car as I prepared to give chase. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Something came up," I said breathlessly over my shoulder. "It's important. I have to go."

He grabbed the door before I could pull it closed. "More important than the work you're doing for me here?"

I felt certain it was, but I doubted Reed would agree. "I need to take care of it now," I answered.

"He'll still be around in a few hours. You can apologize to him later."

Bewildered, I looked up.

"Yes," he answered dryly, "everyone saw you running after another man. Humiliating for me really, as you're supposed to be my girlfriend."

I slumped into the bucket seat and rubbed my forehead in defeat. "I won't be good for much, my own feelings are too strong right now, they'll overwhelm any of the useful twinges I usually pick up in a conversation."

"You just need a distraction," he said, trying to extract me from the car. "Tennis, I think. Something active to alleviate the guilt."

Guilt was something of a conundrum. It could be overwhelming, even debilitating, or it could exist in the subconscious, so slight but perpetual that it lasted forever. Being an empath, I'd experienced both, and neither one was healthy. Healthy guilt was dictated by our conscience. It let us know when we had done something wrong, allowing us to make amends and move on. But that was a logical application for something totally illogical, and as such it was fated for disaster.

With all my practice, I was probably one of few who could be logical about emotions. And that was what I did. I admitted I was feeling guilty, but for no good reason. I hadn't wronged Lucas. I wasn't leading him on, because I wasn't really with Reed. It was just a misunderstanding, something I could easily fix with a small explanation.

So I allowed Reed to drag me to the tennis courts, though I had no intention of playing. Karen hailed us as we walked past and Reed veered to meet her. She and another woman were waiting outside the chain-link fence watching a singles match wind down.

"You remember Gayla, Paulson's wife," Karen said to Reed.

"Yes of course," he lied, taking her hand. "And this," he gestured to me, "is my girlfriend Adelaide." Apparently he wasn't going to stop parading me around. I nearly rolled my eyes, but smiled politely instead.

"Are you going to play?" Gayla asked, gesturing through the windscreen to the dull green court beyond.

"No," I said, just as Reed said, "Yes." He continued as if I hadn't spoken, saying, "We just need to rustle up a ball, some rackets, and an available court."

"Why don't we do doubles," Gayla suggested. She pointed to the couple that had just finished up their last set, currently mopping their foreheads and gathering up equipment. "I'm sure the Petersons will lend you their rackets."

"What a fine idea," Reed said. "We'd love to."

Gayla beamed, which I thought was embarrassing for her as he'd led that conversation to its finish.

"No we wouldn't," I countered. Turning to Reed, "Did you forget the part where I said I wasn't playing?"

"What's the matter, out of practice?" Karen asked. Beneath her white sportswear she was bitchier than usual, a side effect of seeing me and Reed together.

"No practice. I've never played."

Gayla waved a hand. "Well don't let that stop you, we'll help. We're all friends here."

I looked at Karen who was looking back at me with a challenge in her eye.

### * * *

So that was how I found myself preparing to play tennis, a game for which I didn't even know the rules. Reed's only instruction had been to hit the ball back across the net if it came to me. I figured I could manage that.

I'd like to say I was a natural, though I would have settled for being just a little bit better than Karen, but I was neither.

Karen stood diagonally across the court, preparing to serve. A moment or so later she threw the ball up into the air, swinging her racket to meet it. I swear she aimed for my vagina, probably hoping to put me out of commission. I jumped aside, holding the racket down to shield my crotch. The ball struck with surprising force, knocking the racket from my hand. The yellow ball then rolled harmlessly away as I watched my racket go skittering atop the asphalt. There was a long awkward silence. "Yeah," I said slowly, "I don't think I want to play tennis." I walked off, and no one, not even Reed tried to stop me.

It might not be too surprising that I went in search of Danielle Smathers after that, and when I couldn't find her I settled for Harold Determeyer. He was one of many who had retired to the ballroom, driven inside by the heat. The men and women who shared his table were older like him, and none of them made an effort to keep up conversation as they wilted in their chairs. I recognized the ill-tempered old man from dinner, the one who despised being forced into a work retreat. He scowled at me and then looked away, gazing down into his glass.

I moved up behind Harold's chair and called his name. When he didn't turn around, I half yelled, "Harold!" He jerked to look back at me, the skin of his neck trembling as it sagged lazily, coming to puddle at his collar. I forced my eyes up past his chin, feeling a bit queasy. I asked, "Do you know where Danielle is?"

"Swimming," he said in a frail voice.

I nodded but stood a second longer, eavesdropping on their emotions. This group wasn't feeling devious, they were feeling tired. But just then my skills weren't at their best. I needed a pick me up. I needed Danielle Smathers.

Like the sauna and fitness center, the indoor pool was located on the club's lowest level. I walked down the stairs, the smell of chlorine growing stronger as I wandered past a few racquet ball rooms toward the sound of echoing splashes.

The air was heavy and moist in what was labeled the aquatic room. I slipped inside, wanting to go unnoticed as I scanned the area. The pool was large, and nearly half was sectioned into lanes. Only two people were swimming, and neither looked like members of the Wallace party.

I found Danielle. She was sprawled out and basking in the fluorescent light on the top bench of the ten tier bleachers. Propped on a bed of towels, she lay motionless in a bright pink bikini. An MP3 player rested on her stomach, the headphones trailing up to her ears while she shaded her eyes with a pair of aviators. A few empty glasses littered the benches all around and a half-opened fashion magazine lay at her feet. I wasn't close enough to tell if she was sleeping. To be on the safe side I moved quietly, not wanting to be seen.

I made my way along the side of the bleachers, Danielle disappearing from view above my head. And when I reached the backing, set flush against the wall, I dipped beneath the metal support system, carefully stepping through the network of bars.

I aimed for the shadowy bulk that spilled over the slender bench above me, but I didn't make it that far. The effect of her drugs dragged me down, making me clumsy and dull. I slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, feeling... relaxed. It was nice, because like I said before, I had a hard time relaxing.

I didn't know what drug Danielle was on. All I knew was that it made her happy, us happy, and I was more disconnected and calm than I'd ever been before. It was magic really. Francesca was mad at me, Lucas was probably mad at me, and Reed would definitely be mad at me too when he found out about this, but I just didn't care. I didn't care that I was constantly being haunted or that a murderer was planning to rip me to pieces. None of it mattered.

My thoughts wandered in strange patterns, but they were of Lucas a lot. And looking back, I was unaccountably enamored with the aquatic room. It was dark under the bleachers, and the sound of lapping water combined with the blanket of humid, hot air made it feel safe and tranquil. Or maybe that was the drugs.

Time passed slowly, yet too fast. I was brought to attention by voices, familiar voices. I looked up at the outline of Danielle, but she lay immobile. Squinting through the framework I could just make out two figures and the color of their clothing. I didn't want to be found lurking under the bleachers, and wouldn't have moved if not for the fact that I recognized both speakers. As I crept closer the soft whisper of their words sifted through the air.

"Come on," a man urged. "I know you want to, we always have fun together.

"No," the woman insisted, pushing him away.

Frustrated, he asked, "Then tell me why not?"

"I don't want him to find out," the woman said. I recognized her, it was Karen.

He laughed, pressing her into the wall with his body. "He already knows, remember? You told him." He ducked his head, leaning down to kiss Karen's neck.

For a moment I went into total shock, recognizing that dark head of hair. But no, it wasn't Reed, they were talking _about_ Reed. It was that look-alike. I struggled to remember his name. Ricky... maybe Richey.

"I'm not having sex with you here, we'll get caught."

His hand went roaming. "I can think of a better place, a certain sofa, or maybe that desk you enjoyed so much."

She broke apart, breathing heavy, both eager and ashamed. "That's what I don't want him to find out."

"You don't know how informed he is. I bet he already knows."

Everything faded out, the conversation, their abnormal but mutual lust, and even Danielle's contented bliss. I was left with one purpose, determined to discover why I recognized his voice and where I had heard him say those words before.

And then it came to me.

I'd heard him say those words at the company dinner, only then he'd been speaking to Beagban.

And just like that, with good old fashion eavesdropping, I found Reed's leak.

### Chapter 30

"This isn't really my style," Reed said as I pulled him into the utility closet.

I smushed myself in behind him, pulling the door closed. "Quit complaining, we need privacy."

"How very clandestine of you," he said, smiling down at me. I lost my train of thought.

I started to feel a sort of longing, no, more of a craving really. It quickly grew a sexual edge and I lashed out, hitting Reed across the chest. "Pervert! Stop it," I hissed.

He moved away, sidestepping the mop. "My apologies, Adelaide, truly I'm sorry," he said in the perfect imitation of penance.

"No, Reed," I replied, marveling at his acting abilities, "you're really not." I sighed. "It doesn't matter. I came to tell you that I found the leak."

"Who?" he demanded sharply.

It was somewhat frightening to see under the pretense. I tried not to fall for the glamour, but on some level I always would. The charm I could usually recognize, but the ruthless man beneath would continue to surprise me. And that was what he was then, ruthless, implacable. So I told him, I told him everything I'd heard. He was silent for a long time after, taking it in.

"It makes perfect sense," I said. "He uses her to get into your office, and she uses him to fulfill her... fantasies."

"Fantasies?"

"He's the same build as you, same height, same hair color. They do it in your office, on your sofa and desk..." I trailed off. Adding, "A multimillionaire should be able to put two and two together."

He refused to acknowledge her obsession, but said, "That reminds me." He took out his cell phone and made a call. "Mark, yes you too. Listen, I need you to have the furniture in my offices cleaned, everything, even the desk. No, on second thought, just replace it, all of it. If anyone asks, just say I did it on a whim," he looked at me, "my girlfriend didn't like the décor. All of them, yes, that one too. Doesn't matter, just take care of it." He didn't say goodbye, just hung up like they did in the movies.

"Now that that's taken care of," he said, moving as if business was finished, heading for the door.

I stepped in his path. "Um, no, what about this Richey guy?"

"Richard Addler," he corrected, "my attorney."

"Yes, your attorney," I mocked. "What are you going to do about him?"

"Nothing."

I stared at him in frustrated disbelief thinking he never did enough, never even reacted. Finally I said, "You know what? I don't care. You wanted me to find the guy, I found the guy. If and when I find the book I'll let you know, but otherwise I don't want to see you ever again."

"Adelaide, there's no reason for you to be angry—"

"Isn't there?" I said sharply. "You blackmailed me into all this. Since then I've been kidnapped and threatened. Francesca isn't speaking to me and probably neither will Lucas." I prodded him in the chest. "You put me in serious danger, ruined my relationships, and still presume to say I have no reason to be angry?"

I stormed from the closet, unwilling to hear his reply. I never wanted to see the insufferable Reed Wallace ever again. As far as I was concerned, our business was finished. Forever.

### * * *

Morosely I gazed down at a pair of pale purple underwear. They'd been chewed on. The culprit was nowhere to be seen.

I'd already been to see Lucas. He wasn't home. I had tried both doors, even after seeing that his SUV wasn't in the driveway. Dejected, I'd trudged home only to find my ruined underwear snagged on a chair leg. How the little snot had pulled them from the upstairs closet to the downstairs kitchen was beyond me.

In retaliation I reburied the ghost dog's bone. The offending item wasn't next to the hole where I'd left it. Like the undies, it had been moved. A few minutes of searching and I found it under the hedgerow that grew beneath my living room window. And a little after that it was tucked back inside the earth where it belonged. By the time I was finished I still had a few hours before I needed to be at Sterling's to cover Missy's shift, so I took a nap.

### * * *

"Find a prospective ghost to communicate with," I read, casting a brief glance across the counter. "Check. Try to make contact through verbal communication." I paused again, looking at the ghost.

He was hovering just inside one of the well-worn wingback chairs, a cotton ball of anticipation. He was apprehensive as well, it might have been me, but I thought not. When you wanted something desperately the expectation was boxed in fear, preparing you for disappointment.

"Verbal communication," I muttered. "I'm not sure what that means. Are you supposed to be talking back?"

He didn't answer.

I'd just finished compiling a list of information from the internet, scribbling down the finer points. It seemed everyone and their brother knew how to hold a séance, though I got the impression that most, like Eclipsys, were faking. Was it a rare thing to see a ghost? Did you have to be gifted? Oh, and that was another thing, they weren't often called ghosts either, the preferred term being spirits. Was there a difference? These were things I thought I should learn, and soon.

"I'll need some sort of food to perform the séance," I said to myself. The ghost grew impatient as I shuffled around behind the counter, extracting a can of microwavable ravioli from the cabinet marked 'Missy' in bold black ink. "Don't get fussy," I said to the ghost as his impatience grew. "It says that spirits will be attracted to the food as they are still seeking physical nourishment."

He clearly disagreed, twitching in contemptuous disapproval over my ritualism.

"I've never had a séance before," I argued. "Apparently it's a common practice at slumber parties, and since I never got to have one of those either, we're making up for lost time." My eyes searched the office. Preoccupied, I said, "Now make yourself useful and help me find the candles."

He did, hovering where the flashlights should have been. Ben was old school, or just plain old, and I found only thick cream colored candles. I collected them, along with my Ouija board and the can of ravioli, walking around the counter to the sitting area.

The office wasn't much, two small spaces separated by a long desk and tall counter just left of the door. To the right was a sitting area, shabby but comfortable. Two tattered and faded blue chairs framed the window, pointing slightly inward. Between them was a cherry wood coffee table with spindly legs. On top was a white lace doily from Mary's time, and on top of that, a spread of magazines from mine. In the corner a potted plant grew unchecked, the leaves fringing over the top of one chair.

I set my things down, making space on the table. "A round table is recommended," I told the ghost. "It adds symbolism... or something. Whatever, something about a circle, I don't remember. But I'm sure an oval coffee table will do just as well."

The ghost settled back, hovering a few feet away, presumably to watch while I arranged and lit the candles. I then began to pull the plastic wrap from my Ouija board, frowning down at the list as I did so. "It says no fewer than three people should conduct a séance, but it doesn't say why." I pulled the cover off and dug the board out, laying it flat. "Maybe it's just a protective measure, bad spirits and all that." I looked at him sharply. "I've seen the movie _Ghost_ , you know."

He was a bit confused.

"The part where Sam possesses Oda Mae," I clarified. "I don't know if it's possible, and I don't even care. But if you ever pull a body snatch, I'll make you regret the day you died... more than you already do."

Undaunted by my threats, he continued to twitch impatiently.

"Alright, now that we've settled that..." I looked to the list, finding my last piece of business. "I'm to dim the lights," I said frowning. "I was supposed to use the candles because ghosts seek warmth and light, and now I'm supposed to turn off the overhead?"

The ghost was feeling smug and superior, gloating over the inconsistencies.

"Oh shut up," I said while standing. "I'm going to do it anyway."

Before I flicked the switch I peeked outside, gazing through the blinds. The parking lot was nearly empty, with only a few guests checked in. The single street light glazed the concrete in watery reflections. It had rained early in the evening, a brief spat that came on unexpectedly. Rainy days could often be lonely, but looking out the window just then it seemed something more, something almost mournful.

I let the blinds snap back into place, unwilling to freak myself out further. Partially I was feeling unsettled due to the change in shift. Usually I'd be safe in bed by then. But the intended séance wasn't helping matters, it only added to my unease.

Persuaded I wouldn't see another customer all evening, and having waited until three o'clock in the morning, the witching hour, I was out of reasons to stall. So I flicked the switch, plunging the room into a shadowy darkness.

### Chapter 31

The ghost was not where I had left him. He'd moved, now standing by the coffee table. He'd also changed form, no longer a misty, smoky thing, but a tall and lanky man. Usually when he was transparent his coloring was muted, and he'd blink in and out like a failing hologram. But now he was translucent, harder to see through, and the color of his clothes and skin were perfectly clear, not faint at all. His image didn't flicker, not once the whole time I stared. And he stared back, the intensity of his penetrating eyes giving him a formidable edge I'd never felt before.

It was one thing to walk near and talk with a puff of smoke, a harmless cloud. In that form I could almost pretend he was nothing more than the ghost dog, an unresponsive companion. And I had pretended, nearly forgotten that he was cognizant. Impossible to pretend now, not with his eyes boring into me, intelligent eyes with a knowing expression, preposterous to imagine he was anything less than sentient. Some of the websites had said so, that ghosts were nothing but an empty memory stuck on repeat. I knew it for a lie, at least where this ghost was concerned.

"Alright," I said, struggling to find my voice, "kneel down." It no longer felt natural to give him orders in so offhand a manner. But he obeyed, one knee sinking through the table as he moved his long legs into position. He didn't make a sound, but I noticed the candle flickered in response to the motion.

I forced myself to approach, dropping to the floor across from him. With the table between us I felt comfortable inspecting him more closely. I could just make out the muddy hazel of his owlish eyes in the trembling candlelight. His hair, which I had always taken for an ordinary brown, was a mess of limp curls touched with faint burgundy highlights that I'd never noticed before. I tried not to crinkle my nose, but couldn't help from saying, "Gross, you have red hair."

For some reason he wasn't ashamed.

I took in his blue flannel shirt. It drooped from him as if he was a hanger, long johns peeping out at the collar and sleeves. I was seeing him more clearly than I ever had before. For some reason it brought up the memory from a few hours earlier.

I'd come into the office, prepared to relieve Stephen of his, or my, shift, only to find him up to his ears in a bawdy historical romance. The book was mine of course. I'd forgotten it long ago in the bottom of a drawer somewhere or other. But what I now recalled was that the ghost had been hovering just over Stephen's shoulder. Had he been reading along? I hadn't given it a thought at the time, writing him off as harmless. But staring at him now I couldn't help but wonder what he knew, especially about me, as he'd been following me around since the phonebook debacle.

Shrugging off the distressing thought, I focused on the present. Taking up the planchette, I said, "We'll start with simple yes or no questions. I'll move this back and forth between the two and when I get to the proper response you let me know. But don't just think the confirmation, you have to feel it. Any strong emotion is fine, but something positive would be more appropriate, like excitement."

He nodded in understanding.

I cleared my throat and asked, "Are you a ghost?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"I have to ask a few obvious questions first," I explained. "You know, like they do when giving a lie detector test, to make sure the machine is working."

I cleared my throat again, repeating, "Are you a ghost?" Slowly I slid the heart shaped planchette first to no, and feeling nothing remarkable, moved on. As the point slowly came to rest on yes, we were both thrilled, probably his natural reaction to finally being able to express himself.

"Are you wearing a yellow shirt?" This time I started with the answer yes, knowing it to be false. I could feel him waiting for my hands to move, anticipating the answer no. It came and he smiled.

Being a medium wasn't so hard after all.

I cleared my throat for the third time, signaling another question. "Do you have unfinished business?" I could feel his positive response, knowing the answer was yes before I even moved the marker. We grew giddier with each question. Next was, "Do you require my assistance in completing said unfinished business?" Again I could feel his answer was yes without the planchette.

"Is the unfinished business revenge?" He was indecisive, even confused. I moved the marker back and forth, waiting for a response. Finally he looked at me and shrugged. "You don't know?" He shrugged again, not meeting my eye.

Unrelenting, I continued, "Is your unfinished business to communicate with a loved one? Do you want me to carry a message for you?" Again he didn't know, feeling so uncertain I let it drop.

I returned to simple questions. "Are you from St. Simons?" I didn't use the planchette because I felt the negative response without it, as if he'd said no aloud. "Were you living on the island when you died?" Positive feelings affirmed yes.

I picked up the planchette. "I'm going to need something more to go by." Turning the board to face him, I said, "Let's work on your name. Spell one letter at a time."

He raised his hand over the board, forefinger extended, and I realized with horror that he meant to point them out. "No!" I yelled. "Stop it! Stop it!" He pulled back, surprised at my burst of hysteria.

"You can't just show me the answer. What do you think this is for?" I asked, waving the planchette under his nose. "As the ghost, you're supposed to communicate with me, the medium. I'll ascertain the answer," I explained, annoyed that he was set on foiling my fun. "Now," I asked in exasperation, "shall we continue?"

I let my hand move over the rows at a steady pace, waiting for his influence to stop me. Instead of feeling excited when the point came across his answer, he felt an urgency. I could easily imagine him calling out 'Stop!'

The letters came one by one. S – M – I – T – T – Y. He shifted around after that, as if sitting back on his heels.

"Is that it?" I asked.

I felt his yes, as well as saw the head nod.

"Well I'm not calling you that," I announced with finality. "Maybe I'd call my pet ghost Smitty, but it's a stupid name even by dog standards." I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. "Was Smith your last name?"

He nodded, but the motion broke as he jerked his head to the side, looking toward the door.

I glanced from the profile of his face to the door and back again. "What?" I whispered.

He ignored me, staring in frustration at the door as if he could see through it, and I thought maybe he could. He jerked then, suddenly, and I was overcome with alarm.

My heart lurched, pounding a tattoo so rapid I could feel it pumping away in my chest. I pressed a clumsy hand over my breastbone, rubbing at the ache, only to find my fingers were shaking uncontrollably. It was my body's reaction to anxiety, or maybe the symptoms of raw fear. There were other emotions too—hatred, helplessness, and an overall tension that made my muscles sing with strain. These feelings belonged to the ghost, his reaction to whatever was on the other side of that door.

