The music roaring in my ears helped drown out the mental roar I unleashed when she sauntered in. It only got worse when, after she offered me a friendly wave in the mirrors, she got on one of the elliptical machines facing the other wall. And, because the universe fucking hated me this morning, she chose a machine that would give me a perfect view of that perfect bouncing ass.
I told myself not to look, to focus straight ahead. I was being tested again and I would fight it. I had to. I had plans in place and Apartment 16 was not among them. I paid The Collector too much to ruin everything now over an idle temptation.
I cranked up the music. I ran harder.
By the time I cleared another mile, I was practically sprinting. The yearning in my chest had been replaced by a burning in my lungs that had everything to do with my level of exertion and nothing to do with Apartment 16’s tempting assets. My gaze shifted, just for a second, and it locked on Apartment 16—on that ponytail, on the line of sweat that had started to soak through the bottom half of her tight, tight tank top.
Fuck.
I pulled out the emergency brake card on the treadmill, and when the belt had gone from nine-and-a-half miles per hour to two, I yanked my towel out of the cupholder, then stalked out of the gym. I slammed the door open with enough force that Apartment 16 gave a little yelp. A sharp intake of breath.
Fuck.
The yearning was back and was in my throat now, trying to choke me. I tried to get The Collector on board with this one, but he wisely assured me she was too risky. This complex’s walls were too thin, the neighbors too nosy. I’d learned my lesson about risky targets. Four years had passed since Brynn and I still looked over my shoulder, convinced my day had come.
After a freezing cold shower, I dressed quickly. I grabbed my camera bag, wallet, and keys, and headed out the door. I didn’t have a gig booked today, so I didn’t need the camera, but I rarely left home without it. It was my constant companion. After locking up, I stuffed my earbuds in. Apartment 5, the old lady next door, poked her head out.
“How many times I gotta tell you not to slam your door!” she barked. “You knocked my picture off the wall again.”
I stalked past her, not hazarding her a glance. I cranked up the music on my iPod just as she called me a few choice words. It was a game we played that neither enjoyed.
Once in my car under a dilapidated awning, I turned off my music and took out the earbuds.
“Pay attention to the signs,” I said out loud. “Apartment 16 is your first sign. She’s the one who made you leave today. This isn’t your fault. You had a plan and she disrupted it. She’s never been in the gym at the same time as you. She was there for a reason. Maybe today is the day after all. You have all the information you need.” I took in a deep pull of air, then slowly let it out of my nose. “Stay open to the signs. They’ll tell you what to do.”
The yearning in my throat eased a little—a pebble in my esophagus rather than a small boulder. As I eased through the lot and out onto the street, the yearning told me where it most wanted to go. If the signs led me there, I would know it was time to approach her. I clicked on the radio.
The DJ said, “And now for a brand-new one by Sean Kingston. This is ‘Beautiful Girls.’”
I grinned. My first official sign. She was one of my beautiful girls. I belonged with her, of that there was no doubt.
Where I needed to go was only ten minutes away. I hit green light after green light. Sign after sign that I was headed in the right direction. Her beautiful face was so clear in my mind, I was sure I could have drawn it from memory.
The light ahead, the last one on my direct path to the mall, turned yellow. The driver ahead of me slowed, rather than flooring the gas as I would have done. This stranger had effectively shut me down. I grimaced as I came to a stop, the yearning knot in my throat growing in size.
I cast a glance at my passenger seat, where my camera bag sat. It was my ticket to getting closer to her, but the signs had just told me today was not the day. I knew what happened when the signs and my desires didn’t line up. It made me act prematurely. It got me closer to being found out. And this one already toed the line of too risky, since she was from my hometown, but my God, she would be worth it.
Alas, my camera would have to wait, as would I.
A siren sounded behind me, and my heart lurched into my throat alongside my manifested yearning. Had the police heard my thoughts? But it was an ambulance barreling up behind me on the two-lane road. The light turned green and the car in front of me quickly rounded the corner. I followed suit and pulled to a stop at the curb to get out of the ambulance’s way. It tore through the intersection. Several other emergency vehicles arrived shortly afterward, including a police car that parked horizontally halfway up the street, cutting off oncoming traffic. There had been an accident—a bad one if all the commotion was to be believed.
After a minute, the car in front of me pulled back out onto the street, heading east now instead of north.
The knot in my throat eased.
Another sign. Another chance. I gave my camera bag a pat. “We’re back in business, my trusted friend.”
Within two more lights, I was granted access to the parking lot. My beautiful rose was just inside, waiting for me.
I parked farther back in the lot, where I knew the cameras lining the building couldn’t see me. With a baseball cap wedged tightly on my head, I climbed from my car and retrieved a shopping bag from the trunk. It was a shirt I’d shoplifted last week for this very occasion. The tags had been removed, so my lovely rose at customer service would have a doozy of a time trying to help me sort out my problem. As I walked, I kept my head down and moved casually yet confidently to the department store entrance.
The cool air of the store washed over me like a second cold shower. I shivered a little, not from the temperature drop, but from anticipation.
