Ghost Hunter

by Serena Akeroyd

  I guess I should be happy for her. She’s got her shit together, after all. And in the face of that togetherness, I’m practically disintegrating by comparison.

  Is it wrong for me to feel totally smug about my Central Park penthouse though?

  I mean, it’s not like I did anything to deserve it. It was donated to me by a very grateful client in his will. Sure, the family tried to contest it—who can blame them? But it’s mine. Lock and stock.

  “Smugness doesn’t become you,” Kenna chides, then softens up enough to say, “Although, she’s certainly a piece of work.”

  The reprimand loses power because of her agreement over Christine. The reporter has done the impossible—made Kenna and I agree on something!

  Christine is that bouncy, blue-eyed girl next door who was friends with everyone at college and probably had the dean on speed dial. That bitch who managed to pass magna cum laude while having a social calendar as busy as Melania Trump’s.

  Ugh. Bitterness now. And jealousy?

  Great birthday.

  What time’s Drake coming back?

  I “think” that so Kenna will answer for me. “He said four. He’s leaving early so you can spend the afternoon together.”

  Shooting her a grateful look, and trying not to look too bored already, I watch as Christine sets up her station.

  Is it any wonder my thoughts have wandered?

  Everything has to be just so, which means she’s spent five minutes sorting out the recorder on her phone, arranging her laptop and tablet around her on the coffee table she pulled out—without asking. At the very least the bitch is rude. That kind of means I can think nasty things about her, right?

  No?

  Fuck.

  “So, Jayce. Thanks for having me here today.”

  Christ, I feel like I’m on a talk show or something. After clearing my throat to stop myself from laughing, I murmur, “I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice, Christine. After all, you were laying low in my local pizza parlor. I wasn’t sure if you’d be sniffing around in the bathroom next.”

  She doesn’t even have the decency to deny it, just shoots me a brassy smile that probably cost her daddy a cool ten grand. “Our readers deserve to know about you, Jayce. Surely you can see that?”

  “Most of the time, people like you come along and they write their story about me, and then the readers never get to learn about little old me because your kind make up so much crap about what I do, I end up looking like a demon-caster or something.”

  Christine holds a hand to her heart. “I would never dream of doing something like that,” she tells me. “I’m dedicated to the truth.”

  “Oh, really?” I cock a brow at her. “You do realize then that to most people, my work is an untruth?”

  “Excuse me?”

  I wave a dismissive hand. “I mean most don’t believe in what I do. They don’t believe in ghosts, they don’t believe I’m anything other than a con artist.” My smile is as sickly sweet as hers. “What do you think, Christine? Do you think I’m a con artist?”

  She looks at me, and the calculation in her eyes makes me want to grin. I shouldn’t bait her. Not when she writes for a paper with over two hundred thousand daily readers, but I can’t help it.

  This is me.

  Pain-in-the-ass Jayce.

  If she tells me the truth, which she’s oh, so dedicated to, then she should admit she thinks I’m a con artist. But that could jeopardize her scoop.

  I can see the cogs working. Can see her trying to figure out what the next best step is.

  Because I am a pain, there really is no best step. I don’t like her. Her answer won’t change that.

  And it’s not that I don’t like her because she’s Miss All-America, and I could never be that in a million years. It’s because she’s fake. She’s intrusive and invasive. And I don’t need any other reasons.

  Any journalist who can waylay someone while they’re dying for carbs and cheese is evil, in my opinion.

  “I’m open-minded,” she tells me eventually.

  Total cop-out. I snort at her. “That’s useful. It also tells me nothing.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “And I thought you didn’t lie,” I retort. “You can tell me if you think I’m a con artist. I won’t be offended. People can think what they want. I know the truth.”

  She blinks at me. “It seems likely that you are. But you’ve fooled enough people with high profiles to make me wonder what the con exactly is, and if it is a con at all.”

  I click my fingers and lean forward in my seat. “Now that, I can believe.” I smile at her. “That’s all it took… I’ll answer any question you have now. And I won’t be too difficult.”

  Well, I’m difficult all round, but I wasn’t the one who said she was dedicated to the truth.

  Plunking my feet up on the squat ottoman in front of me, I settle back into my armchair. It’s huge, and I sink into it like it’s a cushion. She, on the other hand, is on a narrow sofa that nobody can get comfortable on.

  I usually put clients on there.

  If they manage to sit through a session on that torture device, I figure they’re worth my time helping them.

  “You call yourself a ghost detective, is that right?”

  “Not really. I call myself Jayce. Other people have coined that term, and when someone like you asks, it’s easy to give that job title.”

  “Easy? I’d have thought it caused more questions than it answered.”

  “Oh, it does. But people always have questions. That’s the story of my life.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “What is it you do though? Actually do, I mean.”