He stood, but this time his knees knocked the table as he got up. It jerked a few inches while the candles on top wobbled, one toppling over. I couldn't react, not to anything, feeling numb and out of sorts. I watched his very solid body move, hearing the soft swishing of his wool shirt and the dull thud of his nondescript boots as he moved around the table. His long fingers gripped the top of my arm, hauling me up off the floor.

Up close I could see a light flush on his cheeks. He was no longer that sickly gray in his solid form, though he still looked pallid like a corpse, but much less ghastly.

He began to pull me, but I resisted, seeing the overturned candle dripping wax on Mary's doily. Soon it would catch fire. "The candles," I whispered, trying to get his attention. The grip on my arm didn't slacken as he pivoted to blow out each flame. The light grew dim until at last, with one simple breath, we were plunged into darkness.

I found that being held by a ghost, alone in the dark, was not at all to my liking. He continued to propel me forward, tugging me toward the desk, though I wasn't sure why. We both bumped into it, and gripping me by the waist and thigh as I yelped in protest, he unceremoniously dumped me over the counter. I hit the desk, landing on my shoulder and sliding right off where I flopped to the floor.

Upon descent, my legs and feet had managed to drag a stack of paper off the desk before I inadvertently kicked the swivel chair. So as I lay with the wind knocked out of me, prone in the pitch black, I heard the leafy flapping of scattered pages, the chair's rotation device screeching protest as the seat rocked back and forth, and at last the office door swinging open with an almighty bang as it smashed into the wall.

### Chapter 32

Light from the streetlamp filtered in through the open door, feeble, no brighter than a moonlit night. I watched the shadows change on the ceiling, shifting in time with the heavy footsteps. I held my breath as the intruder moved around.

It could be anyone, Ben, a late night traveler come in search of a room to rest, or even the ghost himself. But I doubted it. From his reaction I could guess—Beagban.

I heard a small sound, and imagined it was his shins meeting the coffee table. But no muffled curse followed, not so much as a peep, just footsteps.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Coming closer, then a pause. The seconds ticked by, a minute passed, then two, and still nothing happened. Was he standing over me? Could he see me across the counter? Could he hear my breathing?

So much time seemed to pass that I began to question if he was really there. My hearing wasn't spot on, maybe he left and I'd missed it. Trying to get a sense with my emotions, I sorted through, but couldn't feel past the fear. If it was Beagban my efforts would be fruitless; he'd likely feel nothing. I exhaled a long, shaky breath before turning to look. I leaned upward and stretched out my neck to see over the desk.

A patch of black lunged forward. There was a meaty thump as he threw his chest over the counter. I screamed, but no sound escaped as his hands closed over my throat, squeezing tightly. I kicked my legs, scratching at his wrists, but he was unhampered by my struggle.

He pulled me at an awkward angle, my body arched over the counter and desk precariously, my feet barely able to toe the floor. I'd ceased to struggle because it hurt, putting too much weight on my neck. In this position I was at his mercy, and he knew it.

His fingers eased a bit, but remained firm. I could barely take a breath between the coughing and hacking. My eyes welled up and I blinked back tears as I strained to see the man looming over me. From upside down I couldn't make out more than the outline of his shape and the barest reflection of light glinting off his eyes and teeth.

"Did you enjoy your afternoon with Wallace?" Beagban inquired. His fingers slackened further, allowing me to speak.

The situation felt so surreal. My mind was screaming in chaos and I just couldn't believe this was happening again. But I could believe it, because I'd expected it, prepared for it. Remembering the ring, I forced myself to stop gripping Beagban's wrist. It was ineffectual anyway. I couldn't stop him from strangling me if he wanted to. So I let my hands relax, settling on either side of my head, palms up, seemingly harmless.

Knowing he enjoyed my fear, I stuttered, "Please don't hurt me." It was very convincing, but then, I wasn't really pretending. Meanwhile I tried to reach my thumb over my forefinger, trying to push down the stones. But one-handed I could barely graze the ring at all.

Beagban laughed, low and huffing. "Did he reassure you, tell you it was safe?" He found the idea insulting, growing angrier from his own suggestion. He shook my neck, losing his temper. "Did he tell you I was gone?"

"No," I blurted while rubbing my fingers together in hopes of turning the ring around. "He said to be careful. That you were dangerous."

"Afraid of me is he?"

I was so preoccupied trying to pry my ring open that I almost missed the ghost solidifying behind Beagban. The room was hardly more than a black hole, but my eyes had adjusted and I caught the obscure shadowy flash of the ghost's arm as he struck Beagban in the ear. It was a good solid hit, something I hadn't expected from the ghost. Apparently neither had Beagban. He looked flabbergasted, a fitting expression for his cartoonish features. Shaking off the dizzies, he turned, searching the space behind him. It was the perfect opportunity and the ghost took it, smashing him in the nose with a disgustingly fleshy crunch.

Beagban crashed to the floor, head swiveling wildly back and forth, searching the darkness, looking, but unable to find his assailant.

I sat up slowly, rubbing the blood back into my neck as I squinted to watch. I knew what freaked him out, and it wasn't two punches (though they were by no means measly). It was that he hadn't predicted them.

"Your combat sense won't help you here," I said. "You can't predict the dead."

My prediction on the other hand was really quite accurate. Beagban was unsettled and afraid. He didn't say a word, nor even utter a threat. Just scuttled back a few paces, jerked upright, and lurched for the door. I crawled over the counter, coughing and hacking now and again. And only after the door was shut and locked up tight did I peep through the blinds. A black pickup truck roared out of the lot, a bulky tarp spread over the bed.

I wasn't foolish enough to think all was well. Beagban was concerned with his reputation far more than his employer's. It would eat at him that he'd run scared, and soon he'd be back. I had just kicked the hornet's nest, but at least I was alive.

After flipping on the overhead I turned around, inspecting the mess. The ghost hovered in the corner, a shadowy mass. He looked... tired.

"I guess we'll finish the séance later," I said, gathering up the candles. That was, if Beagban didn't kill me first. Packing up the Ouija board and arranging the coffee table didn't take nearly enough time, and too soon I was out of work to occupy me.

My heart was still pounding away furiously in my chest, the shakes had yet to go, and I felt very close to retching. These Beagban encounters were taking their toll. I was so overwrought I didn't think I'd ever sleep again.

### Chapter 33

At fifteen to five Ben arrived to find me asleep with my head pillowed on my folded arms. I'd taken a break earlier, just long enough for a snack, but before I knew it I was being prodded awake with granola in my hair.

"The door was locked," Ben said, thumping his keys on the counter.

I winced at the noise, groggily rubbing my eyes as I grumbled a response.

"You locked the office to take a nap!"

"No, the nap was an accident," I croaked.

"Then what'd you lock the door for?"

"I was scared."

Now it was his turn to grumble something. I thought I heard Missy's name, listing her merits no doubt. The first being her ability to complete a night shift.

He puttered around behind the counter, shifting and moving things with excessive force. I took the clamor as my cue to leave.

I was halfway out the door when Ben said, "I don't want to see you back here until you're ready to work."

He wasn't being choleric, that was just Ben-speak for: I'll cover your shift if you come in late.

And indeed I did.

It was still dark out when I got home and I had no desire to see the sun rise. But before I crawled into bed I went to see Lucas. He was gone. I followed my routine, checking both doors and the driveway just in case.

His absence didn't bode well. I couldn't help but wonder if he even came home last night. This was avoidance at its best, and I was going to have to do something drastic to match it. Something like... I wasn't sure, maybe write a note? I cringed at the thought—I was shit at expressing myself. Maybe the note could wait a little longer.

### * * *

I woke just before noon. I took a nice long shower, even shaved my legs. And after that I decided I should do some house chores. Living alone in such a small place left little to do. It was too soon for another grocery run and I rarely had other errands. I went to the bank every other week and the post office almost never. But there were always the staple chores: dishes and laundry.

The ghost dog had returned from wherever it was that the thing always disappeared to. I called it Booger, warning that I would hire an exorcist if it ever chewed on my underwear again. The dog hardly listened, flitting around my ankles. I never bothered stepping around, letting my feet sweep through its misty hotdog body. I quickly learned my lesson.

While carting an armload of dirty laundry down the stairs I managed to trip over the little shit. I hadn't noticed it waiting at the bottom of the stairwell, the pile of clothes obscuring my view. Therefore I made no move to shoo it away or sidestep as the thing turned solid. I didn't even see it happen, but I felt it. The top of my foot collided with a hairy dog blob and I went sprawling onto the floor, something of a habit as of late.

The little spawn, seeing me prone, seized the opportunity to set its still solid paws on my shoulder, leaning in to sniff my face. The clothes were flung away as I jerked upright, scrubbing my cheek. Had I imagined the dead puppy breath ruffling my hair? Or the sound of wet panting in my ear?

It was all too much. Having a pet ghost was one thing, but tripping over it was another. What next? Was I going to find a puddle of pee on the floor? I shuddered at the thought, remembering all the reasons I didn't own an animal.

Unwilling to wait for an explanation to present itself, I abandoned the clothes, leaving them scattered on the living room floor. The ghosts were changing, becoming more substantial somehow. I grabbed my car keys, preparing to drive into town and pump Madame Bristow for some answers.

### * * *

The weather was pleasant, the sun having long since dried up the rain from last night. The tourists and townies were taking advantage. This put me at a disadvantage as I struggled to find a parking spot, circling around the grid of busy streets in the heart of St. Simons' village. My usual parking haunts were not an option as my Beagban encounters had left me no longer trusting the tucked away back alleys. Call me paranoid—I'd take it as a compliment.

Eventually I gave up altogether and parked at the Crowne Hotel. It was a long walk to the Parlor, further than I'd intended, but for once the crowded streets would be welcome. And I moved through them as if I expected to be abducted at any moment, avoiding secluded areas and especially white vans. I suppose that was the reason I noticed him, the man.

I couldn't pinpoint when he'd started to follow me. But as I waited (less than patiently) to use the crosswalk I saw him lurking at a distance, and then again, the same thing at the next crosswalk. That was when I recognized the orange baseball cap, knowing I'd seen it before at the Turtle Center.

I couldn't recall his appearance from before either, only the baseball cap stood out. Today he was a strange mix of business and casual, wearing a white shirt and blazer, both at odds with his jeans and sneakers.

I dropped my satchel, intentionally of course, making sure its contents spilled out over the sidewalk. Cursing for show, I knelt down, facing backwards to watch him from beneath the fringe of my bangs while I gathered my belongings.

He spun away, giving me his profile as he inspected the fire hydrant as if it was an invaluable antiquity. The distance that separated us was enough to drown out the detail, but I was close enough to know he was just your average joe.

Pale skin and washed out blondish/brownish hair, he was of an average build and height, well, maybe on the short side. Any woman who fell in love with him would easily find him attractive. He had a smooth and even face. But if you were like me, spotting him from afar, you'd think he was ordinary, with no remarkable features to appreciate.

My novel was the last to go back into the bag, _Violated by a Viking_ , or something to that effect. I stood up briskly and continued to walk, keeping a casual pace. I passed a few bicyclists along the way, but mostly families. One man called out, asking if I would mind taking a picture for him. His wife and kids were already posed, just waiting for a helpful passerby. I pretended not to hear and kept on walking.

My feigned indifference was just that—feigned. I was not keen on being followed. My heart was thumping and I really wanted to break away and make a run for it. But who knew what he'd do then? So I played it prudent, unwilling to force his hand. Admittedly, he didn't frighten me like Beagban did, whose mere presence made me shake in terror. But he worried me all the same.

The Parlor was just ahead. I only needed to cross the street, but I veered off instead, looping the long way around a chain of stores. The second I was around the corner and out of sight I took off running, hardly pausing to cross the intersection. The easel was absent, the Parlor's front door locked. I banged on the glass with both fists while watching over my shoulder. I only had a minute or so before he rounded the corner and I didn't want him to see where I'd disappeared to.

Nancy opened the door just then, looking a bit frazzled. I pushed her out of the way as I stumbled inside, slamming the door behind me.

"What's the matter? Are you alright?" she asked with concern.

Ignoring her questions I peeked out through the blinds, watching as the Average Joe jogged around the corner. He halted, searching the shoppers, but after a moment was visibly disappointed. I sighed with relief, feeling quite crafty.

Nancy peered over my shoulder, curious. "What? What is it?"

"Nothing," I said, dropping the blinds into place with satisfaction. "I was being followed, but I lost him."

"Are you in trouble?" Her eyes had gone wide. She was worried for me.

I waved vaguely. "I hope you're not busy, because I really need to talk to you."

### Chapter 34

I turned the bolt and followed Nancy through the creaky, narrow hallway. It was just as dark and dusty as I remembered, the grayish-blue floorboards washing out the already dreary wallpaper. "The crowds are out. Why are you closed?"

She led me around the desk and past the rooms where people received their mystical consultations. "Usually we keep tourist hours," she answered. "You know, closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. But Eclipsys was feeling poorly this weekend, so I didn't bother flipping the sign."

"Something serious?"

"No, just a migraine. She's feeling better today." The last door along the hallway opened to a staircase. I climbed after Nancy, noticing here feet were bare beneath her green peasant skirt.

I hadn't cared where we were going, hadn't thought about it, but I was surprised to find the second floor was here living quarters. The stairs emptied into a den-like room. It was cluttered with baubles, but homey.

Sunlight flooded in through a large bay window, highlighting the dangling stained glass trinkets. With herbs growing in the sill and silky scarves draped over the lamps, the place had a witchy feel. But unlike the dramatic theatrics of the floor below, this wasn't done up to fit a client's preconceived notion of the occult. This was a reflection of Nancy's personality.

What should have been a dining room was an office turned gym, with a desk pushed against the wall and an elliptical machine hogging up all the space. Eclipsys was on it, her feet and the machine flushed together, spinning in fluid motion.

She didn't pause when Nancy said, "You remember Adelaide?" but grunted in reply.

"Feeling better?" I asked sarcastically. Watching her exercise, it was hard to believe she'd ever been sick.

Gone was the small but stately astrologer, and in her place was a small and sweaty woman. Her pseudo gypsy/priestess garb was gone, and she wore a pair of gray sweats instead. With her hair tied in a ponytail, the black curls made a pom pom that bounced with every step.

Finding her as such left me quite satisfied.

Nancy took the higher road, pretending we were all good friends. "We'll be in the kitchen," she said to Eclipsys. "I'll fix you a drink if you like."

Eclipsys gave no response and Nancy strode away as if she'd never expected one. Their relationship was odd. They had the familiarity of lovers but none of the affection. Perhaps just a close friendship? But there was a formality there as well, maybe due to their working situation. A friendly professionalism, I mused. Or maybe it was a sisterly attitude because they were related. One of them was obviously adopted then, because when it came to looks, they were polar opposites.

Eclipsys was petite but firm, with wiry musculature. Nancy on the other hand was a large and fleshy woman. Eclipsys was dark and severe with sleek curling black hair. Nancy was a frizzy blonde, disheveled but friendly, her motherly gestures inviting and trustworthy. If Eclipsys was night, then Nancy was day.

I took a seat at the kitchen table and Nancy, the ever thoughtful hostess, asked if I'd like some tea.

"No, do you have soda?"

The answer was no, but I really wasn't surprised.

She settled herself in the chair across from me. "So, you're being followed..." she hinted, fishing for an explanation.

"Yes," I admitted candidly. "But that's not the reason I came."

"It's not?"

"No, I have questions concerning the ghosts. I was hoping you could explain why they're changing."

"What do you mean changing?" she asked, eyebrows pinched.

"Do you remember when I asked if that ghost at the motel was broken because he winked in and out?" I waited for her nod and continued. "But he wasn't broken. All ghosts are like that... sort of struggling and fragile. Or they used to be until recently."

"What changed?" she asked, perplexed and curious.

I shrugged, equally perplexed. "I don't know. My pet ghost, you know, the dog, it's been dragging my clothes around, even chewing on them," I said feeling frustrated all over again just thinking about it. "And today, just now, I tripped over it."

"You tripped over a ghost?"

"Yeah, I know, it's crazy, but that's not even the half of it. The sulky ghost, the one that haunts my motel, he can pick me up, and punch. He punches things."

She gasped, totally appalled. "He's violent?"

"I guess so, but in a good way. He's helped me out of a pinch a time or two." My response did nothing to appease her. I tried again. "Really, he's never hurt me. He's very protective," I assured.

There was a concerned pause before she asked, "Have you noticed this phenomenon among all the ghosts?"

"There aren't a lot of ghosts on St. Simons, but Jekyll Island is lousy with them." I thought back to the ghosts I'd seen. "For the most part, they appeared normal, or whatever's normal for a ghost. But there was one... she was different."

"How so?"

"She suspected I could see her, so she began to taunt me, hoping I'd react. She pinched one of my friends and whispered in another's ear, she could also make the trees move. But none of it seemed to tire her. She didn't blink out or fade away. It was like she had a store of energy. But what do I know? Maybe it's like with bugs—she's the strongest because she's their queen."

Suspicious and worried, Nancy asked, "This ghost, what did she look like?"

"Middle-aged, probably died in the seventies." I forwent mentioning the hefty bit because of my audience.

"Oh dear," Nancy muttered.

"I was joking about the queen thing."

"Yes, I know, it's not that."

"What?" I asked, not liking the direction of her emotions.

"Her name is Mable," Nancy said, shifting in her chair uneasily. "She was... well, I suppose you could say she was Percy's pet ghost."

"What!"

"He came across her," she paused to think, "on his first visit to the island," Nancy explained. "We were living in northern Georgia at the time and he was traveling on business for a day or two. He mentioned her when he came back, just briefly. But his ghost sightings were never news, so I forgot about it.

"But then we moved here and she sort of... attached herself to him." Nancy's fingers smoothed the tablecloth rhythmically, a gentle fidget. "He said she was helpful."

"But you didn't like her," I guessed from the rising resentment.

Chagrined, she said, "It's ridiculous, I know, to begrudge a ghost." With a self-depreciating smile, she said, "But in my defense, living with her was really quite burdensome.

"Obviously I couldn't sense her, and yet, I always knew when she was there. Percy gave it away. I'd wake in the morning next to him and he'd act cool towards me, unaffectionate, and I'd know she was in the room watching." Nancy looked at me, saying, "You can feel how I grew to resent her, and I think she felt the same.

"Eventually I talked to Percy, admitting I didn't want her in the house. He didn't take me seriously, said she was harmless. So I let my complaints rest, but I don't think that Mable did. After that it was as you said, a pinch, an odd chill at the back of my neck, and even once a nudge while I was going down the stairs."

"What a bitch!"

Nancy was too nice to agree, but I felt her affirmation. "It's a good thing she didn't follow you from Jekyll. If Mable knew you could see her, she'd latch on to you just like she did with Percy."

We both lapsed into silence.

I was thinking how shitty my life could get with Mable hanging around. I felt she had a mischievous nature and could easily imagine her dramatically popping out like the fourth member of Charlie's Angels, interrupting me while I was peeing or something.

"It's very strange," Nancy began. I got a sense of discovery—her thoughts had obviously been more productive than mine. "Percy never helped Mable cross the veil, though he tried often enough. He was sure she had some unfinished business, something holding her here." Nancy didn't realize she was plucking threads from the tablecloth, too engrossed in her thoughts to notice. "But I'm not so sure. I think what Mable really wanted was to be seen." Nancy's fingers stilled and she looked at me then. I could tell by the flurry of fleeting impressions that she'd pieced something together, some idea I couldn't follow.

"What?" I demanded, bothered that she would have to spell it out for me.

"I don't think it's a coincidence that the ghosts you've noticed changing have each been in contact with someone gifted to see them." I could feel her growing more certain of her theory as she continued. "What is a ghost anyway? No," she interrupted before I could say a word, "more importantly, what is a soul?"

I shrugged, clueless as to where this was going.

"A soul is the combination of spirit and body," she said intently. "And ghost is just another word for spirit. So you have these incomplete beings drifting around without their bodies, unable to make a mark in our world."

I scoffed, "And what? You think I'm giving them back a piece of their soul?"

She sat back in her chair, totally satisfied, and simply said, "Yes."

"That's a bit far-fetched," I chided.

"Our bodies are the instruments through which we influence the world. Spirits lack bodies, but if you see them then they don't lack influence. Through you they can change things. And yes," she said firmly, "maybe that control gives them back a piece of their soul."

"Then why aren't all the ghosts Percy saw, you know, soulier?"

"Mable was the only ghost he saw frequently, she was around for years. The others he'd try to help, and if he couldn't, he moved on. It makes perfect sense," she said, growing more excited. "Percy could only see the ghosts, but you can see _and_ feel them. With you they can communicate, truly express themselves. It would explain why your ghosts have grown strong so quickly, they've probably surpassed Mable a hundred times over."

I ignored the satisfaction she gleaned from her own remark. Instead I said, "How come Percy never figured this out?"

"He could only see Mable, so their communication process was stinted and difficult. Gathering the pieces of her soul must have happened slowly over the course of years. He probably didn't notice the change because it was so subtle and slow in coming."

"You know what that means?" I asked, growing equally excited. "There are other people out there who can see ghosts!"

Nancy was confused, so I tried to explain. "Ghosts haunt things. They appear in cemeteries and rattle the pipes in creepy houses. I'm sure, like psychics, most ghost stories are full of shit, but a few must be real. And if a ghost can do those things then it means it got that strength from somewhere."

Nancy nodded. "You're right. I'll go through Percy's papers and hopefully I can find someone who shares the gift."