My rose was working with a customer when I got into line. I waited patiently for her. I’d already been waiting for months, what was a few more minutes? She was calm and professional, even when the woman ahead of me got testy. My rose was able to joke and laugh with the woman, and the customer was all smiles by the time she left.
“Hi. I can help who’s next,” my rose said, smiling brightly. A smile just for me. The yearning in my throat shot down past my belt. Yes, the signs had been right.
I explained that I had received the shirt as a gift and that my friend had accidentally removed the price tags. The shirt, unfortunately, was a size too small. No, I didn’t have a receipt, but I knew this was the store he’d purchased it from.
My rose smiled more, her white teeth a sharp contrast to her dark skin. While she typed things into her computer, trying to track down the date of my fictional friend’s purchase, we made small talk. With her attention focused on the screen, she asked how my day had been going. Just fine, I told her, then asked about hers.
As the solution to my quandary proved ever elusive, she asked what I did for a living, trying to maintain conversation to keep me, the customer, in good spirits. Little did she know that her presence was what comforted me.
She had asked the perfect question.
“I’m a photographer,” I said. “I work for newspapers and magazines, but I also photograph events like graduations and weddings, as well as taking headshots for actresses and models. A friend of mine—the one who bought me this shirt, actually—works for a local magazine. Since he’s always on the lookout for more models, I often send many of my clients his way, and vice versa. We have a great working relationship and we’re thinking about going into business together. It’s an exciting time. I really feel we’re on the brink of something amazing.”
The typing had stopped after the second sentence, and her big brown eyes were focused on me, as I knew they would be. The Collector had found her Myspace page a few weeks ago, which I’d studied with great interest. On it, my rose shared borderline risqué pictures, her dreams about becoming a model, and even
a few videos of her singing soulfully to the camera. She wouldn’t be winning a Grammy anytime soon, but my God, that face.
She wrote beautifully about feeling alone. She’d grown up here and had left briefly to attend college, only to be dragged back to care for her ailing aunt, her guardian. Her aunt had died months before, and now my rose was alone, trying to make ends meet enough to care for a house that was too big for her. On the side, she worked on her modeling career, hoping for a big break.
“I don’t want to be presumptuous,” I said, “but have you ever considered modeling?”
She stood straighter, opening up to me like a flower—which was fitting, given her name—exposed to the first rays of sunrise. “I have, yes. I’ve booked a few jobs, too. My portfolio isn’t that impressive yet, but I’m working on it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. That you’ve had modeling jobs already, I mean. Your bone structure is exquisite.”
From the way she ducked her head, I knew she was blushing, even if her dark skin masked it. “Thank you.”
“I’ll give you my card,” I said, pulling a small container of business cards out of my pocket. I had built a rudimentary website to use for this very purpose and had a separate prepaid cell phone I maintained specifically for women such as my rose. I slid the crisp white card across the counter. “If you’re interested in making another modeling connection, please consider me. I would also be happy to offer you a discount on headshots. It’s rare that I come across someone with beauty as natural as yours. It would be a treat to photograph you. Just give my site a look over and contact me if you’re interested.”
She took the card and peered down at it as if it were a precious gem. “Thank you,” she said again, glancing up.
After a few more minutes, she admitted that she’d been unable to find the purchase in the system. When she asked if I would like her manager to come over and help them, I declined and took my stolen shirt back, returning it to the bag. She apologized profusely.
“No problem,” I said, waving away her concerns. “To be honest, the pleasure of meeting you has taken the sting out of it all.”
She beamed again.
“I hope to hear from you soon,” I said as I departed.
The yearning had settled in my gut again, but it was no longer unpleasant. Seeing my rose had quieted my desperation. The Collector had proven to be invaluable once again. Perhaps he was due for a raise.
I would make the proper arrangements in preparation for my rose contacting me. I was confident she would.
Within a week, she proved me right.
CHAPTER 5
“I’m ready to call Nina,” Riley said, noting the conviction in her own tone. She and Michael were seated at her coffee table and had just finished breakfast. Michael stared at her, eyes wide, over the rim of his orange juice glass. “But I’m still freaked out, so can we go on a walk or something while I talk to her?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’m guessing this is tied to why you were asleep on the couch?”
“I’ll tell you about that, too,” she said. “I just feel really antsy.”
Ten minutes later, they walked through her apartment complex, out the pedestrian gate, and made a right down the sidewalk, heading for the park a few blocks away. As they walked, she told him about Brynn and that even if the few details she currently had didn’t fit into a neat puzzle yet, her gut told her Brynn and the woman in the yellow dress had to be connected somehow.
When she was done, she called Nina.
“Hi, Riley,” she answered almost immediately. “I was starting to worry I wouldn’t hear from you again.”
“I’m ready to learn whatever you have time to teach me,” Riley said. “I think I’m getting sucked into another mystery and I want to be better prepared than I was with the last one.”
“Great,” Nina said, smile evident in her voice.
“How do we start?”