"No one with this ability ever came to the occult gathering you host?"

She shook her head. "Most who attend are from the states. If Percy knew of someone with a similar talent, they may well live halfway around the world," she admitted.

"Oh," I said, somewhat disappointed.

And again we lapsed into silence.

I wondered what my part in the master plan was. It seemed odd that a soul should lose its body in death but continue on, incomplete and unsatisfied. And why then did they cross through the veil at all? Was I meant to be a ghost therapist, offering my counsel to the lost souls? It was certainly ironic that my mere recognition gave them substance, or was it? I never could pinpoint irony.

I did know I needed to be more careful. My interaction gave the ghosts strength. I could now see how the séance had bolstered Smith's abilities. Afterwards he was more than happy to punch Beagban, something he hadn't been able to do before. I'd have to be choosy the next time I saw a spirit. I didn't want a Mable-like hanger-on. And I had to be sure that those I helped truly deserved it. I thought of my pet ghost. I was going to have to ignore him before he started to shed all over the sofa.

Smith though, I really owed him. On a whim I asked, "Can you do a reading for a ghost?"

She thought about it for a minute. "I don't know, but I can try. Just let me find my cards," she said softly to herself while rummaging through a kitchen drawer. "Ah ha!" she said triumphantly, holding up a weathered pack of tarot cards.

"Aren't those supposed to be wrapped in a fancy cloth and kept snug under your pillow?" After meeting Nancy I had Googled the art of tarot during a lull at work. One website had given specific details about bonding with the deck, how the cards were sensitive to energies and such.

"Oh, pish-tosh," Nancy said, waving her hand at my nonsense. "I have a slew of cards, not all of them tarot either, and they're all well used. It hardly matters."

I watched her shuffle like a seasoned croupier, mesmerized by the flashing cards and her quick hands. "If you don't do tarot in the traditional sense, then how do you do it?"

She shrugged, laying a handful of cards facedown. "It's hard to say really. You ask any seer, no matter the method, and you'll always get a cryptic answer. It's not a matter of _doing_ anything. I simply look at the cards and a pattern presents itself, something only I can see." Again she shrugged, as if knowing her answer was less than satisfactory.

She flipped the cards one at a time, and apart from the whisking sound they made the room remained silent. It was really quite dramatic. I'd been hoping for a show, imagining she'd murmur the significance of each card while prophesying my eventual greatness. But this was reality—I wasn't paying, and the reading wasn't mine. But even still, it was dramatic. I caught myself unconsciously holding my breath in anticipation.

Nancy stared at the cards, and after what seemed an eternity she began to rearrange them, as if putting together a story. I could feel when she was done, and she leaned back to prove it. Flicking the death card, she said, "In a traditional reading I would assure you that this card is not literal, that it doesn't herald your death."

"But?" I asked, feeling one coming.

She smiled. "But in this case it's more than literal. The death card represents the ghost, and I see that you will give him a new beginning."

"You're not really wowing me with your psychic skills," I said severely. "We figured that much out with logic." I leaned over the cards, squinting hard. "Does it mention anything about his life? Maybe some bit of information that can lead me to a paper trail. A death certificate would be a nice start. Maybe it would hint me in the right direction, help me discover what his unfinished business is."

"You won't find one," she said, staring into the cards. "You won't find a death certificate."

"Um... why not? I promise he's really dead."

"Not according to the state."

"How can that be?" I wondered.

"They never found a body," Nancy explained.

"Did the cards tell you that?"

"No, it was logic," Nancy said, and I thought she might be smirking.

I sat back, tartly asking, "Anything else?"

"Yes. The weeping woman can help you."

"And who is she?" I questioned, though I knew it was a waste of breath.

Nancy shrugged, proving me right.

### Chapter 35

Lucas,

I'm not really seeing that guy. He just pays me to be his date.

\- Adelaide

I scratched over the note, thinking he might mistake my meaning. Only my first attempt and I was already frustrated. I took a deep breath and tried again.

Dear Lucas,

What you saw wasn't what it looked like, but I can't explain because the truth is much less believable. But trust me, I'd never date a man who smiles that often.

\- Sincerely yours, Adelaide

I scribbled over that note too, but thought I might be making progress.

I was interrupted by a shifty looking man—I guessed sex offender. Predictably, he stared at my chest while I rushed him through the check-in process. His arousal was repulsive and I couldn't wait to throw his room key over the counter. After he left I wrote a note to warn Missy, she should have her mace close at hand tonight.

I paused a moment after the door closed, waiting until I felt like myself again. Tapping my notepad absently, I tried to focus on what I really wanted to express. Inspiration struck and I took up my pen.

I want to share your soap, that's how much I like you.

Though it expressed my attraction to a T, I worried Lucas might be confused at finding this simple statement taped to his door. Hopelessly I crossed it out as well.

I wanted to say 'it's not what it looks like,' or 'I can explain.' But since those were the lines most often used by cheating spouses, I forwent the cliché. Eventually, and with much reluctance, I wrote:

Avoiding me is cowardly. I'll explain when you're done brooding.

It didn't hint at a mere misunderstanding, and it didn't make me sound innocent, but hopefully it would shame him into seeing me. I left the note on his door as soon as I got home that night. Then I spent the rest of the evening resisting the temptation to hop the fence and see if he got it.

### * * *

Smith was suffering from the mopes again, so I felt him coming. And sure enough, moments later, he swept into the kitchen. I briefly paused mid-bite, letting the bagel hover near my mouth while I eyed him. Having sifted through the back door he was obviously not solid, but he certainly looked it. I scrutinized him while finishing my breakfast. Was his shirt brighter? His face less pale? It seemed so. And again I couldn't help but think how much more comfortable I was with his misty form. There was nothing threatening about a drifting cloud of fluff.

He'd taken to following me, that I knew, but even so he hardly came to the house, preferring to haunt Sterling's. So I asked, "Is everything alright?"

Smith shrugged, his attention settling on the little dog I'd diligently been ignoring all morning.

I stood up to rinse my plate. My unwelcome pet followed, begging on its hind legs, hoping to receive a crumb.

Smith casually settled himself on the chair I'd just vacated, his mannerisms so natural I nearly forgot he was dead. I half expected him to open his mouth and start talking. He didn't of course. Mutely he watched the dog, amused by its antics.

"Stop that," I said, annoyed with the both of them. Addressing Smith specifically, I said, "Don't even look at it, it's being punished."

I wasn't speaking to the dog, but I was speaking about it. I didn't know if that counted. To play it safe I assumed that the mere reference of it was considered an impact on my side of the veil, and it was therefore still winning back the pieces of its soul. So I changed the subject, unwilling to charge its batteries and further its bad behavior. "I went to this psychic I know, and she did a reading for you."

He was confused.

"Psychic," I repeated like I knew exactly what it meant. I waved my hand around. "You know... occult, clairvoyant, card reader..." I quit throwing out random words, letting my voice trail off when he seemed to grasp my meaning. "Anyway, she said I wouldn't find your death certificate, that it doesn't exist, even hinted that your body had never been found."

I had his complete attention, I could feel it. His earlier despondence was forgotten as was any distraction, the dog included. I was the center of his universe. And if he were living, I'd say he waited with bated breath to hear what I would say next.

"I'll take your sudden interest as a confirmation of her assertion."

He nodded and I could feel the _yes_ with his emotions.

"So you died but no one knows it?" I repeated to be sure.

His affirmation was clear.

Absently I tugged at my hair, taking in this new information. "Maybe finding the body, I mean _your_ body, is your unfinished business," I suggested.

His emotions roiled. They were a disorganized mess. I thought he felt unsure, doubtful even.

"Alright," I sighed. "It's evident you still don't know your own unfinished business," I stressed heavily with frustration. Continuing, "The psychic said someone else could help. Do you know who the weeping woman is?"

His figure exploded out, raining down white. It dissolved so quickly I missed his expression entirely. His emotions were a different matter though, and for a moment they remained in his wake. None of them were pleasant. He'd been quite disturbed by my question, a sure sign he knew exactly who the weeping woman was. Unfortunately he appeared less than willing to communicate with his medium about it.

If Smith thought to discourage my curiosity about the weeping woman with his little tantrum, then he'd made a mistake. In fact, he'd only made the mystery more interesting, spurred me on as it were.

I considered the whole situation while getting ready, used some deductive reasoning, and decided what to do next.

Judging from his outfit, I figured Smith probably died at some point in the last thirty years. Okay, so flannel and denim were common. Lumberjacks had probably been wearing them since the dawn of time. But the cut and style of his clothing didn't seem too outdated. And his hair had that messy look which I imagined couldn't exist until after the fifties. They were so neat and tidy back then, with their sweater sets and slicked back hair. Alright, so maybe my theory had a few holes, but I was confident nonetheless.

Under the assumption that Smith died in the last thirty years, and knowing he'd lived on the island at the time, I figured a little local gossip might be useful. This was when I'd typically seek out Francesca, only Francesca and I weren't speaking. But I could speak with the next best source—her mother.

### * * *

Having refused to change her surname to suit her daughter's wishes, Francesca's mother remained Tammy Wainer. She lived in a narrow townhouse located in the thick of tourist traffic on the southern tip of the island. A prime spot for people-watching, something Tammy enjoyed even if she wouldn't admit it.

With some reluctance I parked along the small lane out back. It wasn't far from where I'd last been snatched, nor did it seem any safer. So before exiting the car I slid open the face plate of the ring Reed had given me, my finger hovering over the button. If anyone so much as looked at me funny I'd press it.

There was no back entrance to Tammy's house. Only a rickety fire escape that was useless in an emergency because it was covered top to bottom in potted plants. I jogged around the row homes, coming alongside the busy street as I rushed for the front door.

She was home and happy to see me. I didn't flatter myself; I knew she was more interested in pumping me for information than the mere gift of my company. Don't get me wrong—Tammy Wainer was a nice enough person. She was always warm and welcoming, but like all people, she wasn't perfect, a weakness for gossip being her biggest foible. I'd heard her complain about the local ladies who took their tea together while idly chatting over the personal affairs of one local or another. 'It's disgusting,' Tammy would say while slipping in outrageous tidbits concerning each woman. It was called projection, and it was a defense mechanism. It would be nice if everyone was as easy to understand.

"I can guess why you're here," she said, leading me to the living room. "Fannie told me all about it," she confided, fluffing the throw pillows. She ushered me to sit. "Would you like some sweet tea, a lemonade?"

"Lemonade would be great," I said. I hated lemonade, but talking over drinks was the perfect setting for the conversation I had planned, comfortable, casual. So I waited while she threw some refreshments together.

I'd never actually visited Tammy without Francesca, but we were well enough acquainted that it wasn't totally weird.

"Fannie told me about Reed too," Tammy called from the kitchen. Francesca abhorred the nickname Fannie as it undermined the sexy effect she'd been going for by changing her name in the first place. Originally her mother had agreed to call her Francesca. But Fannie sounded a lot like Katie, simple, sweet. And so it stuck.

As Tammy bustled in with a tray, I asked, "What do you think of Reed?" She settled into the recliner while I inspected the proffered tray. It included not only a pitcher of lemonade, but a small plate of Fig Newtons.

"I warned her she'd get her heart broken carrying on the way she does." It was a criticism, but I felt the concern beneath it.

"He certainly did a number on her. I've never seen her lose her head for a man before." Francesca would not only despise the fact that I'd dropped by to visit her mother, but this conversation, if repeated, would drive her over the edge.

"She's convinced that you stole him away. You should have heard her going on about it, ranting in tears." Her demeanor hadn't changed, but I felt the small suspicion. Tammy liked me, wanted to keep liking me, but her daughter would always come first.

"I have no interest in Reed Wallace," I said honestly. "And I've made that clear to Francesca on multiple occasions."

She believed me.

Tammy sipped her drink, leaning back in her chair. "She must have lost her head then, like you said. When she came over crying I thought something seriously bad had happened. Nearly gave me a heart attack! And then she started babbling about how he talked about you, looked at you, as if you'd put a spell on him." A quiet moment passed before Tammy murmured, "Nonsense." She quickly looked at me, feeling embarrassed. "I don't mean to say it's nonsense that he could be attracted to you, you are a pretty girl, in your own way. I just meant that you aren't like Francesca. You don't play games with men. If you wanted him, you would have told her."

"You're right," I agreed. "I only wish I knew how to convince Francesca."

Tammy didn't bother hiding her sympathy, it was there, swimming in her eyes as she leaned forward to pat my hand. "She thinks she's in love, and that's enough to make any woman crazy. Be patient, she'll come 'round."

I nodded, feeling strange.

Another quiet moment passed. I couldn't stand it so I segued to the point. "How's your job?" I asked.

"It's good," she assured me. I didn't really care, could hardly even remember what she did. I was just waiting for the polite rebuttal. And sure enough she asked, "And you? How's your job doing?"

"It's entertaining. There always seems to be a strange new character checking in."

"I bet," she agreed.

"In fact, we just had a group of women visiting the island, and I overheard the most interesting conversation."

"Oh?"

I suppressed a smile. _Oh_ indeed, she was hooked, hoping for a sordid story, preferring it be about someone she knew. My story was going to fall flat of her expectations. I almost felt bad.

Shrugging it off, I said, "They were talking about a man that used to live on the island. I only caught the last half of the story, so I'm not sure how long ago this was, but I got the impression it was some years before.

"Apparently he mysteriously disappeared one day, leaving behind a woman. I don't recall if it was his mother or a girlfriend, but they said she cried a lot, mourned him." I watched her for some sign of recognition, but there was none. I persisted, "Did you ever hear of a man from St. Simons disappearing?"

"A man that went missing, disappeared off the island? No, I've never heard of that. And I would have, too, if it'd ever happened, would have seen it in the news." She smiled, but it held no real pleasure. "Plenty of men run off. They go for greener pastures and leave a tide of tears behind. How sure are you that he went missing? Maybe he just abandoned ship."

"No," I replied firmly. "He didn't run off." And though my voice sounded certain, I couldn't help but wonder if it was the truth.

I'd assumed that Smith was a victim. That he went out one day and never returned, having met his tragic and sinister end. But what if Tammy was right? What if he ran off, left some poor woman behind, and then had an accident. Or maybe he never went anywhere, he simply drowned while swimming in the ocean and his body was rotting away somewhere in its depths. This simpler explanation made sense. Likely he was just an unlucky fool with a wrong place, wrong time, kind of deal.

I tested out this theory while examining his emotions in retrospect. They gave me no insight. He was often sad, dejected. But those feelings might have stemmed from guilt and regret, not the injustice of his situation. I'd painted Smith at best a hero in my mind, at worst a victim. Chances were he was victim to a blameless accident, and perhaps not as pristine as I liked to think. His lack of help supported this theory.

Having led me to the dry cleaner, that may or may not have led me to Wildwood Apartments, which most certainly didn't pan out, he'd proven useless. And when I'd asked him about the weeping woman, did he communicate? No, he exploded ectoplasm all over my kitchen. And in case you were wondering, ectoplasm was what ghosts were made of according to the internet.

But I owed Smith. It was that simple, and I hated it, hated owing anyone, even a dead man. He'd helped me out, saved me from Beagban on more than one occasion, and I was bungling up his reward. Something he probably didn't deserve in the first place. How Percival had ever managed to help anyone complete their unfinished business, I would never know. And I was expected to do better being an empath and all.

The rest of my visit with Tammy didn't go well. I was hardly social at the best of times, but with this newest disappointment I was completely out of sorts.

My mind was churning, frustrated, and chaotic, not the temperament necessary for socializing. And after we'd said goodbye and I was left standing alone on her doorstep, I couldn't remember half of what we'd been talking about. I knew I ate all the Fig Newtons, and I had a vague recollection of being questioned about Reed—Tammy looking for the inside scoop no doubt. And no doubt she found my one word rejoinders completely inadequate.

I sighed in defeat, discouraged by yet another lead that went nowhere. Maybe it was the frustration, the lack of control in my life that made me do it. I could hardly offer an excuse for my next actions, just a weak explanation. I was sure the ring played its part, lulling me into a false sense of security so that when I saw the black truck, recognized the telltale blue tarp that covered the back, I didn't hesitate to run across the street and hide inside.

### Chapter 36

Beagban's truck was parked between the hair salon and a corner store I knew to be Handyman's Hardware. I could easily guess his likely location. Lucky for me the store's front window faced the crossroad, his truck tucked just out of sight.

I was imagining all the ways that this could go wrong, thinking that I should probably turn around and run away. But it made me feel safe to be the hunter and not the hunted, so I was stubborn and stayed.

With shaky, nervous fingers I tugged at the tarp trying to push it aside. But it wouldn't budge, held in place by twine cords. I spared a nervous glance to the corner, making sure I hadn't yet been discovered, before setting to work on the nearest knot.

I considered peeking into Handyman's, stealthily of course, just to make sure Beagban was distracted. But any plans I might have been considering were instantly forgotten as the tarp slipped free.

I was consumed by grotesque fascination. I'll admit, for a second there I thought I might find a slew of dead bodies heaped in the back. I was relieved, and maybe a little disappointed, to find only innocent items.

Pushing aside a duffle bag of clothes to make space, I spared one last look over my shoulder, checking for Beagban, before I hopped over the lip of his truck and slithered down inside.

I was instantly assailed by fear, and a panic attack ensued. I could do nothing, not even pull the tarp back in place to cover myself. My body shook with spasms while I did my best to lie still, imagining that any movement on my part would attract his attention. I pictured Beagban walking forward, finding me. I held my breath and strained my ears, waiting to hear the telltale footsteps of my impending doom. A few moments passed, and then a few moments more, and still nothing happened.

A person could only hold their breath for so long. Eventually I gave up and relaxed, even managed to pull the tarp closed, hiding myself beneath. The light shining through bathed everything in blue; it felt like being underwater. I was no longer preoccupied with fear, and it was only then that I noticed the uncomfortable position I was in.

My legs were scrunched up at an awkward angle and something was digging into my lower back. I rolled over slowly, extending my legs as I went. My feet came to rest against a smooth surface. It was a plastic container, transparent, so the ramen noodles and canned food inside were easily visible. Shifting around I was further surprised, finding a sleeping bag, blankets, and a supply of water. Beagban, the obvious villain, was going green, living like a hermit out of the back of his truck. Or maybe he was just a minimalist at heart. Who the hell knew? _I did know_ that this lifestyle meant he could squat on St. Simons for as long as he liked, a most distasteful notion.

I settled myself down, sinking into the plastic grooves that lined the truck's bed. My fingers brushed against something soft and when I saw what it was my terror returned.

The leather bundle sat harmlessly enough, but I knew what hid inside. I shuffled away, my heart pumping. Had I triggered Beagban's gift? Was touching his weapons enough to alert him? Did he know I was hiding here?

I stayed as far from the leather wrapping as I could get, chanting in my mind that I had come in peace, that I wouldn't lift a finger against him. But was it enough?

I waited to find out, tempted to run, but refusing to go. It wasn't bravery. I was afraid that the moment I stood to leave Beagban would round the corner and see me violating his... house, and turn berserker. So I stayed where I was, terrified, petrified, every second seeming like hours, waiting, anticipating, and dreading the moment when he would come.

In reality, outside my paranoid perceptions, five minutes had passed, then five minutes more, and again my anxiety waned, my mind drifting to less dire thoughts. And though I don't like to admit it, I might have fallen asleep.

### * * *

The driver's door slamming shut woke me, rattling the car with its force. There was no disorientation. I woke with a sour feeling in my gut, filled to the brim with trepidation. It had happened, was happening. Beagban was driving somewhere and I was stowed away, hoping for... what? What did I think was going to happen?

I suppose I was hoping to find something that would incriminate him. Dead bodies in the back would have been convenient, well not for the people he'd been killing, but at least then I would have some proof he was a murderer.

Proof. I needed proof.

I was swamped with fear throughout the entire ride. My mind circled around the things I should have thought much sooner. Things like: what happened if he needed something from the back? I berated myself over my own stupidity for a while. I was going to die. Beagban was going to stop at an isolated location, find me, and then chop off my arms.

The truck slowed, then rolled to a stop.

The front door opened and shut.

My muscles tensed, waiting for the worst. I could hear the gravel crunch under his heavy tread as he moved away. I could hardly believe it. Well, actually, I didn't believe it. I waited for a while, unmoving, thinking it was a trap.

A few minutes passed, and as usual, I grew bored. But I was still too afraid to move. It wasn't until another car pulled up nearby that I dared to peek out. I heard them; it was a family and they sounded happy. I army crawled to where I'd left the tarp untied, lifting my head just enough to see out. To my astonishment I recognized the locale.

I was in a parking lot, surrounded by ancient oak trees, and just beyond them was the Fort Frederica Visitor Center.

### * * *

I'd been to Fort Frederica once shortly after arriving on the island. It had been uneventful, which for me was the appeal. I'd been surprisingly patient that day.

Usually I wouldn't welcome a tedious narrative, but I'd been lonely, so I sat through a film which briefly detailed the fort's history. I didn't remember much, except thinking that Oglethorpe had made some poor decisions. And after that I'd bought a fridge magnet from the small gift shop, walked the museum in about seven seconds, and went outside to look at the crumbling remains of the colonial settlement.

This trip would be different. For starters, I arrived by popping out of Beagban's truck, giving the nearby family a little shock. I ignored their spluttering and walked slowly to the entrance, approaching it as one might approach a cranky lion.

I opened the door just wide enough to stuff half my head inside. An employee manning the front desk began to ask if she could help me with something. I scowled at her, removing my head to let the door slam shut.

I hadn't seen Beagban. And though it was a small center and I could see from one side to the other, that didn't mean he wasn't in there. He could be watching the film, though I couldn't imagine him filling one of those narrow theater chairs with his excessive girth. But maybe he was into that kind of thing, war stuff. There had been a battle nearby, something to do with a marsh.

I moved aside, letting the family go in. I paced, trying to decide what I should do next. It all depended on Beagban's motive. If he was here to brush up on his battle history then I would have little luck finding proof against him. But if there was another reason he had come, something I couldn't fathom, then I should definitely look into it, stealthily of course.

In the end I just couldn't picture Beagban enjoying his leisure time at Fort Frederica, the hardware store more like. So I removed myself to a secure location on fort grounds. I should skim over that bit as I didn't go in and pay for the privilege, sneaking around the side rather.

The town had been made of tidy lots, organized into a grid. Many foundations remained outlined in stone. Plaques were scattered around, dotting the flat shock of green grass, as did a few remaining oaks. I quickly walked to a copse of trees on the right, hurrying to get my bearings where I wouldn't be easily seen.

I considered moving further to the right and hiding behind the barracks. I felt conspicuous being so close to Broad Street, the main walkway. The town might have been long dead, but the tourists were not, and I couldn't help but grimace at the clusters I saw all around me. Hopefully the bugs would drive them off.

I was halfheartedly looking around, confused about what I should do exactly, when I spotted him. It was too far away to see much detail, but I knew it was him. He made the fine hair on my body stick up, and not in a sexy way. Heading towards the river, he walked at a quick pace, disappearing from view when he rounded the fort's magazine. The magazine was where the ammunition had once been stored. Fort Frederica's was a still standing box of brick and tabby, and by far the biggest attraction. It sat right on the water's edge with a replica cannon parked beside it. A good spot for picture taking. To some it was interesting, but no one would walk so fast or with such determination to see it. It just wasn't that exciting.

Beagban was up to something.

A sense of urgency settled itself on my shoulders, and I wanted to go charging after him. But as much as I didn't want to miss whatever he was up to, I didn't want to get caught more. So I walked to the magazine in a rather roundabout way, sidling up from the north beneath a cover of drooping branches. It was the opposite end of where I believed Beagban to be.

My body was drumming with adrenaline as I huddled cowardly beside the craggy stone wall. Beagban could be on the opposite side, but he could also be just around the corner. I had to check.

Taking a deep breath, wondering why I never made a last will and testament, I looked and...

Nothing.

No sign of Beagban and not a single tourist behind the magazine, unusual as it was a lovely view. Only a few yards away the tough long grass took over, growing in both the marsh and sand where the land dropped off. And just beyond that was the river. Today it matched the sky, blue for blue.

I skirted around back tucked tight up against the wall. Half of me expected Beagban to walk around the corner at any minute, another half was worried I had already missed him. Perhaps he'd gone back to his truck. The thought was as irritating as it was relieving. But no, I heard a wisp of conversation carried on the wind.

I instantly recognized Beagban's gravelly baritone, but the other voice took a moment to place. And when I did I knew this risky trip had been worth it—provided I didn't get caught.

I didn't stop creeping closer until I could hear clearly. Raina Thompson's severe chilly voice seemed to ring off the stone. "—instructed to take things from here, you're to do nothing."

"Hurst wouldn't keep me here if he didn't want me to do something," Beagban challenged.

"And who do you think gave me these orders?" Raina rebuked. "To Lars you're a tool and nothing more." I felt her signature contempt rising. "And not much use at that," she taunted. "What's happened to your arm?" It sounded like she knew exactly what had happened to his arm.

"I can manage just fine without the arm," Beagban ground out.

She scoffed. "Don't bother threatening me unless you're willing to go against Lars." She paused, sure in the knowledge that he was not.

I had no such confidence. On the contrary, I could feel Beagban's anger growing and knew from experience that there was nothing Beagban despised more than a situation out of his control. Being mocked by a woman didn't help, it only chafed his pride. But all he said was, "I'll find the book."

"No," Raina said with strident sharpness. "I'll find the book. You just stay out of the way."

Beagban might have mumbled something, but I couldn't make it out. I'd already moved away, sensing the conversation had reached its peak. It had actually reached its finish. I knew because when I walked out from behind the magazine I could see Raina Thompson's imperious figure moving stiffly for the parking lot, and behind her Beagban stalked like the murderer he was.

I waited for them to go, and then I waited some more. I knew what I had to do next, and honestly, it was as daunting a task as following Beagban had been. I had to call Francesca. I needed a ride.

### Chapter 37

Based on Francesca's emotions, I made a simple diagnosis: she didn't know how to forgive me. The fact that I needed to be forgiven at all was somewhat irksome, as I still maintained that I was innocent of all accusations and wrongdoing. All right, I didn't _really_ put in a good word for her with Reed. I'd done just the opposite. But it was for her own good. Unfortunately I couldn't tell her that.

In fact, I couldn't tell her much of anything just then because she was studiously ignoring me, and doing a bang-up job at that. She gripped the wheel with two clenched fists, posture rigid, while staring straight ahead. Her body language proclaimed loud and clear that I was to leave her alone, that we were not friends. But her emotions betrayed her.

After phoning from inside the visitor center, I had waited, wondering if she would come. She'd given no clear response, choosing to hang up on me instead. But she had come, and she'd missed me too. I could feel it, but I could also feel something separating us, a rotting cavity in our relationship. I wasn't sure how to breach it, and as I said, Francesca wasn't prepared to try.

The thing about our friendship was, it was somewhat skewed. Francesca tended to take initiative. It was she who first approached me when I'd started working at the Crowne, asking if I'd like to go out shopping with her. I had declined on principle, wondering why the Megan Fox look-alike from behind the front desk had deigned to notice me. But she only got trickier after that.

It started with some subtle coaxing. She'd wheedle me into lending her things, sometimes stopping by my house unexpectedly to drop them off. I got used to her, assuming she was presumptuous, the type that infringed on everyone. But a huntress by nature, Francesca could feel my weakening resolve and began to press me, trying to get me to join in on errands and other activities. Before I knew it I was picking out nail polish, going to see chick-flicks, and even swapping clothes. Only then did I realize that Francesca did not open up to everyone, and that her enthusiastic befriending extended only to me.

During my second summer on St. Simons, Francesca had convinced me to go to the beach. Gritty hot sand squelching beneath my sandals, the sun roasting my complexion to cancer, not to mention the plethora of townies and tourists that congregated along the shore, each brimming full with emotion—none of those things enticed me. But somehow she convinced me, connived me, to go. And I'd lost my bracelet.

One of my many sisters had braided me a wrist cuff of soft leather. It wasn't like she was my favorite sister or that the present had a special, sentimental meaning. I'd simply worn it for so long that I had grown attached. But then it had slipped off while I was walking along the beach that day. It had felt like losing my last link with home.

I'd been disappointed but resigned that it was gone forever. Francesca had not. She told me to stay with our towels while she wandered back the way we came, asking and searching for my cheapo jewelry. She had even managed to recruit a few people (good-looking men) to the cause. They'd quit tossing around their football to help. And together they'd found it snagged on the tall grass along the wood plank walkway. It'd been no worse for wear.

Had the situation been reversed, I would have sympathized with Francesca's loss, commiserating at the ill luck, but I would never have gone after the bracelet. She was not only the better friend, but the friend with all the initiative.

Francesca was the leader, not me. So how in the hell were things going to get fixed between us if she wouldn't even try?

The silence stretched on. I gave a few vague directions to my car, purposefully avoiding the fact that it was parked behind her mother's home.

More silence. I caught myself daydreaming of all the tragic accidents that might befall me. My car wrapped around a tree, Francesca rushing to the hospital, delivering hiccupped apologies through copious tears at my bedside. I may have even imagined the untimely death of one of my beloved siblings, but only so I could fantasize over how shitty she'd feel for being mad at me then.

Guiltily, I cleared my throat, preparing to make another attempt at conversation so as to avoid my heathen thoughts. "Lovely weather, don't you think?"

Francesca turned her head just long enough to glare, but again, her emotions belied her attitude. She was interested in whatever I said, tense and attentive throughout the whole drive. But there was also a self-imposed constraint keeping her quiet. Her pride at work.

It was just a matter of pushing the right buttons. "You haven't asked how I got separated from my car." I paused for a moment, though I hardly expected her to reply. "Someone gave me a ride, it was unexpected, and I suppose I wasn't really thinking when I went along."

Her feelings had sharpened. She was curious, and it didn't take my empathic abilities to know it.

"Aren't you going to ask whose car it was? Or maybe you want to know if it was Reed's car?" I suggested.

"Why would I want to know that?" I ignored the hostile tone and took the comment for what it was—a subtle prompt to continue.

"I can't think of a good reason, but then I'm not the one who loses all rationale when it comes to Reed Wallace."

She wanted to retaliate, but instead favored me with another fierce look before punishing us both with more silence.

"Oh. You're not going to say anything," I said, dryly adding, "how surprising."

"Where do I go now?" she bit out harshly.

No point in avoiding it any longer. "To your mother's," I admitted.

"What!"

"To your mother's!" I shouted back.

"What were you doing at my mother's house!"

"Watch the road!" I screamed.

Francesca jerked to face the road as she veered back into the right lane. "Did you two talk about me?" Her voice was shaking with scarcely contained anger, but I felt its full force.

There was no trace of emotion in my own voice when I answered, "Not everything is about you," avoiding the question.

"It doesn't matter! My mother's house is off limits when we're fighting." She felt embarrassed and betrayed that we'd been talking together. I almost felt bad.

We were in town now, the roads clogged with traffic. "Slow down," I warned.

"Slow down? I can't wait to get you out of my car!" She didn't mean it, but it still hurt. I remained quiet, not wanting to make things worse. Perhaps I shouldn't have pushed so hard to get her talking, it certainly felt like a mistake in hindsight.

Francesca turned down the narrow alley that ran behind her mother's house. My little Chevy stood out like an eyesore, two shades green too many. She jerked the car into park before demanding that I get out.

I opened the door, setting one foot on the asphalt. But I stopped to ask, "So when are you going to start being my friend again?"

The anger was gone, but she wouldn't meet my eye. She said, "When you're done being such a bitch."

"It never bothered you before," I replied, shutting the passenger door before hurrying to my car.

### * * *

"What do you mean by strolling in here more than two hours late?" Ben bellowed.

I shut the office door behind me, glancing at the clock we kept above the counter. Damn, he wasn't exaggerating. "Ben," I said in placating tones, "you know I would never stroll anywhere."

He flapped a hand at me disgustedly. "One day you're going to piss off the wrong person, Adelaide."

I already had. His name was Beagban. But I didn't contradict Ben. It made him feel better to predict my doom, helped to release all that pent up frustration and worry.

Shuffling things around, Ben prepared to leave. I heard him mutter about missing his swimming lessons. I had a growing suspicion that when he said swimming lessons, what he really meant was water aerobics. And if one didn't know how hung up he'd always been about Mary, one might think he'd enrolled just to hit on his fellow students, elderly women with joint problems.

He said something else, but I was only half listening. The office was distracting me, reminding me of the night before last when in the damp early hours my séance had been interrupted by a murderer, and his attempt to kill me interrupted by a ghost. Where my hero was hiding, I had no idea. The last time I saw him was that morning as he exploded all over my kitchen.

My life had become dangerous, but what I found distressing was the absurdity of it all.

Ben was snapping his fingers under my nose. "Did you hear me?"

I pretended that, yes, I had heard, though I'd only just noticed him standing by the door ready to go.

"I said," he thundered gruffly, "that Missy's been complaining about a can of ravioli, says you went into her cabinet and moved it."

Lately I'd been counting mundane routines, like my job at Sterling's, as something of a blessing. The routines kept me busy, giving me structure and a sense of normality. But being hassled over a can of ravioli was something I could do without. "I didn't eat it," I said flatly, "only moved it."

"I don't give a rat's ass about the ravioli. But that's the last time I listen to Missy complain. Next time I'm sending her to you," Ben threatened. "We'll see how you like dealing with her."

"Fine," I agreed, pulling back the curtains and opening the blinds.

Ben left without another word, slamming the door behind him. Stephen would be getting out of school soon and I wanted to call Reed before he arrived. I stashed my purse and sat down to dial.

Trying to contact a multimillionaire was next to impossible, even if you knew the direct line to his vacation abode. Eventually I hung up, swallowed my pride, and redialed. This time I said, "Tell him it's his girlfriend calling." They put me right through.

"Reed Wallace."

He must have more than one girlfriend. Why else would he answer the phone so impersonally? Obviously he wasn't sure which one was on the line. I forwent calling him a dick, instead saying, "Hello, Reed."

"Ah, Adelaide," he said sounding pleased. "I thought it might be you."

"Sure you did," I said, disillusioned.

"You're right," Reed admitted, remembering it was hard to bullshit me, even by phone. "I'm surprised to hear from you so soon after our last conversation. I thought it would take longer to earn my forgiveness."

"Forgiveness is irrelevant. I'd still dislike you anyway."

"Was there something you needed?" Reed asked, sounding harried.

Needling the imperturbable and ever-composed Reed Wallace was something of a thrill. I took a moment to savor it before putting plainly, "Raina Thompson works for Lars Hurst. I overheard her conversing with Beagban, she's after the book."

He didn't say anything.

"You're obviously not surprised," I said, interpreting his silence.

"I had her checked out," he admitted. "The magazine she claims to be doing a story for hasn't heard of her."

Feeling frustrated, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Evidently amused, "Why would I do that?"

"Because she's staying at Sterling's! Probably spying on me," I complained into the phone.

"Not anymore. I had her moved to the Crowne."

I was insulted on Sterling's behalf. It was an old motel, but by no means shady. "You're a real bastard," I told Reed.

"Do I need to point out the incongruity?"

No, he really didn't. I'd managed to blame Reed for both her being and not being at Sterling's. "Let me guess..." I said, ignoring the fact that he had a point. "You'll take care of it." I meant Raina Thompson in general.

He understood, simply saying, "Yes."

The continued use of that phrase was detrimental to his health. If he said it again I might kill him.

Reed broke the prolonged silence. "I am curious to know how you managed to overhear another such conversation. It would appear you have a knack for eavesdropping."

"I recognized Beagban's truck and hid in the back while he was on his way to meet Raina, that's all," I said, leaving out a great many details.

"That's all?" Reed echoed. "Tailing after a murderer seemed like a good idea, did it?" He actually sounded angry.

"Well no, not really," I admitted. "But I was being proactive. You should give it a try sometime."

The accusation hung, as did the silence.

Then, "Adelaide, how do you know what kind of vehicle Beagban drives?"

Like the trip to Fort Frederica, I hadn't told Reed about Beagban's latest attack, and I was reluctant to do so. How could I relate the tale without including Smith? Besides, I didn't entirely trust Reed's solutions. Vaguely I responded, "He stopped by Sterling's a few nights ago."

"What! Why didn't you use the ring I gave you?"

"I wasn't able to."

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"No," I said smiling. "I took care of it."

### Chapter 38

It started to rain later that night. It wasn't abrupt like a torrential downpour, which lasted only long enough to make the earth feel bathed and clean. This rain was a steady drizzle, continuing for hours and blanketing the air with oppressive moisture.

I'd run to and from my car, but it had made little difference. By the time I got home my clothes were plastered to my body, hair glued in place, damp and sticky all over.

It was a fitting start to the perfectly dreadful thing that followed. I should have taken the rain for an omen. After all, hadn't it been raining the day Beagban attacked me at Sterling's? It was easy to notice such patterns after the fact, hindsight and all that. But at the time I was only concerned with getting dry and little else.

I ran inside and kicked off my shoes, shedding wet garments as I trudged toward the loft. I dried my hair with the first piece of clothing to cross my path and shrugged on the nearest nightgown, an overlarge T-shirt that hung to my knees. Remembering I had to go back outside, I wriggled into a pair of long johns and grabbed the rain jacket from my closet. I was out the back door in no time, squelching through clumps of soggy, limp grass.

Trying to weave my way through the shrubbery and climb over the fence was more challenging than usual. The branches shivered as I walked, shedding cold droplets to land on the back of my neck while wet leaves slapped at my bare ankles. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I'd invested too much interest in Lucas. Why the hell was I forcing myself on a man that clearly didn't want to see me? I had no good answer. I should probably turn around. But I wouldn't, I couldn't.

Aside from being soaked through, my note was just as I had left it on his back door. I stared at it for a minute, but decided even that wasn't enough proof of his absence. I knocked on both doors, miserably watching his darkened windows.

A sort of hopelessness settled over me, a feeling I knew intimately. This was how it had been for years after the accident, especially before I knew what was wrong with me. The chaos of my existence had felt like a living hell. How do you get control of your life when at any given moment you might break into tears or burst out laughing? You don't, not really. You just get good at pretending.

But acclimating to normality had taken its toll. I now wanted what any twenty-three year old girl wanted—a boyfriend. No, that was not entirely accurate. I didn't want just _any_ boyfriend, I wanted Lucas. It was juvenile and naïve to crave someone you hardly knew, logically I understood this, but it changed nothing. I was Francesca, and he was my own Reed Wallace. Sensible thinking was beyond the realm of reality.

I sulked at my kitchen table, parked in front of the big window, watching the darkness beyond my fence. I willed a light to appear, some sign he'd returned, all the while eating sugary desserts instead of dinner. Eventually I gave up my vigil and decided to turn in early.

I was just pulling back the blankets when my pet ghost appeared. I felt a light tickle at my ankle, a sure sign of its presence. Looking down I noticed it wasn't bouncing around like usual. The smoky impression of its body had gone stiff. And though its face was a featureless plane, the place where its jaw should have been gaped and contracted in a jerky fashion. It was barking I realized with some surprise, I'd never seen it do that before.

"What? What is it?" I asked, completely puzzled.

Its body jerked forward as it let out another stream of soundless cries. When I did nothing more than stare stupidly, it began to paw at me, footpads turning solid. I felt them swipe down my calves, leaving a tingling trail where the claws had scratched at my off-white pocked long johns.

I recognized the warning, something was wrong. But the realization came too late. The ghost turned to bark at something just behind me. I swiveled around in time to see Raina Thompson step off the stairs and into my bedroom.

"What the hell!" I yelled. But I was only partially alarmed, the other half of me was calm and collected, driven with determination. The other part of me was Raina.

She took one step forward, swinging her arm in a downward arc. The needle pierced my skin just below the shoulder, stinging as she injected me with the syringe's clear contents.

I batted at her hand, trying to flick the needle free. But the world seemed to tilt off kilter and I struggled to maintain my balance. All sound ebbed away as I crashed to my knees. So did the light, it disappeared slowly as if I was tumbling down a tunnel. My body crumpled to the floor. Confused, I prayed not to fall in the wishing well once more.

### * * *

I regained consciousness slowly, feeling disoriented throughout. Shifting was useless, I couldn't move, though it took me a few seconds to fully grasp why. My hands were tied behind my back, more specifically, tied behind my back and secured to the leg of my own armoire. The thing was a towering antique of solid oak. It wasn't going anywhere, and apparently neither was I.

The grogginess continued to fade, replaced by my wits. Searching with my fingers, I felt for the key to my freedom, the Tibetan ring. It wasn't there, and neither was Percy's.

With my safety net gone, I began to panic. I forced myself to be calm, be logical. Raina Thompson had come into my house and sedated me, but from the conversation I'd overheard earlier, I knew she wasn't working with Beagban on this. A comforting thought. She might be a cruel, calculating bitch, but she didn't strike me as the torture type. And what was more, if she wanted me dead she could have put something more lethal in the needle.

I'd just have to wait and see what she wanted. I mean, I knew she wanted the book. I just didn't know how I figured in to her plan for getting it.

Feeling almost normal now I looked around, observing the loft from my seat on the floor. Nothing was different, not a thing out of place. The door was wide open and I could hear noises from below drifting up the stairwell. She was moving around, and from the sound of it, moving my things around too.

It felt like an age before she came back up. I considered pretending to be asleep as I heard her ascend. A strange thought as five minutes before I'd been both bored and anxious, so much so that I'd considered calling out to let her know I was awake.

Her low heels clicked sharply against my wooden flooring as she stepped from the stairwell. They were black, sensible but stark, matching her shapeless slacks. A cat suit it was not, but it was worn for the same clandestine purpose. I could tell by the black leather gloves that there wouldn't be a fingerprint left behind.

She wore small rectangular glasses. They added a little character to an otherwise passionless face. Her hair was pulled back harshly and thrust into a stiff ponytail. It barely swung when she spared a glance my way. "You're awake," she observed.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" I said with more vigor than I felt.

But she'd already turned away, giving the impression that speaking with me was a waste of time. It wasn't until after she knocked over a stack of the bodice-rippers I kept at my bedside, that she replied. "You already know why I'm here. You heard me say so this afternoon."

She wasn't feeling averse to my probing questions, so I guessed, "You saw me at Fort Frederica." But I didn't really believe that was true.