“I believe the best way to learn is with hands-on training,” Nina said. “The more spirits you come in contact with, the more you’ll learn what to expect. The majority of the ones I come across in my work are not malevolent. There are rare instances where I’m called into places like the Jordanville Ranch, or places known to have high paranormal activity, but for the most part, my clients are seeking closure with a loved one who passed unexpectedly. They are emotionally charged situations, but aren’t scary, as was the case with the cellar at the ranch.”
Riley was slightly mollified by that.
“From what you’ve told me, you’ve had only a handful of interactions with spirits, and the majority of them have been traumatic—it’s no wonder you’re so reluctant to open yourself up,” Nina said. “And, as I’ve told you, I don’t know what it’s like to have an ability as strong as yours. Apparitions are rare for me. Messages usually come to me in voices or thoughts that I then interpret for my clients. While I have run into a few nasty spirits, most have been quite tame. I would be happy to expose you to more of these kinds of hauntings. If you see how rare spirits like Orin are, as well as the Poltergeist of Aisle 3, it may start to lessen your fear.”
Riley recalled Nick Button from her old apartment. He had been persistent, but she’d never felt threatened by him. He’d hung around because he needed to get a message to his little sister. If most ghosts were like him, maybe she could find a way to handle this. “Okay,” she said, crossing the street with Michael toward the park.
“Excellent,” Nina said. “Actually, if you have time this afternoon, I have a consult with a new client.”
Riley swallowed.
“You’re guided by precognition more than you likely realize,” Nina said. “It’s the psychic part of your psychic medium abilities. This particular client and I have been playing phone tag for a week trying to set up a meeting. She called me ten minutes before you did to let me know she was available today.”
Blowing out a slow breath, Riley said, “Works for me.”
“I’ll text you the address,” Nina said. “See you at two.”
Riley hung up and shoved her phone into her back pocket. It buzzed a minute later, presumably with Nina’s text.
Michael slipped his hand into hers as they stepped onto the walking path, the grainy dirt crunching under their feet as they walked. “How you feeling about all this?”
It took her a minute to reply. “I was riding high for a week after we took Pete’s shirt to his mom.”
Michael squeezed her hand. “I know. It was pretty cool.”
“I know that finding Hank and helping get him arrested didn’t magically heal Mindy of all the trauma she went through,” Riley said. “But even being a tiny blip on her path to getting better felt good.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “If the woman in the yellow dress is one of the thousands of women who has gone missing and no one knows about it … if I could help find her, that would be amazing.”
“I agree.”
“So I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m still scared, and I probably always will be on some level,” she said, “but I think the good that could come out of it overrides everything else. The woman in the yellow dress had her whole future stolen. I want to help her.”
As they walked for a while longer, hand in hand, Riley wondered what on earth Nina had in store for her.
Even though Nina had said that most of her clientele contacted her about tame hauntings, it didn’t stop Riley from considering the possibility that Nina had lied. What if Riley had just inadvertently agreed to meet at a terrifyingly haunted location? She imagined something in the vein of an old textile mill that had burned down with hundreds of people trapped inside—and had also been built on top of a sacred Native American burial ground. Instead, her GPS led her to a suburban house in a quiet, pretty neighborhood on Gimar Court. The street was a cul-de-sac, and the house in question sat on the last stretch of straight sidewalk before it curved.
It was one of those planned neighborhoods where the same four or five designs were repeated
on a loop. The exteriors were mostly beige, with tan, dark red, or brown roofs and accents. Some had stones lining the bases of the pillared arches before their front doors—others had brick. The personalities of the families inside were expressed with things like potted flowers on the porch, welcome flags wedged into the grass, or bird feeders hanging from the eaves. Otherwise, “cookie cutter” was an apt description. It wasn’t the sameness that surprised Riley so much as the newness. These houses seemed too young to have ghosts.
As she sat in her car across the street from the house, a pair of kids went by on their bicycles, laughing. A woman walked by with her dog. The picture of normalcy.
Nina arrived shortly afterward. It wasn’t until Nina was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, arms crossed as she stared at her, that Riley got out of the car. Thankfully Nina didn’t seem annoyed by Riley’s reluctance. If anything, she was amused. Nina wore black jeans, a dark blue polo shirt with “Galvan Investigations” stitched in white on her right breast pocket, and had a messenger bag strapped on. Sunlight winked off the gold hoop in her nose.
“Hi,” Riley said, stopping in front of her. She’d left everything but her keys and phone in the car, both of which were stuffed into her pockets. She wiped her hands on the sides of her jeans. “Have, uh … you been here before?”
“Nope,” Nina said. “This is an initial consultation. The owner, Julie, contacted me to help find out what’s going on in the home. They’ve lived here for a year and have experienced a handful of strange incidents. She says the spirit is starting to frighten the children because its persistence has increased over time—especially at night.”
Riley swallowed, nodding.
“She knows I’m bringing an assistant with me,” she said. “I don’t expect you to do anything other than observe, feel, and then we can debrief after the consult is over. If I determine that the house indeed has a spirit, I will schedule an investigation where the owners clear out for the evening and I try to make contact during the witching hour. Sometimes it takes several investigations to make contact, sometimes it happens on the first, and sometimes not at all.”
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