Moving to the end of my bed, she opened the trunk. Hearing her mess with my stuff and seeing it were two different things. Just watching her blithely tip over my books had made me angry. But now she was rooting around in sentimental stuff, touching pictures, leafing through letters. She scanned every diary, dropping the last with disgust. "All emotions and fluff," she said, turning to look at me. It was like she had X-ray vision, seeing past the skin. "Emotional indeed," she added with an arch of the eyebrow, meant to convey her distaste. "No, I didn't see you, not in the way you mean. I sensed you though," she said without pausing from her inspection. "You have a particularly strong essence. I picked it up from the parking lot."

I remembered Reed's warning. He had said Lars would send someone who could sense the book. By now I'd made that connection, I just didn't know exactly what it meant. Sense how? "Are you a demon detector?"

We were feeling smug. She smiled. "You know what the journal is then."

Shit. I would not give her any more information.

"You materialized so suddenly into Mr. Wallace's life, I knew it was no coincidence."

Her formal use of his name was strange. I noticed he was one of the few people she could address without feeling superior.

Raina bent at the waist, slipping her fingers beneath the trunk. "Give me the book," she instructed sharply. "I'll leave here and the rest of your things will remain untouched."

"I don't have it."

"Suit yourself." She dumped my trunk out, the contents spilling across the floor. Using her foot, she sifted through, spreading the materials by kicking them apart. She didn't search, not really. Her eyes swept over every item briefly before she moved on to the closet. "You only have yourself to blame for this," she said while pulling out hangers. "I didn't really suspect you had the book, searching your home was meant to be a plan of last resort. But since you overheard me speaking to Beagban, I thought it best to check straightaway on the off chance that you did have it. Wouldn't want to allow you time enough to move it, now would I?"

I didn't say anything, but it was a trial to watch in silence. My clothes were pulled down methodically, the contents of the shelf above to follow. Eventually I couldn't stand it any longer and said, "You missed it." I wanted to annoy her.

Raina didn't hesitate, continuing her raid. "I sense auras, so I'll know it when I see it."

"Inanimate objects have auras?"

"Not their own," she said in a voice that bespoke my ignorance. "When you pour yourself into an object, it becomes saturated with your aura."

"What do you mean _pour?_ "

She began to toe open shoe boxes. "Artists pour themselves into their work. You do the same when you write in your diary. Demidov's journal will be no different."

"Maybe it will," I taunted.

She stood crisply, coming close to loom over me. Tucking one gloved hand inside her pocket, I was surprised to see her extract both my rings. "These," she extended her palm, "are a combination of cheap materials and poor craftsmanship. You might get a dollar or two for them, but in reality they're destined for the trash. This one though," she said caressing Percy's ring with one finger, "this one is special. It's fairly glowing, vibrating even, with personality."

Without warning, she took up the Tibetan ring and threw it at me. I flinched slightly as it landed in my lap, frustratingly out of reach.

Raina looked at it with disapproval. "I've no need for theatrical garbage, you may have it back."

"How generous of you to gift me my own property."

"Just the one," she said, tucking the other back into her pocket. "I think this," she patted her pant leg, "should remain with someone who knows its value, someone who deserves it."

Sure, she could take it from me, but it could always bring itself back.

She waited for me to yell about the injustice of it all, perhaps hoping to use the ring as barter for the book. I said nothing.

She gave up, turning to root around the chest of drawers. While going through drawer number three, she asked over her shoulder, "Do you know how useful it is to always know the value of a thing? Of a person?"

"You can see all that from an aura's coloring? Who knew human worth was so transparent," I said acrimoniously.

She missed my meaning altogether. Replying, "That's an ignorant New Age myth. Auras are not seen with the eye, they're a flavor. The compilation of a person's being to be tasted by the sixth sense."

"And this sixth sense tells you the value of a person?"

She finished up drawer number six, closing it with a slam. "I can tell you have no ambition," she said feeling unexpressed contempt. I took it she valued ambition. Seeing her stride over, I sunk lower just as she opened the armoire doors above my head. "But you have hidden insight, a seer I'd guess." Raina swept the stack of puzzles out. They fell, some coming open to spill pieces on the floor beside me. "That would explain Reed's association with you." Meaning she didn't believe that I was really his girlfriend.

With her so close, I felt the subtle change in her attitude. She'd been focused before. Looking through my things had been her only goal, and since answering my questions hadn't interfered with her search, she hadn't thought to object. She saw me as incompetent, inferior really, and anything I gleaned would bear no fruit. But now (though it wasn't outwardly apparent) she was a little distracted, a combination of curious and expectant which I recognized. Raina was going to try and subtly pump me for information.

"Impressive," I said, letting her draw her own conclusions.

"It's a rare gift, unlike seers." She looked at me haughtily. "You're a dime a dozen."

"I can assure you Reed pays me more than that," I said, trying to mislead her.

I hadn't expected anger, but that was what I got. "I'm sure he only hired you so that he'd have more seers on his payroll than Lars. They're very competitive." She slammed the armoire shut with excessive force. "A waste of money," she muttered while stalking around the room. "Useless, babbling fools, every one. Can't make a proper prediction to save their life. Not even enough sense to recognize their gift. Palmists working in the nail salon, pressing on acrylic tips while chatting away with peculiar insight, astrologists becoming astronomers—idiots, all of them."

I'd really struck a chord. I decided to press it. "How would you know Reed's motives? You work for his rival."

Struggling for tranquility, she picked up one of my best perfume bottles. Obviously there was no demon diary hidden inside, but she studied it anyway. I wondered if it was saturated in someone's aura, or if she was just admiring it. "I respect power," she said, having calmed down. "That's why I work for Lars. But power shifts. Whoever gets Demidov's journal will hold the key to unlocking another realm. The potential after that is unimaginable. If it's Mr. Wallace, then I'll offer him my services. I'd offer them now if I thought he would have me."

I was surprised at the level of his influence. Raina's infatuation, her longing and adoration were extreme. How she could feel this way after seeing his aura, knowing his gift, was inconceivable to me.

"Adelaide!"

The sound of someone shouting my name from the floor below was something of a shock to both Raina and me.

### Chapter 39

I was surprised because I recognized the voice. It was Lucas. Raina was definitely surprised because the bitch dropped my perfume bottle. Breaking with a shriek, it smashed to pieces.

"Lucas!" I screamed as Raina lurched for the stairwell in a very unladylike fashion. Her heels didn't click with precision as they had before. Instead I heard a _clunk clunk clunk_ as she thundered down the stairs.

I strained to hear what was happening below, but found myself distracted by the overwhelming smell of musky rose. Though very old, the perfume had remained potent, and was currently seeping into my floorboards. "Lucas!" I called again. My eyes began to water from a fragrance that felt more like fumes.

I heard a man's tread pounding up the stairs. My body tensed with anticipation. He looked better than I remembered, and way out of my league. So tall and strong it was hard to believe I'd kissed him.

Lowering himself to the floor in silence, he came to crouch beside me. He didn't appear angry, or even worried. I waited to feel something as I always did when he was around, but nothing stirred except my own attraction. He was very close, and I wondered why I couldn't feel the heat from his body like women always said they did in my novels.

With his hand on my shoulder, Lucas leaned me forward so he could reach around and untie me. We were wrapped around each other, and it felt something like a hug. I took the opportunity to discreetly sniff his chest, though all I smelled was rank perfume.

He still hadn't said anything, and though I knew he was a man of few words, I found this disconcerting. Then I remembered what he must think—that I was someone else's girlfriend, so I rushed to explain. "That guy you saw me with isn't my boyfriend we only pretend to date so I have an excuse to be at his work functions really he hired me to snoop around which sounds crazy I know but I'm actually pretty good at it."

My hands came free. Lucas moved to sit back on his heels, still unconcerned in appearance. I stared at my wrists as I rubbed them, self-conscious now that he was looking me in the eye. I'd been talking too fast, looking quite unsophisticated. So I said more slowly, "I just wanted to tell you that in case you were wondering."

"Actually," his voice was deep but deceptively quiet, "I was wondering if you just got robbed." He pulled a folded sheet of soggy paper from his back pocket. "But I did get your note."

I cringed, trying to recall exactly what I had written.

"I wasn't avoiding you," he explained. "I've been out of town."

"Oh," I said dully.

"But you were right, I was brooding."

"Oh?" I repeated, but with a bit more perk.

I wanted him to expound on the brooding comment, but much to my disappointment, he glanced around and asked, "Do you want help cleaning up?"

I didn't really feel comfortable with him seeing everything I owned, especially not before I convinced him I was good girlfriend material. But I was afraid a refusal would result in his departure, so I said yes.

He pulled my trunk upright. "What happened?"

I began to fill it haphazardly. "I guess I did get robbed."

Looking around the loft, Lucas said, "The place looks ransacked, not robbed. Is anything actually missing?"

I began the tedious task of rehanging my clothes. "Nothing I can't get back, but then, she didn't really get what she came for."

"The woman I saw running out the front door did this?" He sounded skeptical.

I turned to find him looking rather intrigued, but not by the idea of a female starched-suit-wearing burglar. He was intrigued by the pile of romance novels he'd been stacking, one book in particular.

In a flash I had it out of his hands, mumbling something vague about historical books that belonged to someone else. "Would you mind getting the broom?" I gestured to the broken bottle. "I need to clean up the glass." The second he was out of sight I kicked all the books under my bed, pausing only long enough to glare at the swooning full-figured floozies depicted on each cover. After that I rushed to hide all my underwear, finishing just before he returned.

While sweeping he said, "I heard you calling me, so I let her go, but I should have stopped her."

The loft was nearly back to normal by then. I paused to answer, saying truthfully, "I wouldn't have known what to do with her if you had. It's better this way." And really it was. Raina Thompson was now confident that I was nothing more than a useless seer who was not in possession of the book. She wouldn't be bothering me anytime soon.

Downstairs was a mess, but thankfully nothing was broken. The cabinets in my kitchen hung open, their contents disrupted, but nothing had been dropped or destroyed. Cushions were pulled up, the couch itself sat askew, but it hadn't been ripped open like in the movies.

It occurred to me that Raina had searched my room last, waiting until I was awake. And then she'd been rougher with my things than her form of searching required. It was a ploy meant to distress me into disclosing the location of the book—the clever harpy.

Too soon tidying the downstairs was done. Lucas had just returned the broom to its closet and we stood awkwardly in the kitchen. Just to fill the silence I said, "Thanks for helping, and not just with the cleaning either. If it wasn't for you I'd probably still be tied up in my bedroom."

Uninterested in praise, he asked, "Are you going to be alright here alone?"

I shrugged. "I doubt she'll come back."

"You can always stay at my place."

It was a tempting offer, and unlike the last time he asked, I was pretty sure he wasn't a psychotic murderer. But between the suggestive comment I'd thoughtlessly made on our last parting (you know, the one about seeing a lot more of each other) and the charade he'd witnessed with Reed, not to mention the raunchy novels, I was hard-pressed to convince him I wasn't a complete trollop.

I figured spending the night might send the wrong message, maybe he'd take it to mean I was easy. So I said, "Thanks, but I'll be fine."

That signaled the end of our conversation, and with a nod, he left. I always felt bereft after he'd gone, especially just then when I'd been hoping for another kiss. Had I done something wrong? Had I put him off?

I found my answer in the bathroom mirror. Obviously it was the pajamas.

### * * *

I was hunched over the desk, busy putting together Sterling's next order of cleaning supplies, when I got the unmistakable impression that someone was behind me. I knew I was alone in the office but I turned anyway, glancing suspiciously over my shoulder. Above me the clock ticked steadily and behind me all was as it should be. Or so it appeared. But there was a strange tickle and itch at the back of my neck, a feeling that put me in mind of the rising hackles on a dog.

Shuddering, I turned back to my work, the half-finished list in front of me. I'd just taken up my pen when a swiftly moving shadow pressed closer. I could feel it at my back. The temperature abruptly changed, going from comfortable to chilly in an instant. The air escaped my lungs on a frightened exhale as I watched the sheet of paper press itself flat against the desk, a palm print visible.

"You shithead!" I lashed out with my arm, swinging through the space around me where I thought he loomed. Smith was not there, but for a moment I had seen something. It was gone so quickly that all the details escaped my mind. So quickly in fact, that I might have convinced myself it was all imagined. Only I knew better than that.

Was this what it felt like to be haunted? Your body sensing something your mind can't comprehend. I had no one to blame but myself. It was just as Nancy Bristow said—I was making the ghosts soulier. How long had I been oblivious to Smith's skulking around Sterling's before the ring came to me? How could I have missed this feeling? This out of sorts, edgy distraction.

I wasn't sure what I was wishing for more—the ring back, or that I'd never worn it at all.

This morning I'd hardly noticed its absence. The dog was always going away to wherever for periods of time. And after waking up I'd been too busy obsessing over Lucas to wonder if it was there. But Smith was here, I knew it, and the bastard was haunting me.

"Adelaide, are you alright?"

I jerked at the sound of Stephen's voice, surprised to see him standing in the open doorway. Usually I could feel him coming, but I'd been too preoccupied for that.

I shuffled the papers in front of me with practiced nonchalance. But there was just the one sheet, and I found myself squishing it between two nervous hands. "I'm fine."

He didn't believe me. Standing in the office door, wringing his hands like a fidgety old woman, he reminded me of his mother. Mostly he was worried, though I also felt he was embarrassed and nervous for his concern.

"What is it?"

Closing the door behind him, he walked slowly toward the counter. "I've been meaning to talk to you... it's just, I'm somewhat wo—"

"Worried," I interrupted impatiently, "yes I know. Worried about what?"

"I don't think you should see Reed Wallace," Stephen blurted, not making eye contact. "I don't think he's good for you."

"You seemed to think well of him not long ago."

Stephen's spotty cheeks turned red, his glasses sliding down as he looked toward his toes. "He's..."

"Charming," I supplied.

"Yes," Stephen agreed, still not looking at me. "He sort of... pulls you in. I guess that's why I'm worried."

"You think I've been seduced by his charm?" I was unable to suppress my smile. I was perhaps the only person who was not. Surely, that was irony.

Stephen shook his head. "Do you remember those guys from my grade you asked about? Tony, Ted, and Greg. Well they've been spreading stories around school. They're swearing they saw the girl who held them at gunpoint just a few days later in an alley. Apparently a big guy covered in blood had a knife to her neck. Now, usually I wouldn't believe the rumors," his eyes lowered to my throat, "but the next day you wore a turtleneck to work."

My hair was loose and lucky for me, hanging forward to cover the faint scratch marks that remained. "And what do these stories have to do with Reed?" I asked, uneasy because I knew from experience how observant he could be.

"It's just that none of this stuff started happening until you met him. And now you're working for him even though you don't want to." He studied me with a fixed gaze. "You look tired... stressed, you never used to come to work like that. And you and Francesca never fought until—"

"If this is about Francesca..." I said with a warning in my voice.

"It's not."

He was telling the truth. His worry was for me and not his chances with Francesca. I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Stephen, your concern, it's unnecessary. I'm an adult, capable of making my own decisions."

After snatching up the clipboard, I slid it across the counter, a gesture that meant he ought to get cleaning. And he did, walking out of the office without another word. I knew what he was thinking though, I could feel it, and it felt like crap. I felt like crap.

### Chapter 40

The moment Stephen had departed a sharp pinch was delivered to the delicate skin on my inner wrist. I yelped, simultaneously trying to slap the air around me and rub my sore forearm.

Smith's feelings were as intangible as his being had become, but like him they weren't completely gone. Broken wisps of disapproval radiated from all around.

So Smith deplored the way I'd handled Stephen. Well I didn't much like it either. At this rate I would soon be out of friends. But it was not as if I could explain the situation to anyone.

Trying to forget my troubles, I focused on work, but Smith's presence was stamped in my mind. "Go away," I hissed into the seemingly empty room. But he didn't go, in fact he settled in like a tick. I could feel his eyes on me, watching, though I couldn't say from where.

This was about the time I started to worry. What would I do if the ring wasn't charmed to bring itself back? I'd wondered before if it was a compulsion that made me put it on, not magic. Perhaps even now Raina was wondering why she couldn't keep the damned thing off her finger. Thinking of it made me mad. I found myself feeling oddly possessive of something I hadn't even wanted or asked for.

Things didn't get any better. Stephen avoided me until his shift was over. Unfortunately Smith kept me company. He was like a fly buzzing in my ear. And when Missy finally arrived, I ran for my car, unable to get away fast enough.

I was so absorbed with my own thoughts I'm surprised I noticed him at all, but I did.

As I pulled my slightly resisting Chevy onto the road I saw a man whose orange baseball cap caught the streetlamp's glow as he passed beneath. Hunched with his neck tucked between his shoulders, he turned down a side street. After checking to make sure there was no oncoming traffic, I let my car drift to a stop while watching him in my rearview mirror.

Lars had sent someone to sense the book, and shortly after Reed's warning I found myself being followed. Obviously I'd put two and two together... but I hadn't come up with four. Raina Thompson was the aura reader, so who was this guy? To be honest, I'd forgotten all about him. Being stalked was definitely something to remember, but he just didn't frighten me the way Lars' people did. That being said, I found it easy to flick off my headlights and put the car in reverse. I was somewhat familiar with the side street he'd taken. Ben walked it each day. There was no outlet, but you could cut through the cemetery on foot to reach the next road over. And that was what he must have done, because I saw no sign of him as I drove.

It was full dark by then, as it always was by the time my shift was done. But the streetlamps cast a soft blanket of yellow which receded slowly as I coasted near the cemetery. Most of the houses I passed were dark and unoccupied, their owners remaining at a primary residence off the island. And just ahead was Goodfellows Cemetery.

It sat higher than everything else, an inky smudge against the starlit sky. A wrought iron fence circled the property, the pointed arch gateway always open. The name Goodfellows was scrolled across the top in twisted black metal.

I parked just in front, filling one of the few crooked spaces available. Sharp blades of tough grass had taken over much of the cul-de-sac, growing through the crumbling bits of asphalt. I cut the engine but made no move to get out.

The shifty stalker didn't scare me, but I found the cemetery imposing and just a touch creepy, especially after dark. None of the town's ambient light reached the hill's top, where cracked and split headstones disappeared into darkness. And with a straining eye I could just make out the silhouette of oaks, their gnarled trunks and branches standing like skeletons against the night sky. Their leaves rustled in intermittent waves, the only sound I could hear from inside my car was their papery tinkling.

_No_ , I thought, _I won't get out_. But then I caught sight of his bent figure vanishing up the incline. Probably parked across the hillock on the road that ran parallel with Sterling's, a nice discreet distance for stalking. Logically I knew that there was no point in following him. This wasn't a movie where all it took was a license plate number to solve the mystery. What the hell would I do with his plate number? But I wanted to go charging after him the moment he stepped out of sight. To hell with logic, I was becoming sleuthy and it rankled to do nothing.

I couldn't say it was my instincts I obeyed, impulse more like. I got out of the car quietly, slinking up the hill at a steady pace. It was thrilling, truly, and I reveled in the hunter's high. I was destined to be sneaky; perhaps I'd been a pickpocket in another life. Of course a moment later I tripped, and things went south from there. I never caught up to my enigmatic follower, too busy trying not to break my head open as I crashed to the ground.

I was suddenly aware of the spooky cemetery, shrouded in darkness, which surrounded me. I had seen Goodfellows during daylight and could attest to its age. I didn't mean that most of the grave markers had collapsed (though they had) or that the shrubbery was neglected (though it was). I mean that its inhabitants were of an age past, long since gone, and no mourners came, no one to leave flowers. There was no sign, no reminder of the current time within these iron bars, nor even a splash of color. Having seen it all in daylight it was easy to picture. But it seemed especially spooky from the prone position in which I had landed on the damp crabgrass.

My shin was still smarting from the chipped, flaking tombstone that had tripped me. I felt for it as I scrambled on my hands and knees, finding the top's bladelike edge that I had been lucky enough to avoid throughout the fall. Gripping the sides, I pulled myself upright, attempting to stand. The bulky Tibetan ring clinked against the old stone. And suddenly I became aware of my hand, my fingers, and the rings, more than one ring in particular.

Stumbling back down the hill I hurried for the thread of light, feeling along my knuckles in disbelief. I was rushing through the gate when a clinging thorn bush snagged me back. I halted, hardly noticing. My whole attention was riveted on the ring, Percy's ring. My ring. It was back.

The relief I felt was so intense I was actually surprised by it. I even slumped forward a bit, as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Yes, I'd been worried. But apparently I'd been more worried than I let on, even to myself.

With a small smile I touched the milky bead. Baseball cap was long gone by now, but I didn't really care. One mystery was solved. The ring brought itself back. It must be... magic. I stood there for a while thinking through the implications, wondering if maybe witches and wizards existed. I always knew J.K. Rowling was really onto something... but even I had a hard time believing that far. All the gifts I knew of were improvable—aura readers, card readers, etc.

I wrinkled my nose, thoughts interrupted by something that smelled ghastly. The faint whiff was steadily growing stronger. I turned, squinting into the cemetery behind me and then through the gate toward my car. I took a step for it, prepared to leave, but the thorns dug into my T-shirt and hair. Impatiently I plucked at them, but was so overcome by the smell that I had to stop and cover my nose.

I heard it then, not a noise from inside the cemetery, but outside, between me and my car. A lumbering figure had come close, skirting along the fence, hidden by the overgrowth. It moved directly into my path and I jerked back, uncaring that the thorns dug deep before releasing me.

From the sharp-edged shoulders and overall shape I could tell he was wearing a suit, even in the dim light where most details were lost. His smell was indescribable, but it put me in mind of rotting meat.

With both hands pressed over my mouth and nose, I stared in fear, my eyes continuing to travel over his figure. They came to rest on his feet, though they were hardly that anymore. My heart beat faster and my breathing quickened at the sight, signs of an oncoming panic attack. This time it would not result from the overwhelming emotions of others or even my own terror, though I was afraid. The anxiety came from the sheer wrongness of it all.

He wore no shoes, his feet, what was left of them, were bare. Toes and sole were gone, indiscernible from the meaty tatters of flesh that remained. There was no blood, not much, but the frayed muscle and splintered bone were clearly visible.

I wanted to run away, to scream, to do something, but the panic attack was going full force. It left me a trembling wreck, certain of my own doom. I could do nothing but shake as the thing shuffled near, drawing in one endless breath, the sound a wheezing dry rattle.

"Booook," he moaned, expelling air to form one rasping word.

He'd turned slightly, the angle allowing a bit of light to ring the rim of his face. It was a horrendous sight, a thing of nightmares. His hair had no luster, it was dull and thinning. Clumps had come loose, the scalp shining through in patches. Unnatural and sallow skin, both bloated and sagging, covered his face, looking puffy around the eyes. Red flesh from inside the socket hung loose, no longer cupping the eyeball which was dark and sunken.

It was a face void of all expression, a man with no emotion. A lifeless, dead thing.

"Booooooook," it repeated more forcefully, taking my shoulders with two clumsy hands.

I whimpered, or maybe gagged, recoiling, my head bent back from its rancid odor.

It shook me like a ragdoll with strength I couldn't comprehend, uttering the same garbled word.

My head snapped back and forth as he jerked me around, steely fingers biting into my skin. I screamed.

I wasn't sure how long it took for Smith to respond, but he came, a blur streaking from the street. He tried to pull me from the thing's grip, but even he could not wrest me away.

Not giving up, Smith ducked between, wedging himself to separate us. He braced his arm across my chest while jamming an elbow into the monster's gut. I gasped as the thing only gripped tighter, refusing to let go. Smith's hand flattened more firmly over my collar bone, a comforting gesture, though it seemed to sap me of my strength, leaving me weak and tired. He then reached for the thing's wrist, wrenching it back at a sharp angle. I heard it snap, a loud popping noise.

Released, I fell to the ground, so tired I could barely move out of the way. Around me they fought, two grappling figures in the dark. Smith made no noise as he pitted himself against it, the only sound their scuffling. I heard something else break, a deep cracking noise this time. I was terrified Smith was hurt, even as I wondered if ghosts had bones to break. But it wasn't him. He was standing over the thing, movements much more animated and easy to recognize.

My only thought was to get away. I struggled to stand, failing completely. Smith hauled me upright by my armpits, making me feel small next to his tall, skinny frame. Together we made it to my car. Smith sifted into the backseat without bothering to open a door, though he'd been solid throughout the entire episode. I guess he was tired too.

I could barely get the key into the ignition my fingers shook so bad. My body always felt wrecked after a panic attack, but this level of fatigue and exhaustion was irregular. I wanted to go home and sleep for an eternity, but I couldn't. I'd just encountered a... I didn't want to think of that now. But whatever it was, it had asked for the book.

It was always about that damned diary.

I couldn't handle that thing on my own. Reed would have to be informed, and I sure as hell wasn't going to wait to use the telephone.

### Chapter 41

It took me less than twenty minutes to reach Raindrop Road, but then it took another twenty just to get through Reed's security. I pulled up to the gatehouse, recognizing the prick who'd hassled me last time. He recognized me too, I could feel the moment recollection sparked, it was followed by a twinge of annoyance. I guess he didn't like me either.

The ensuing experience was not pleasant. Obviously I lost it when he asked for my driver's license again. I mean, I _knew_ he knew me. And when I was done muttering, the dirtbag informed me I wouldn't be admitted inside. Mr. Wallace only met with invited visitors. I might return when I had an appointment. His words, not mine.

Well I didn't leave.

And though I would have liked to, I never yelled. Instead I articulately enunciated each word, speaking slowly as if to a very dim child. I lied about being Reed's girlfriend again too. Tired and cranky, I would have said anything. The guard, disliking my treatment, chose not to believe me. But he called someone anyway, and told me to wait.

I waited, and then I waited some more. Even Smith who had nothing but time to spare grew bored and left.

The guard stood next to my car, doing his best to remain professional by wearing a stony, noncommittal expression. I hated it, I hated everything about him. I hated how his tubby figure moved in the unflattering generic uniform. And I couldn't stand his ruddy complexion. I'd completed a thorough list of everything that was wrong with the security guard by the time his boss arrived.

A small, trim man drove up in what I can only describe as a glorified golf cart. He hopped off in a sprite-like fashion, limber for someone with so much gray in his mustache. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked.

I was past being gracious. "This jerkoff won't let me in," I griped.

"That's his job," he replied calmly.

"It won't be for long if you don't let me through," I threatened.

Tubby handed him a copy of my driver's license. "Just another phone call," he said while looking it over, "and we'll get you squared away."

The boss (and I knew he must be because he didn't wear the tacky imitation suit of a security guard) murmured so softly into the phone that I couldn't hear what he was saying even though the gatehouse door was open. But I could hear the sharp female reply as it came shrilling through the earpiece.

I didn't hesitate to get out my car and twist the phone loose from who I presumed was the head of security. He let go, appearing unbothered by my highhandedness.

"Karen," I said into the phone, "if I don't get inside that house within the next two minutes, I'll make sure Reed fires you."

She scoffed, trying to convey the unlikelihood of my threat. Truthfully, I didn't believe it much either. Reed seemed to harbor a tendre for his crazed secretary. But after handing the phone back I could hear her instructions. They didn't want to let me in, but enter I would. And that was that.

### * * *

The boss introduced himself as Mark, and he was, lo and behold, the head of security. He made me leave my car behind, unwilling to take it through the gate. I figured since they didn't know the nature of my unexpected visit, they were taking no chances. Bombs, anthrax, and all that...

I had my first ride in a golf cart as we sped down the long and winding driveway. He passed the front door, taking us around the side where Marta waited, disapproving as ever. I entered, brushing by her to find Karen coming down the hall.

"Ms. Graves, causing a stir as always." Her blonde hair was straight and chic, contrasting with her blood-red button-down. She looked flashy, her appearance meant to cause a splash.

She eyed me in return, taking in the frayed jeans and T-shirt. After the recent fracas my long hair was no doubt a rat's nest. She managed not to sneer, but only just.

"I need to speak with Reed." And when she didn't move to take me I gestured impatiently. "Now."

"He's in an important meeting, not to be disturbed." She took some pleasure in saying so, enjoying the control she wielded. "You can wait and meet with him after."

"Sure," I said, pretending to comply.

"I'll guide Ms. Graves from here," Karen said, addressing Mark dismissively.

I followed her clacking heels into the bowels of the house. I was led to a large room, double doors opened invitingly. Masculine leather chairs were coupled with feminine settees and set fashionably in little groupings. The walls were bedecked in mirrors and paintings, every surface laced with antiques. It was a waiting room, just a bit more ostentatious than my dentist's.

"Is that Reed's office?" I asked while pointing to an unobtrusive door nestled in the wall.

"One of them, yes," she answered primly.

I watched as Karen moved to what must be her own desk, pulling open drawers and shuffling things around. It was pathetic really. She wasn't working so much as trying to prove how much she knew, how comfortable she was here in Reed's home.

I toyed with the idea of telling her I was pregnant with his baby and that I'd come to tell him so. But it seemed a bit drastic for this particular situation, so instead I said, "I'd like some water. Please."

If I had been a business mogul she would have already offered. But I was an interloper, and my request was met with her outrage and overall hostility, feelings so strong that I had to rub my forehead to keep the tension from building. She stood very still behind her desk, unwilling to move just yet. I stared her down until she said, "I'll call for Marta."

"You do that," I replied, intentionally glib.

I waited until her back was turned before I marched over to Reed's office, throwing the door open. The sight inside was so unexpected that I stood dumbly in the doorway for a moment, unsure what to say.

### * * *

Reed had a woman with him, in his arms to be exact. They sat on a loveseat, she a petit creature tucked under his arm, his hands tangled in her hair. I'd say it was a lovers' embrace, but the situation was stranger than that. They were not alone, though they didn't know it a ghost observed them from the corner.

The ghost's image was weak, flickering in and out. But I recognized him. Not an hour ago his body had been shaking me like a baby's rattle. More than confused, I looked away before he knew I was watching.

"Busy working, huh?" I snapped at Reed, speaking with more bravado than I felt. "No time for your girlfriend?" I added just to make things awkward.

The woman he was holding stirred, untucking her face from his armpit so she could turn and look at me. Unlike Karen's fixed do, her hair was a rich, natural blonde. She had a heart-shaped face filled with pouty lips and big soft eyes. All of her features were rounded and full. She was, without a doubt, gorgeous. She was also crying. I noticed the tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, taking in the puffy, red-rimmed eyes. She'd stopped sniffling just long enough to look surprised.

Karen ran up from behind me, her shoulder shoving into mine as she pushed through the doorway. "Mr. Wallace, I'm so sorry. I told her to wait."

"It's quite alright, Karen," he said, throwing me a black look. "I'm sure you did."

Feeling smug, she threw me a triumphant look of her own. It lasted until Reed said, "It's good that Adelaide's here though, she can stay for this. You may go, shut the door behind you."

She sauntered out, offering me a deadly glare on the way. I was momentarily grateful my car was not parked out front. She would've slashed my tires in a heartbeat.

"Adelaide, this is Agata Demidov, Anastas' niece." Reed turned to Agata, smoothing her ruffled hair. "Agata," he said, "this is Adelaide. She's been helping me try to discover the whereabouts of your uncle's journal."

Speaking to me, he said, "Agata's just arrived. I had her flown down from Canada after the incident."

Agata, who couldn't be much older than myself, started to cry again. She burrowed herself into Reed's chest, muffling the sobs.

"Incident?" I prompted, indifferent to the tears.

"There was some trouble with the funeral preparations," Reed explained, "and Anastas' burial was delayed for a time. But when the service was finally set to start it was discovered that his body had gone missing."

Agata's weeping grew louder.

The more agitated the ghost grew, the less control he had over his form. Mostly he was a churning haze, but every so often a faint flick of his image would appear. His gaze never wavered, remaining steady, every ounce of attention resting on his niece, the pair of them tormented together.

"Anastas," I said to Agata, "he wasn't by any chance wearing a pinstriped suit the last time you saw him, was he?"

Agata gasped. "You've seen him?"

"Unfortunately."

Reed's blue eyes were no longer sympathetic and soft, they'd sharpened somehow. I hated that look, it was sharkish. "Tell me what happened," he demanded.

I wasn't even tempted to resist. I did as he said, describing everything except for Smith. When it came to his part I made up some story about how I got lucky and escaped by the skin of my teeth. But I didn't stop there, continuing to rant about Reed's sorry excuse for a staff.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted in exasperation. "I'll make sure you have access to the house from now on."

"So," I said after a long pause, "Anastas Demidov's body disappeared in Canada, when was that?"

"Five days ago."

"Five days," I repeated. "In five days his body went from Canada—"

"—Ottawa," Reed supplied.

"—to St. Simons." Well he didn't take a bus, and if his mangled feet were any indication, then he had been walking the whole way. No, running more like. "But that doesn't explain much, I'm obviously missing something. What was the incident you spoke of?"

"Something happened to Agata shortly after the body disappeared. I wanted to bring her here sooner, but she was named Demidov's executrix, and there were some arrangements to be made. This is the first time I've really had a chance to speak with Agata in person," Reed said pointedly.

Yes, I understood. He'd been charming the details out of her when I burst through the door. From the tears I could guess most of what she'd say.

I lowered myself into the chair across from them, settling in. "Well, let's hear it then," I said to Agata.

Reed frowned, disapproving of my callous behavior. I guess he wasn't interested in playing good cop/bad cop then.

Agata pulled away from Reed to sit upright on the loveseat. He kept one arm wrapped around her shoulders, watching intently as she wiped her nose with the crumpled tissue she'd been clutching. Every time I looked at her she seemed younger somehow, more fragile. Executrix? I couldn't imagine anyone leaving her in charge of anything.

"I..." she said, sounding uncertain. She paused to sniff once. "Well, my uncle's body went missing, so then I had to file a police report, and it took a while. I didn't go home afterwards because I had a lot of stuff to sort through at his house, so I went there to work." Her hands began to tremble. "I was just packing up some of the art," and here she turned to Reed. "He collected it you know." He nodded, encouraging her to continue. "I'd just wrapped up a painting when my... when the body appeared." Turning to me with those big, teary eyes, she said, "It was just like you explained. He... it, asked for the book. At first I didn't understand what it meant, but it just kept saying the same thing over and over again." She broke off, having gone somewhat hysterical. Reed began to rub her back, speaking a slow stream of soothing babble.

I grew impatient and hastened to end the story. "So you told him about Theodore Dunn."

"Yeeess," she bawled in remorse.

"Really there's nothing to be ashamed of," I said truthfully. "I would have told him too if I'd known where it was."

Reed looked at me, his expression turning flinty. "I find it odd that Demidov's body singled you out so quickly from an entire island of people."

"It's a small island," I said flippantly. This only increased his suspicion, and I was forced into yelling. "What! I don't have the journal. You think I'd keep it from a... a... Well what the hell _is_ that thing?"

"A demon," Reed answered.

### Chapter 42

"Really?" I said, voice squealing my disbelief. "Huh. I would have guessed zombie, though obviously your answer makes more sense."

"Agata looked through the journal before passing it to Theodore. She read enough to know that a demon is using her uncle's body." To Agata he said, "Would you try to remember exactly what you read? It would help us immensely."

She nodded, a little in awe of him, happy to do anything he asked. "According to my uncle, demons can only enter this realm when invited, no, called, or maybe it was summoned." She sighed. "I don't remember the word for it," she admitted, rubbing her eyes. "He wrote about the process in detail, but since I didn't understand I skimmed through it."

I wanted to groan, but remained tactfully silent.

"I did read about the bargain he made. My uncle wanted information, you see, so he made a deal. The demon answered all of his questions in exchange for limited use of my uncle's body."

"What? They don't have bodies of their own?"

"Apparently not," Reed answered.

"I don't think so," Agata agreed. "My uncle described the demon as an evanescent creature with an inconceivable appearance and personality. He wrote down its name, but it was strange and foreign sounding so I don't remember that either. It might have started with an R."

I ignored that last comment as well, asking the next, most obvious question. "So if your uncle is dead then why is this demon still running around inside his body?" She shrugged, but I was already looking to Reed for the answer.

"It's all conjecture at this point," he said. "The demon has taken great pains to track down its own information. I would assume that it revealed some secrets to Anastas that it thought would never be passed on."

"Yeah, but how is the demon still running around in Anastas' body?" I pressed. "Wouldn't you assume that his death was a deal breaker?"

"My uncle wrote pages and pages warning how dangerous dealing with demons could be." I thought he should have taken his own advice. "They'll manipulate the most minor oversights, and they're often wily with interpretations. He said that, my uncle."

"So what are you saying?" I asked her. "That he was careless and left a loophole in their agreement?"

"No," she defended, "he was careful. My uncle would never agree to anything without thinking it through first. I read the stipulations, and he was very specific about the duration his body would be used and the condition of its return."

Anastas Demidov was an idiot.

Agata must have read my thoughts, or maybe just my expression, because she grew angry. "How could he know he was going to die?" she yelled. "How could anyone plan for such a thing!"

Yep, she was really mad. And I was the recipient of her emotions, both because I was an empath and an easy target. The ghost was pretty pissed too, but not at me thankfully. He was an agitated mist, churning in the corner, frustrated by his own foolhardy past and the current helplessness of the situation. It was a set of emotions I recognized often in Smith.

"So..." I said, attempting to defuse the situation. "How does one go about getting rid of a demon?"

"I just want my uncle's body back!" Agata wailed. "I need to bury him," she sobbed. "I shouldn't have sold his journal, I shouldn't—"

Her words broke off as Reed pulled her close, her face pressed to his chest. He laid his cheek on her hair, murmuring, "Don't worry, I'll get him back. I'll take care of it."

She was comforted by his promise, and the weeping soon subsided. It was strange to experience someone else's reassurance, especially to the words I had always mistrusted.

But I knew better because I knew Reed. Beneath his current tender exterior was an impatient man. There was no sympathy, no affection, only an indifferent intent. This was business for him and nothing more.

Agata had calmed, though she continued to snuggle up and snot all over Reed's expensive suit. He spoke over her head. "Our options are limited. If Anastas were here he could revoke the invitation, sending the demon back to its own realm."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"She told me earlier."

Agata was awake; I could see her eyelashes flutter. But she remained silent, even as we talked about her, as if she was letting the grownups speak.

"And the other options?" I asked.

"I'm looking into both ritual and religious rites concerning the expulsion of spirits."

My eyes goggled. "An exorcism?"

He nodded.

"If the demon is just after his secrets then why can't we hand the book back when we find it?"

"No," Reed said forcefully, and I felt something akin to greed. "We're not sure what this demon is after," he hurried to explain. "For now we can only guess. Besides," he added, "you haven't even found it yet."

I'd underestimated how badly Reed wanted the journal for himself. He wouldn't turn it over to the demon for anything, relying on an exorcism instead. But there had been another option, something Reed couldn't hope to achieve. But I could, because I was staring at Anastas Demidov, the only one capable of uninviting his guest.

### * * *

"I'd like to sleep on your couch if that's okay with you." You would think that after all the time I spent fantasizing about this moment, it might be, well, different.

I hadn't gone home, driving straight to Lucas' instead, knowing I was too tired to climb the fence. After a little of my knocking he'd opened the door wearing only a pair of sagging cargo shorts. A pleasant sight. But I hadn't come to ogle. I had come because I couldn't stand to go home.

Between being burgled by Raina and assaulted by a dead man, the last two days had been rough. Not to mention that Stephen was now mad at me. Add him to the growing list. I just wanted... comfort, I guess.

Lucas opened the door wide, stepping back to let me pass. I trudged into the living room, thinking of all the things I wanted to do. Getting out of my smelly clothes and showering were high on the list. I was also a little hungry. But all that fell in line behind the bone-deep fatigue. It was hard just to mutter, "I'm tired."

"Come on," he said, gesturing to the stairwell. "Sleep in the bed."

"No," I protested, though I was already following him up the stairs. "I couldn't make you sleep on the couch."

"You're not. I'm sleeping in the bed too."

His house, which mirrored my own, was nearly identical in shape. The loft, however, had a uniquely different feel, masculine and simple. I stood at the entrance, balking.

Lucas ignored me, moving around the room to collect a small stack of clothes. I watched his brawny chest and arms, coming to terms with how little I knew about men.

"Here," he said, handing me a white T-shirt and pair of plaid boxers.

"I bet you sleep naked."

He nodded. "Usually."

Lucas brushed past, rotating his shoulders to get by. I watched him walk down the stairs, wondering if he'd changed his mind about sleeping on the couch. Probably not, I figured he was just giving me a bit of privacy. So I rushed to undress, shimmying into the borrowed garments before he came back. My clothes I set neatly on a rocking chair that faced the window. But then, knowing I would never wear the filthy things again I shoved them into the wastebasket. That was when Lucas returned. He watched, but did not comment.

I turned to face him, straightening upright. His expression gave nothing away, and he was emotionless as ever. Impatient to fill the silence, my mouth leaked, "You didn't kiss me yesterday."

I wanted to hear what he would say, but he didn't say anything. Instead, Lucas padded across the loft and pulled me forward by the arms, kissing me without hesitation.

I kissed back, relieved to find him interested. But I was unsure of what else to do, wondering if I ought to touch him back. Tentatively I rested my fingertips against his chest. He must have taken this for a sign or something because he pulled me closer, sliding his arms around my waist. But when they moved lower, skimming the small of my back, I pulled away.

"Skittish," he murmured, his voice rough and low.

"Does it bother you?" I asked, unable to look him in the eye.

"No."

"We're just going to sleep," I said, sounding unsure to my own ears.

"Get in then, I'll turn off the light."

It was a queen size bed, big enough for the both of us. Lucas flicked the switch and followed me in, making no move to touch me. I was both relieved and disappointed. Snuggling would have been nice, but I didn't want to push things.

I was somewhat vulnerable at the moment, tired and compliant. He might have persuaded me into anything during my current need for comfort. But he hadn't. I didn't think Lucas was one for seduction, his manner inherently straightforward. It was impossible to picture him coaxing anything, let alone a woman.

Holy crap, I couldn't believe it. I was in bed with a man. My mind was whirling and I thought I'd never sleep. My body didn't agree. I was unconscious in no time.

### Chapter 43

Although I knew she was still feeling wrathy, I had to call Francesca. I thought my news might relieve some of the tension between us, plus, I just really wanted to tell her about Lucas. So that was what I did first thing after getting to work, well, first thing after Ben left.

I didn't bother calling her cell phone, knowing she wouldn't take my call. Instead I tried her at the Crowne, certain she was working the front desk about now. Having worked there myself, I knew that she could still see who was calling. But this way she could answer and save face, pretending I had tricked her into picking up.

I got her on the second ring. "Good afternoon, you've reached the Crowne. How may I assist you?"

I hurried to say "I slept with a man last night" before she could hang up.

There was a pregnant pause.

"But not in the sex sort of way," I amended.

"What other way is there?"

She sounded confused, confused but curious, so I didn't have to worry about her hanging up. I got to take my time explaining. "Yesterday I had the worst, most awful day, and I didn't want to go home and be by myself, so I went to Lucas' and he let me spend the night. In his bed."

"Wait, so why didn't you have sex with him?"

"I didn't want him to think, you know, that I'm easy or something."

"That's a woman's perspective, men don't think like that. A woman hears a girl is easy and calls her a slut, but a guy hears she's easy and says, 'Hey, I think I'll ask her out.' He's a guy. He's hoping you put out."

"Why do I even call you? You give the worst advice."

"Because," she said lightly, "I— Shit! Someone's coming, gotta go, bye."

There was a click and she was gone. I wasn't surprised. Our phone calls often ended abruptly, guests taking precedence. But our conversation had gone well, reminding me of our happier times. Things between us weren't all better, but they were alright.

I intended to call Nancy next, but was interrupted by a family of five. The door was thrust open with such force that it sent the blinds swinging back and forth with a hiss, setting a tone of discord and chaos, much like the family itself. They shuffled in, the children leaving pillows and backpacks to trail behind. The father explained, as he dug around his wallet for a credit card, that they'd just endured a nine hour drive. Tired and cranky, they did nothing to lighten my mood. And when they finally filed out to find their own rooms I locked the door behind them, unwilling to be interrupted again.

Settling back behind the counter I took a moment to clear my head, but a moment wasn't long enough, so I gave up and dialed.

"You've reached the Parlor, where—"

"Nancy," I cut in.

"Oh, hello, Adelaide," she said, recognizing my voice.

I didn't bother with pleasantries. "What do you know about demons?"

She paused. "Well, I grew up in the Catholic faith, so what I know is in a religious sense. Would that help?"

"I don't know... I was thinking more along the lines of modern summoning, not the eternally damned."

"You should talk to Eclipsys then, she follows the occult more closely than I. Hold on."

I heard a muffled exchange in the background before Eclipsys answered. "Ms. Graves," she said, a real accent replacing her mystical one.

"Hello, Eclipsys." I replied warily, trying to think of her as anything other than a fake.

"You're interested in demons," she prompted.

"Yes, I'm curious about the summoning process."

"I've met a few practitioners, though I'd call them all amateur, none having actually managed to call up a demon. They do a lot of research, learning rituals and such. Sometimes they feel confident enough to create their own."

"Rituals?"

"They vary," she explained. "Some involve animal sacrifice while others include nothing more than a harmless pentagram."

"Why do they do it?" I asked, wondering if all summoners were as intellectually motivated as Anastas.

"Different reasons. It's commonly believed among practitioners that a demon can give you things, like wealth or fame. The church would say you were selling your soul to the devil. And they aren't all wrong," she added. "Dealing with demons is dangerous.

"But there are other reasons people do it. A less popular belief is that demons can be bound, and there you'll find practitioners seeking their own otherworldly slave. Or maybe some just want the recognition and knowledge that comes with successfully calling a demon. Who knows?"

"Okay, so say someone actually does manage to summon up a demon. How does that someone get it to go away?"

"The summoner would simply dismiss it."

"What if the summoner can't talk?"

"That would be a problem. Traditionally the summoner must speak the demon's name during both summoning and dismissal."

"Shit," I said, struggling to remember, "it might start with an R."

"What do you mean?" Eclipsys asked, sounding suspicious. "I thought these were all hypothetical questions?"

I heard Nancy squawk in the background, followed by a scuffle. It was easy to imagine the heavyset card reader prying the phone from a petit Eclipsys. "What's this?" Nancy huffed. "You can't be mucking around with demons, it's dangerous!"

"I'm not," I lied. She started to fuss in protest, but I didn't let her finish. "I heard a thing and I was just curious. But I'll promise never to summon a demon if it makes you feel better."

"Stick to ghosts," she said in exasperation, and hung up.

How I wished I could.

### * * *

I was going to go home, get pretty, and see Lucas. I had it all planned out, well, not with Lucas, but planned nonetheless. And Reed ruined it.

The phone rang just as I was walking out the office door. Missy answered sounding chipper, contradictory to the eyeliner, which streamed down her face like black tears. Her mood abruptly turned sour and I rushed to shut the door behind me, but she called me back. "Adelaide, it's for you."

I sighed, walking toward the counter with my hand extended. But she didn't pass me the phone. Instead she covered the mouthpiece with her palm and stage whispered, "You know you shouldn't take personal calls at work." It was sympathetically said, as if she didn't want to correct me, though I knew she was enjoying it more than Christmas. "But if this is the last time then I don't see any point in telling Ben," she generously offered. It was the highlight of her day, lording the phone call over me.

"Hand me the phone," I said, staring at her like she was an idiot.

Missy pursed her lips, but did as I said, slumping into the chair to eavesdrop.

"Hello?"

"Good evening, Adelaide." I ground my teeth at hearing Reed's voice. "I'm sorry to have gotten you in trouble," he continued, not sounding sorry at all. "Wouldn't want to get you fired from your little motel, now would I?"

"I'm going to hang up."

"How ungrateful," he accused lightly.

"Ungrateful?"

"Unforgivably so I'm afraid. You see, I've just done you a favor."

"It's only a favor if I asked for it, otherwise it's a presumption."

"Come meet me," he said as if I hadn't spoken.

"No, I'm going home."

"You'll regret it later," he warned.

"Fine," I said throwing up a hand in defeat. "When? Where?"

"Now," he answered, naming a length of public beach to rendezvous.

"Alright," I agreed. "On one condition."

"That's a bit backwards. If you'll remember, I'm the one who's doing you a favor."

"You've got to bring Agata."

"Whatever for?"

"Just do it," I said, and hung up.

### * * *

I parked on the street, noticing what must have been Reed's slightly stretched limo with its tinted glass. He was already waiting. Maybe he'd been waiting here the whole time, confident I would come. The thought made me want to get in my car and go home, but I didn't.

I walked down the wooden planks slowly, scanning the moonlit beach. Lamps were posted, a dotted line that stretched across the sand. In addition, the hotels and houses cast their own glow. But the crashing waves seemed to mute everything, creating a pall of isolation.

There he was, standing in the moist and hard-packed sand. Waves washed forward, slinking back only when they reached the tips of his shoes as if they too bowed down to his charm.

"I'm here," I announced, though he'd already turned at the sound of my patting approach. "Where's Agata?"

"I left her in the car—I assume for a reason?"

"I didn't specify that you leave her waiting like a lapdog," I reproached. "You could have brought her."

He turned back to the water, unspeaking.

"Well?" I demanded. "What is it, this favor?"

"Be patient," he replied, the wind catching his words and whipping them back at me. "Don't you trust me to act in your best interest?"

Disdainfully I told him what he already knew. "I trust you to act in _your_ best interest."

"So young to be a cynic," he observed, giving me a brief glance. "And when did this low opinion of me come about?"

He was leading the conversation, already knowing my answers. But since I wanted to list my grievances, I obliged his herding. "When you blackmailed me into this dangerous game you're playing with Lars, where I'm the one at risk while you lie, manipulate, and keep secrets."

"I had no idea you were so put off by exclusion. But I've already made you my girlfriend, how could I involve you more? Is it a proposal you're after? Shall I get down on one knee?"

I refused to be baited. Calmly, and with complete honesty, I said, "I want you off St. Simons. But until that's possible I'd appreciate it if you kept me in the loop."

Reed was angled away and I couldn't see his face, but I could tell there was something he wanted to say. It was the same feeling I recognized in Francesca when she wanted to apologize, but was too proud, and in Stephen when he felt the need to confide. It was the constraint of silence at odds with a desire for communication. I waited patiently while he warred within himself.

"Alright," he said after a time. "Come closer and I'll tell you a secret."

I moved to face him, stepping into the surf. It rushed over my ankles, invading my shoes and soaking the hem of my jeans.

His face was all sharp planes in the dim light, the contours falling in harsh lines. With a steely voice that matched his severe exterior, he said, "Tim Beckett was already on St. Simons when I called the work retreat. He arrived the day Theodore died."

"Tim came to meet Theodore?"

Face grim, "Perhaps he did meet Theodore."

Understanding dawned. "That would be after Theodore landed but before he died. That shit! He's got the journal. No wonder he's not sad that his mentor was murdered, he might be responsible! I knew there was something shifty about him," I muttered to myself.

A small commotion up the beach broke my concentration and I quit ranting. Reed turned toward the sound, gazing into the darkness expectantly. I followed his line of sight, but couldn't see past his shoulder. For the first time I noticed how close we were—the charm at work. Hastily I stepped back, water splashing up my calves.

The disturbance grew closer. Two figures slogged through the shifting sand in our direction. One was a hulking man of muscle, the moonlight reflecting off his shaved and egg-shaped head. In his grip was a second man, smaller by comparison, and grunting in an effort to squirm free.

"It would appear you were successful, Ed," Reed said by way of greeting the big man. At the sound of his voice the wriggling had stopped, with the captive sagging in defeat.

"He was crawling through the tall grass. Hoping for a listen," explained the big man.

"Did he hear anything?" Reed asked, his tone gone deadly.

"No, sir," Ed answered. "I caught him quick-like."

"Thank you, Ed." With that said, both Reed and I turned our full attention to the smaller man. I was stunned, having not expected to see my stalker up close.

### Chapter 44

While I'd been relating the demon's attack via Demidov's body, Reed had interrupted to ask how I'd ended up alone in the cemetery to begin with. I'd briefly explained about being followed before moving on with the rest of my story. Apparently Reed hadn't been so quick to let it go. And for once he had taken care of something.

My stalker now swayed awkwardly in the sand. His orange hat sat askew, unruly hair escaping all over. In the dim light his bland features looked more washed out than ever.

"Why are you following me?"

He knew he was well and truly caught, filled with stress and shame. But his face turned petulant as he said, "You can't do anything to me. This is a public beach and I have as much right to be here as you. Take your hands off!" he screamed at Ed, renewing his struggles.

"Consider this a citizen's arrest," Reed said calmly, though I could feel him growing bored. "We'll take you by the police station where you'll be charged for stalking and harassment. How does that sound?"

His options were clear, he could either explain himself or face the consequences. Sagging again in Ed's firm grip, it was obvious which he would choose. "I'm a private investigator," he said quietly. He then glanced at me. "Your mother hired me."

"Fuck," I groaned.

"It seemed straight forward," he continued. "There was an accident, and though you eventually healed physically, there were psychological issues. You barely graduated, and after that you just..."

"Disappeared," I interjected.

"I expected to find a mess, if you were alive at all. That was your mother's biggest fear, that you were dead. But all this time she's been worried for nothing. You've been doing quite well here. I meant to return after finding you, only..."

"Only what?" I asked sharply.

"You started dating Reed Wallace," he explained, clarifying, "a celebrity billionaire." After flicking Reed an apprehensive glance, he continued. "I saw him come to your motel and I was curious, so I hung around is all..."

I let out a nervous breath. "You can't tell my mother where I am."

He threw up his hands. "What's the big deal? She seems nice! And she's really worried."

"You can't tell her," I repeated, my voice growing louder. Everything he said was true. She _was_ nice, and probably very worried. But my mother made me crazy, and I didn't want to revert to my old self. Agitated, I started to pace. It was the PI. He felt caught like a caged animal, helpless, and therefore so did I. Forcing myself to slow down, I staved off the rising panic attack.

"It will be fine," Reed assured me. Turning to use his boardroom voice on the investigator, he said, "I'm sure we can come to an agreement. What is Mrs. Graves paying you?"

"That's private information. I can't say."

"Whatever it is," Reed continued untroubled, "I'll pay you five times over to say nothing." He paused letting his offer sink in. "Of course I'd ask that you return to my office with me and sign a formal agreement before I wire the money to your account."

It was a done deal, I could feel it. Ed was no longer restraining the investigator, who was busy asking Reed the details of their contract. I slipped away and no one stopped me. I doubted if they even noticed.

I was still feeling miserable, but rushed energetically for the limo regardless. I rapped the glass twice with my knuckles before popping the door open. Agata was inside, wide-eyed and staring. "Uh, hello," she said hesitantly.

I ignored her, glancing around the interior. A pair of tan leather bench seats faced each other, and sure enough, swirling in the corner was a ghost. "Come on," I said to Anastas.

"Where?" Agata asked, afraid and confused.

"I'm not talking to you." I barely spared her a glance before turning back to her uncle. His image had flickered, showing me the impression of his once living form. His eyes were much like his niece's, equally wide with confusion. "Yes you," I assured him. "Come with me, I need to speak with you about dismissing your demon."

"What?" Agata gasped. She was starting to sniffle and I glimpsed a quivering lip.

"I'm not talking to you," I repeated, losing patience. I gestured for the ghost to hurry. "Come on, I haven't got all day."

Unsurprisingly, Agata started to cry. "I don't know what you're saying," she wailed. I shut the door on her, relieved when the ghost drifted out. He motioned back at the car, expressing his desire to stay with her.

"No, you're coming with me so I can figure out how to dismiss the demon. When that's done, feel free to haunt Agata all you like."

I didn't get a chance to explain more, the three men came clomping up the wooden planks, mounting the sandy drop-off. The wormy investigator said he'd pull around, preparing to follow Reed home and sign the papers. He no longer felt like shit. Reed strode toward me while Ed ducked into the limo. Agata's sobbing escaped the interior briefly until Ed shut the driver's door.

"What did you say to her?" Reed asked.

I shrugged vaguely. "When I started talking she got confused. You should send her to therapy, I think she's traumatized." I wasn't lying, she did need therapy. Anyone would be scarred after seeing their uncle rise from the dead, even if they knew it was a demon that made him do it.

Reed didn't believe me, but he wasn't mad either.

I decided it was best to change the subject. "I suppose you expect me to thank you for paying off that asshat."

"On the contrary," Reed said smoothly. "I was acting in my own best interests. If your whereabouts were disclosed then I would have nothing to blackmail you with."

"Your own best interest," I echoed. "Like telling me about Tim was a ruse, really you were just stalling until my stalker got caught. There I was, nagging about how all I needed was information, and you never once thought 'Hey, I think I'll explain to Adelaide what we're really doing here.'"

"And ruin the surprise?" Reed asked. "Never."

"You manipulative bastard," I muttered. I didn't expect a reply. I'd already turned to my car with the ghost trailing after.

### * * *

I told Anastas he had to ride in the back, car rules. I told him a lot of things while I drove. The soulier he was, the better. So I chattered (something very unfitting to my overall personality) and glanced in the rearview mirror every now and again to make sure he hadn't drifted away.

It wasn't like riding in the car with Smith, who sat in the passenger seat whether I wanted him to or not. Smith was much more... well, just more. Anastas was thready, his emotions barely coming through. His image was a puff of smoke more often than not, and he seemed perpetually confused. I chalked that up to his being the recently deceased, he was still adjusting.

When we got home I pulled the Ouija board out from under the couch, explaining how it worked. And things would have kept chugging right along if not for Smith. He stepped through my closed front door, took one look at Anastas, and rained down to a puddle of agitated moisture. His loss of control said a lot about his emotions, so did his emotions. He was angry, maybe even jealous.

"It's not like I'm cheating on you," I snapped. "I have to help Anastas or the demon is just going to keep using his dead body to hunt around town!"

Smith had re-formed by then, but his image wavered, giving the impression that he quivered in anger. But he did nothing more than narrow his eyes, fuming no doubt. It wasn't like he could argue back, though I thought it was incongruous that he could hit me. But he didn't, choosing instead to leave in a snit. I wouldn't see him for a few days. That was his MO.

I knew Smith wanted something from me, expected something. And he just kept waiting. It was frustrating for us both, because I had no idea what he was trying to tell me. And half the time he was no help at all, turning cagey when I asked the wrong questions. That was how I knew he'd be gone for a few days—I was used to his running.

I turned my attention back to the very uncomfortable Anastas. Speaking calmly to assuage his anxiety, I said, "Let's start." Having already explained how the Ouija board worked there was nothing more to do but settle onto the couch and begin. "Will I need to know the demon's name for its dismissal?"

Anastas' image was breaking, floating tendrils of smoke wafting off as if the wind was stealing him piece by piece. But he did as I said, urging me to stop when my planchette hovered over the correct answer. And I felt his responded _yes_ as if it were spoken aloud.

"Is there anything else I'll need to dismiss it?"

He didn't react to yes or no, and at first I thought he was either too new or too stupid to communicate properly, but then I saw him gesturing to his chest.

"Yes," I said, comprehending, "I know you're supposed to be the one to say it. But since you're dead we're going to have to improvise." I told him my plan, asking, "Do you think it'll work?"

Again he seemed to find yes and no both lacking.

I rephrased, "Do you think it's worth a try?"

Yes.

"Alright then," I said feeling hopeful, "let's work on spelling its name out next."

It was a long and tedious process. By the end I knew what Agata had meant when she said it sounded foreign. I also forgave her for not remembering. No one could have remembered that. It was a monstrosity, absurd by any standards.

R-A-U-L-R-I-E-C-H-M-Y-D-L

"That's it? You're sure?" I questioned. "Then let's go before we lose our nerve," I said, standing to look for my flashlight.

### * * *

I had planned to come home, get pretty, and see Lucas. But those plans were ruined, first by Reed and now the demon. I had to go find the stinky thing, and if I was lucky, cast it back to whatever hell-hole realm it came from.

I packed the flashlight in my satchel, along with a small Swiss army knife. I was hungry, but forewent adding food, thinking I'd need to be on full alert with no time to eat.

The ghost required no coaxing to follow. He was already dead and out of harm's way. I, on the other hand, was scared shitless. I tried not to let it show, humming throughout the entire car ride. But my throaty vibrations tapered off upon approaching Goodfellows. It looked the same as yesterday, eerie and old.

I parked and my car backfired twice before I pulled the key from the ignition, then came the agitated metal ticking and clicking noises that I didn't understand. If that didn't get the demon's attention I didn't know what would. I eased out of the car, glancing around cautiously as I went. I didn't smell anything off, so I was safe for the time being.

"Go look around," I told the ghost. "Warn me if it's here." I waited until Anastas drifted off before moving. I meant to climb the hill, to walk around the cemetery. But I couldn't make it past the iron arch, my feet refusing to move.

Though it was now summertime, it felt cold out, and I shivered from a bone-deep chill. Eventually Anastas returned, a spectral mist gliding swiftly over the grass and tombstones. He had nothing to say, which pretty much said it all.

I waited for hours. I waited, hoping the demon would show, and felt grateful when it did not. Besides wait, I had no idea what else to do, no clue where to look. There were numerous places a demon could hide a dead body on the island, swampy places no one would see. But I didn't want to go trudging through the marshland, so I waited and waited.

I used the time wisely, whispering to the ghost, telling him anything and everything just to make him souly. He was a little sad. I wasn't sure if it was because he missed Agata's company, or because he was dead in general. After a few hours I was so hungry I started rooting around my satchel even though I knew there was no food inside. It made me feel better to look, but only until I didn't find anything, then I just got cranky. And still I waited. I waited until the island seemed to stir, finally dragging myself home by the dawn's early light.

Fucking unreliable demons.

### Chapter 45

"Good morning," I said to Francesca, sliding a sprinkled donut across the front desk. Having managed one reasonably agreeable phone conversation already, I thought it was safe to approach her. And after that terrifying night of demon hunting, I hadn't been able to sleep this morning so I thought I might as well check up on Tim Beckett. The donut was not only a peace offering, but a bribe.

Francesca eyed it, noticing the smear of glaze on the counter. "You're up early," she said, quick to wipe up the mess and remove the donut from sight. It went behind the desk, set aside for later on a piece of copy paper. Turning back, she studied me more closely. "You look like shit."

I nodded in understanding, having already glimpsed myself in the mirror. "I didn't sleep last night."

"Oh?" she asked, conveying a whole message in one breathy tone.

"No, I wasn't having sex," I corrected. The elderly gentleman who'd been browsing the brochures chuffed in disapproval and moved away. "Is Tim Beckett staying here?" I asked, changing the subject before she could start spouting out more advice.

"Let me check," Francesca answered, shifting over to the computer. "The name sounds familiar," she said absently while typing. She stopped. "Is he about our age, real twitchy, wears rumpled clothes all the time?"

"Yeah," I said, "that's the guy."

"I only remember because he got into an argument with Reed yesterday right here in the lobby."

I thought I could guess why. "Can I search his room?"

She shrugged. "Sure. He just left. But I'm not sure how long he'll be gone," she warned, reaching for the spare key. "What are you looking for anyway?"

"A diary," I admitted, seeing no reason to lie.

"Does it look all old and leathery like a Bible?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "Why?"

"Because he just took it with him," she said, sliding me the key. "342. Don't get caught."

I ignored it, asking, "Where did he go?"

" _Shh_ ," Francesca scolded, glancing around to make sure my raised voice hadn't attracted attention.

The Crowne's foyer was large, done up to have an elegant island feel. Butter toned marble made the floor appear glossy and warm, with potted palm trees dotted here and there. One man sat reading the newspaper on a large claw foot couch in a windowed alcove. But he was ignoring us.

Francesca flashed a jaunty smile. "I know where he's going because he asked me for directions."

"Where?" I impatiently asked.

"That park in Brunswick, the one where we fed geese last year. It's closed for construction though. I tried to warn him, but he didn't seem to care."

I barely had time to call my thanks, promising I owed her big as I ran for the door.

### * * *

The parking lot had seen better days. Trucks and equipment were left out haphazardly, parked crooked more often than not. One overzealous driver had popped the curb, leaving his tire to rest in the median planter, shrubs squished flat. A sign had been put up proclaiming the park temporarily closed. I ignored it, coasting around until I found a spot to squeeze into. Mine was not the only car, though I wasn't sure if Tim drove a Kia. But judging from his personality I would guess yes.

"Wait here," I told Anastas. He sat in the backseat, following me around obediently. He'd proven more patient and loyal than even my pet ghost. As reward, he was growing more substantial, his form now a transparent body and not a milky mass.

I opened the door slowly, trying to minimize the screech. I thought it wouldn't hurt to be a little covert. With that in mind I didn't go dashing off across the park. I hovered behind an empty dumpster, scanning the area.

It was much the same as when I'd been here last, level grounds complete with manicured grass. Most of the trees had been cleared away over time with only the largest surviving, those lucky few that were so old the community agreed it would be a shame to destroy them. Tucked away in one corner was a playground with swings, the area beset by benches for the less active parents. A two lane track ringed the property, weaving through the tree line. It had passed behind the bleachers that sat on the far side of the park. I squinted, finding that the bleachers were gone. What had once been a baseball diamond was now an utter wreck. More equipment was parked over there, much more. It looked as though they were putting in a public pool, if the giant gaping pit was anything to go by.

But where was Tim? Having not seen him I almost gave up, thinking he hadn't come after all. But then the wind blew to reveal him, setting the branches of a large weeping willow to swing. For just that moment I could see him sitting under the drooping tree. He was propped against the trunk, a book held in his hands.

Tim Beckett didn't frighten me and I couldn't think of a better time to confront him than now. I was striding forward when the view hit me, the closer angle giving me a different perspective.

A few shrubs had grown up around the tree's base. There was a large oval shaped bush which I could easily imagine as the head, and two smaller circular ones where the feet would be. It was a big green turtle, just like the seer had said. A useless bit of prophesy for all the good it did me, fucking seers and their cryptic bullshit.

I pushed the branches aside as if they were a curtain. Tim was stressed out and anxious before he even looked up, but when he saw me he jerked the book shut and pulled it to his chest in a protective sort of way, stress levels nearly doubling.

"Is that the diary?" I asked, not bothering to mince words. It was just like Francesca said, old and leathery, the edges frayed from wear.

"What?" he asked slowly. "I— I came here to read. I thought I would be alone." He looked pathetic, his sagging khakis rolled up to reveal a truly disgusting pair of sandals. His toes poked out, hairy and pale.

I didn't want to be condescending, so I did my best not to sneer down at him. But I couldn't help it. He was just such a weasel. "What were you planning to do with it?" I asked, still standing a few yards back.

He was staring past, unable to meet my eye. "I don't know what you mean."

I took a few steps closer, shortening the distance between us. "Did Theodore give it to you, all trusting like? Or did you have to pry it from his cold dead fingers?"

Upset, he started to shake his head in denial. I lunged forward, stumbling to my knees in order to grab the journal. He tried to twist away, but I smashed his foot with my knee and elbowed him in the ribs. Tim doubled over as I wrenched the thing from his slack fingers.

I stood, the journal tucked under one arm while I swatted the dirt from my pants. "You're a real shit you know," I said, not bothering to look at him. He didn't say anything back, and I left him there, heading for my car.

The sun seemed brighter when I stepped out from under the weeping willow's cover. I felt marginally better with the book in my hands, though I wasn't sure what to do next. Drive to Reed's and drop it off?

Tim jogged up behind me; I could hear him coming. He kept time with my fast pace, holding his ribs and panting from the effort. "You don't understand," he whined. "Just give it back and everything will be okay."

"Go away."

He wasn't even looking at me. He kept darting glances over my shoulder to the parking lot. "Please," he begged, "there isn't much time."

"Fuck off!" I snarled.

He whimpered, but not from my harsh treatment. I followed the line of his eyes, discovering what had frightened him. It was Raina Thompson strolling through the parking lot, and what was worse, Beagban was behind her.

### Chapter 46

"You were going to give it to them!" I shrieked, rounding on Tim in anger. It didn't make sense. Why wait all this time to give it away? Perhaps he'd been holding out for more money.

Tim did the most unexpected thing, jumping at me to grab the book back. I jabbed my elbow at him threateningly and he subsided to a sullen standstill.

"You aren't going to be easy, are you?" Raina called while coming closer, covering the distance with Beagban at her heel.

"Well, I'm not just going to give it to you," I said, throwing Tim a contemptuous look.

She only smiled, hands on hip.

I edged a few steps away from them all, cradling the journal behind two crossed arms.

"Beagban, get the book. But remember what Lars said," she reminded. "Do whatever you want, but clean up your own mess after."

He was filled with anticipation, pleasure even. To feel the satisfaction he would derive from killing me was utterly revolting. I watched with dread as he grunted his assent at Raina, pacing forward with slow and measured steps.

I turned and ran, causing Tim to stumble back as I brushed past. I heard him shout at me, one last plea to give him the book. But I didn't stop, not even when my flip-flops clacked in protest. I kicked them off without missing a step. With Beagban between me and my car there was only one place to go—the construction site. It was the only thing around that offered cover.

I hurdled over the yellow caution tape, zipping between machinery. Only a few seconds later I heard the plastic snap as Beagban broke through, not bothering to go around. But I was already hunched between two giant tires, watching his boots as he wandered through the maze of yellow-orange construction equipment.

I drew in a long, shaky breath, trying to be as quiet as possible. My heart beat wildly, and I was afraid of having a panic attack. They always left me feeling doomed and useless, unable to move. That wasn't an option now. I had to stay focused and find a new place to hide or Beagban would find me. Ducking my head out from under the dump truck, I craned my neck to see how high up it was. Too high, I could never climb inside. And if I did manage, I'd just be trapped there.

Anxiously I glanced around, my eyes coming to rest on a small bulldozer. It was parked on the precipice, its blade outstretched over the pit, angled upward as if reaching toward the sky. It was as good a spot as any I would find. The scoop shaped blade was big enough to hold me, short enough to climb, and taller than Beagban, so I wouldn't be seen.

I shoved the journal up my shirt, tucking the hem into my pants to ensure it stayed in place. With my hands now free I waited until Beagban's toes were turned away before crawling out from between the tires on all fours. The soil was soft and loose, my bare feet patting silently as I skirted the drop-off.

The blade was held up by cylinder arms, which I braced my feet against to climb up the side. Grabbing the scoop's dull short edge in both hands, I hauled myself inside headfirst. The stale dirt caked itself into my clothes as I slid into place with a dull thunk. I went still, a deer caught in headlights with my legs still hanging out, waiting, panicking that Beagban had heard. After the longest minute of my life I began to pull my feet in slowly. I'd just gotten both over the lip and out of view, seemingly safe, when he grabbed me.

Beagban's thick hand thrust over the bright colored metal, striking out to encircle my ankle. I screamed as he jerked me, pulling my limb at unnatural angle. The blade cut into my shin, digging painfully. Scrabbling forward on my stomach, I tried to twist away, but couldn't break his ruthless hold. He gave another sharp jerk, and desperate to keep my leg from snapping, I rolled out of the blade, breaking his grip as I went.

Only I didn't land in the soft soil. My shoulder smacked into the drop-off as the rest of my body tipped over the edge, continuing down the sharp incline. Small white rocks cut at me as I roughly flipped headlong. I landed at the bottom of the fifteen foot pit, jarred by impact.

The book had come free from under my shirt. It sat half-open on the soil beside me. I was too winded to even reach for it. But I found the strength to scramble backwards when I saw Beagban pursuing. He was sliding into the pit, boot heels digging in to slow his descent. One calloused hand was outstretched, dragging through the dirt to keep him balanced.

I toed the journal towards him. "Take it."

I no longer cared who had the damned thing so long as I survived. But I could tell from the look in his eye that I would not be leaving this pit. He intended it to be my grave. Stepping over the journal, he reached down with one arm—the other bandaged to his chest—and plucked me from the earth. I dangled far above the ground, his meaty fist wrapped around my neck. With a grumble of pleasure he began to squeeze. "You aren't giving it to me," he said in his gravelly voice, shaking me savagely. "I'm taking it."

My scream choked off to nothing as he compressed my throat completely. It was a terrible thing to be without oxygen, it turned me into an animal. I was unthinking, my mind had shut off and it was my body that took over. I kicked at his shins, but he sidestepped, reminding me of his gift. There was nothing I could do to stop him. Even as I clawed at his wrists, he ignored me.

A sharp female voice called from above. "Finish up!" Raina was shouting. "And bring me the book."

Her voice seemed to move away, going distant. I felt like I was slipping, everything darkening. And then I was smashed from the side, flailing through the air. I landed in a small pile of dirt, gasping, sucking in deep gulps of foul and putrid air. I blinked to see the corpse of Anastas Demidov coming for me. "Boook," the demon moaned.

"There!" I croaked, pointing one weak finger toward the journal. But the demon ignored my gesture, coming closer. The cadaver appeared dirtier and more stinking than the last time I'd seen it. All the horrid details were visible with no darkness to mute them. I gagged at its nearness. My throat, already raw, ached from the vile odor.

I no longer had to wonder where the demon was hiding—it had found a fitting place. But I couldn't comprehend why it was coming for me when the book lay only a few feet away.

"She's mine!" Beagban bellowed, standing up from where the demon had bowled him over. He launched himself at the thing and they tumbled to the earth grappling with one another. It was a disgusting sight. Raina gasped from above, her face horrified as she stood over the lip of the pit. I saw her watching, and I saw when she turned and ran away. I myself tried to move while they were distracted, crawling across the pit to where a dirt ramp lay.

I watched them warily as I shifted backward, noticing how they appeared evenly matched. Beagban's strength lay in his ability to sense an opponent's move. But his gift didn't appear to work on demons and dead bodies. Stripped of his combat sense and the use of one arm, Beagban relied on strength and speed. He was large, meaty with muscle, and towering, while Anastas had died a short, portly man. But the demon worked Anastas' dead muscles without restraint, unworried that the body would tire as it was no longer held by living constraints. Faster and more agile, Beagban beat at it, but his efforts made not a hint of difference. The demon just kept coming, and eventually it was Beagban that tired, growing slower, still unsure how to kill the thing.

I stopped watching when I reached the ramp, struggling to stand on my turned ankle. A loud crack rang out and I jerked around in time to see Beagban's body slump to the ground, his neck turned backwards. He was dead. Beagban was dead. And the demon had already resumed its slow shamble towards me while I was gaping in disbelief. "Boook," it moaned.

"It's there!" I cried desperately. Pushing forward up the rise, I tried to outrun it. "Anastas!" I screamed, knowing he couldn't hear me from the car. It hardly mattered; I continued to scream his name while the demon gained on me.

I was almost out of the pit, with the demon just behind. "Anastas!" I screamed through a river of tears. And then he was there, a white blur streaming forward. His emotions were like a ton of bricks falling all over me, disgust, anger, shame, and so many other strong and complicated things. As the milky mist coalesced into Anastas' living form, I reached out and grabbed his arm, willing him to turn solid and stay visible. And to my amazement—he did, his wrist filling out beneath my fingers, cool and smooth.

I felt drained, more tired than I'd ever been in my entire life. But I forced the words out, hoping they would work. "Raulriechmydl, on behalf of Anastas Demidov, I dismiss you." I said it harshly, but anyone could hear the desperate pleading in my voice.

I held my breath, waiting for something to happen. And at first nothing did, but then I noticed the corpse shifting. The head tipped back slightly and then it flopped over altogether, neck craned at a sharp angle while the Adam's apple bobbed. Slowly the shoulders sank back, peeling away from the demon's incorporeal form which remained upright, half in and half out of the corpse. Its expression was unreadable but otherworldly. And though it had two eyes, a nose, and mouth, the same features as a human being, it was nothing like anyone I'd ever seen before.

It opened its mouth, but the words came scratching out from the corpse behind it as the demon struggled to control one last message. "The journal is of my essence," it moaned, barely discernable. "And dismissal cannot separate me from myself."

The words barely made it out of the demon before it faded fast, slipping into nothing. I knew when it was gone because Demidov's body crumpled as the animation was removed. It slumped backwards, falling off the ramp. I made no move to stop it. The ghost followed his body, seemingly satisfied, yet sorrowful.

I limped back into the pit. As I neared Beagban's body I turned away, not wanting to see. I kicked open the journal that had caused so much trouble. A slight breeze caused the pages to flicker back and forth restlessly. I toed them apart with my bare foot, staring down at the page in disbelief. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John stared back at me, with verses, endless verses. I didn't bother bending over to pick it up, determined to leave it behind. A few days ago I had never seen a dead body, and now I was in the earth with two. I couldn't climb out of that pit fast enough.

Reed Wallace was standing in the middle of Brunswick Park when I surfaced from the pit. He was talking to Tim. Seeing me limp forward, Tim beat a hasty retreat, scurrying for the parking lot. Smart man.

"You fucking bastard!" I screamed at Reed when I was close enough. "A Bible!" I hit his chest with both fists, angrier than I'd ever been and all on my own, needing no one to feed it to me.

"It was necessary," he said without remorse, grabbing my wrists to halt the assault. "It's over now. Not the way I planned, but over."

"You manipulated me!" I shrieked as I struggled to thrash him. "Why not just tell me like you did Tim!"

"I knew Tim would eventually agree to whatever I planned, even reluctant as he was. But you, you're unpredictable. It was the only way."

"So what?" I asked, pulling my hands away from him. "You give me false information about Tim so I'll get suspicious and go poking around." I scoffed. "I should have known! He just happened to ask my friend for directions while carrying a book. Ridiculous!"

"I knew you would believe it, because I knew you didn't trust Tim, never have."

"Why involve me at all?" I demanded. "Why not just carry out your plan without me?"

He sighed. "After hinting that Tim had the book and making sure you'd follow him here, I planted information with the leak, Richard Addler, knowing he'd pass it along to Lars. You were supposed to arrive just before Ms. Thompson and Beagban, not long enough to cause trouble. Tim was prepared to destroy the book, he had a lighter and the pages were soaked in oil. The idea being that Raina and Beagban would return to Lars, telling him the journal had been destroyed. Only you stole the book and ran away." He paused, slightly worried. "Tim was just telling me that Beagban chased you, but then I saw you limping over. He also said Raina ran past a few minutes ago screaming about demons? What happened? Where is Beagban?"

"He's dead," I said bluntly. "We fell into the pit, the demon was there, they fought, he died, and I guess..." I struggled to think up a suitable lie. "I guess the demon wore itself out because Demidov's body is... no longer walking."

Reed studied me. "You weren't supposed to be brave. You were only here for show. Lars has heard about you, it seems his employees were curious to discover your role in my life. If you hadn't been involved he might have disbelieved the whole thing."

"What will Lars think now that I messed it up?"

"After talking to Raina he'll think that the demon got its book back. Not destroyed as I'd planned, but gone nonetheless. So I'll be leaving soon. Lars will grow suspicious if I remain. I need to return to New York and resume my life."

"I hope I never see you again," I said honestly.

"Don't be ridiculous, you'll call me the moment you find the book."

"I already did, it was even under a turtle shaped tree. It's not my fault that I was fated to find a fake."

He shook his head. "I orchestrated that. Those bushes were planted this morning. The real book is still on the island somewhere, under a different turtle perhaps."

"Find it yourself," I said, turning for my car. "And you owe me lots of money."

* * *

My Chevette was tired as I, rattling in protest as I steered her home. My eyes wanted to drift shut, my body seeking ease and peace now that the danger had passed. But there was still so much to do. I had to get my friends back, Stephen, Francesca. And I had to make Lucas be my boyfriend. As for the ghosts... well, only time could tell.

### Epilogue

I sat behind the front desk at Sterling's trying to ignore the newspaper that was strewn about. The front page proclaimed that two bodies had been found in Brunswick Park, though many of the details remained unclear. The island was in a tizzy, sensationalism running wild. Even as the days passed, no one would let it go. I wasn't sure if it was Reed that reported the bodies, if he'd attempted to explain with a few elaborate lies. If so then his name was being hushed up.

Eventually Agata must have identified her uncle because when she prepared to take him back to Canada, I knew. He came to say goodbye one evening, looking more real than his body ever had. I pulled out the Ouija board, wanting to communicate more fully.

In truth, I thought Anastas was an idiot. Only an idiot would play with demons. But still, I felt like I'd done a crap job at giving him closure. Sure, the demon was gone, but Anastas was not. He still lingered, heartsick and guilty. But no matter how many times I asked, or how persuasively I wheedled, Demidov wanted nothing from me. Maybe Percy could have gotten him to confess, to pass on through the veil. But Anastas simply wouldn't tell me how to help, though with the Ouija board he told me many other things.

With Reed, Demidov, and his niece Agata gone, I waited for life to return to normal. Meanwhile the townies fearfully anticipated that things would slow, assuming the gruesome local discovery would put people off. Fortunately for the Golden Isles' economy, not even a stabbing and two dead bodies could keep the tourists away. Appallingly contrary to expectations, the island's numbers swelled, business booming with the curious.

But not everyone took the news in stride. When Francesca found out that there were two dead bodies in Brunswick Park, she... well, it was like that fantasy I had of her running to my hospital bed, all sad and apologetic. Although after finding out that I was not only alive, but couldn't explain myself, she got really pissed and threatened to strangle me. On the bright side, she now believed me when I said it was only work between Reed Wallace and me. So we were friends again. She pretty much went back to normal the moment he left Georgia.

In fact, Francesca had sworn (against my protests) to devote her full attention on ensuring that Lucas Finch fell madly in love with me. As of now it was highly unlikely as he was currently out of state, gone on another business trip. Who knew mechanics traveled so often? But at least this time he'd left me a note. It was simple, just one line taped to my door, promising we'd finish the puzzle when he got back.

Leaning on the desk, Stephen folded a sheet of newspaper with excessive flapping. He was currently using the rain as an excuse to hang around the office, waiting for a ride home. Like everyone else on St. Simons, he wanted to talk about the dead bodies. I could tell by the way he plied me with questions that he suspected I knew more than I let on. I avoided his interrogation or ignored him altogether, feeling relieved when Missy finally arrived.

Running low on fuel, I took the long way to Stephen's home, driving past Singh's Dry Cleaning on the way back from the gas station. "That's where I held up those guys from your grade with a hairbrush," I pointed.

"Yeah, I know the place. It's across from Wildwood Apartments."

"What do you know about Wildwood?"

"I used to live there when I was little," he said. "We moved after my dad left."

My heart lurched to a stop. I cleared my throat and tried to act normal, saying, "I've never heard you talk about your dad. What was he like?"

Stephen shrugged, feeling distant and sad. "I don't remember much. Like I said, he left when I was really little."

"What was his name?" I pressed.

"David," he answered quietly. "David Smith."

It felt like being punched, sudden, painful, and overwhelming. It all made sense. The things Smith had been waiting for me to figure out suddenly went together like clockwork. The name, so common I didn't even think to make a connection between Smith and Stephen Smith. But it was all glaringly obvious now. Smith hadn't been haunting Sterling's, he'd been haunting his son. I remembered it then, the first time I had seen a ghost wasn't even at Sterling's, but in Stephen's front yard, though at the time I didn't know enough to recognize it. Stupid!

Stephen's dad was dead and they didn't even know it, they thought he ran off and never came back. It explained why his mother was so overly protective. Even now as I pulled up to the curb I could see her pacing back and forth in front of the door. I felt terribly sad for her, when in the past I'd only been annoyed. She always waited up for her son, secretly afraid that he'd leave one day and never return—just like his father.

But I knew Smith, and I knew he hadn't abandoned them. I was sure of it, so I knew what I had to do. I had to find proof.

Stephen moved to get out, but I grabbed his arm, holding him in place. "How do you know he left?"

He was confused by the question at first. I'd waited a long time to ask, but he answered anyway. "He had a gold watch his father gave him, a family heirloom. Mom said he loved the thing, put it under the bed for safekeeping. When he disappeared she went looking for it, but it was missing too. He'd never go anywhere without it, so she knew that he wasn't coming back."

I wanted to reassure him somehow, but there was nothing to say that wouldn't sound crazy. So I let him go. He ducked out of the car, running through the rain. I watched him, not ready to move. Suddenly I wanted to get out of the car too. I didn't care if it was pouring, I needed air. I lurched outside, thinking I'd pretend to look for an umbrella in the trunk so Mrs. Smith wouldn't think me strange.

My trunk didn't lock, in fact, it was held in place by bungee wire. I unhooked it, letting the back pop open. I cursed loud and long at what I saw inside—which was really the only proper response. There, lying inside my three-tones-green round-top Chevy Chevette was a flat book of brown leather, the cover bound shut by a delicate golden string that wound around it. I hadn't a doubt in my mind that I'd just found Demidov's demon diary.

* * *

Read about Adelaide's next adventure in _Adelaide Upset_ , available now!