  “I talk to dead people. Or, to be precise, they usually talk to me.”

  My deadpan voice has her eyes widening. Her reaction is perfect.

  Damn, it’s hard not to laugh.

  This could take all day though, and I’m only willing to sacrifice an hour of my time for this woman to write an article that will undoubtedly stir another witch hunt.

  Because of that, I hurry things along. It’s in my best interest, after all. “You, for example, have a gentleman who follows you around.”

  To be fair, I’d only just noticed him. This place can be like Times Square sometimes. Ghosts, in and out, all day, every day. Some I know, some I don’t. Some make themselves known to me, others don’t.

  “I do? What kind of gentleman?” She leans forward, looking like she’s about to start bobbing up and down in her seat with the eagerness that’s brimming out of her pores.

  Salacious.

  That’s the word that sums her up.

  “I’m going to talk to him. So, don’t freak out if I start ignoring you,” I warn her. She nods, ever eager. “Yo, dude. What’s your name?”

  The kid, about twenty-two, points to himself.

  “Yeah. You.”

  He drifts closer. “You can see me?” Now he sounds as excited as her.

  “I can. What’s your name? Christine wants to know what I do, so let’s give her a sample.”

  “I’m Jason. Jason Burrows. We went to college together.”

  To Christine, I pass that along. Her reaction stuns even me. Miss Preppy sags in the seat for just a millisecond, before she sits up.

  “Oh? I don’t think I know a Jason Burrows.”

  One truth about charlatans is that they’re usually very aware of the details. I’m not a charlatan, but I share that trait.

  My bullshit monitor is on red alert, and it would have been regardless of that telling reaction to his name.

  “She does know me,” Jason states blankly, but I can tell he’s hurt and confused. The first time someone has spoken to him since he died, and the person he’s following doesn’t have the decency to fess up to knowing him. “We went to college together.” From his jersey, I gather they went to Duke in North Carolina. He looks where I’m pointing and nods.

  “You went to Duke, Christine?”

/>   “That’s on my biography at the Daily Reader,” she dismisses with a sniff.

  I snort. “Like I give enough of a shit about you to read that crap. Anyway, that wasn’t my point.” She flushes, but I ignore her. To the kid, I ask, “Why are you following her around?”

  “You should ask her. It’s all her fault.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not how this works, kid. She doesn’t believe I can see you. If she’s going to believe me, then I need to tell her stuff only you and she would know. You get where I’m coming from?”

  Christine clears her throat. “This isn’t necessary. Please, feel free to tell me about your process.”

  The fact she’s trying to avoid this, makes me dig in even more. “This is the process. Why explain it when you can see it for yourself?” I look the kid up and down and using information Kenna feeds me about colors, because ghosts appear before me in a sepia-type hue, I say, “If you don’t know Jason Burrows by name, maybe a description will help. He’s about six-three. Blond. Brown eyes.” I tilt my head to the side at that. “Unusual combo. Roman nose, quite big. Nice face, actually. He looks a little like a chunkier Ryan Gosling.” When she looks sick, I ask, sweet as pie, “Ring any bells?”

  She clenches her jaw. “Why are you doing this? Did you do some research on me or something? Is that how you know about Jason?”

  “Honey, I don’t care about you or about Jason. And that’s the truth. I don’t care enough about anyone to research them. Even if I like them, I don’t look people up.” I’m way too lazy to even contemplate what she’s suggesting, never mind actually do it.

  “You would say that. All con artists say things like that.”

  I shrug. But her use of the term “con artist” where before she hesitated is a huge leap ahead.

  “Maybe that’s what con artists do, but I’m not one of them. Obviously, I hit a nerve.”

  “Of course, you didn’t. I just don’t like the fact you’ve looked into my background.”

  Rolling my eyes, I retort, “What background? Go on, get that fancy phone, and Google your name. Are you linked to a Jason Burrows in an article online or something? One you know about?”

  Her nostrils flare. “We used to date.”

  “She was my fiancée,” Jason inserts swiftly, yet again angered and hurt by her denial of him. I pass that along, and watch as she winces.

  “How did you know that? Nobody knew.” Her whisper is traumatized.

  What I do best.

  “He told me.”

  “Ask him if he blames me.”

  I turn to Jason. “Well? Do you?”

  He jerks a shoulder, trying to look casual, but fails when he takes a seat at her side. As close as can be.

  Ugh, these two were probably the dream team at college. Sickening.

  “I’m not happy about how she lied. My parents deserve to know the truth.”

  My eyes widen at that. Talk about a score. “How did she lie to your parents?”

  An interesting whimper escapes Christine. Clamping her arms around her belly, I watch all that calm composure melt around her.

  It’s like a snowman disintegrating once the sun shines on it the next morning.

  I’m such a bitch to find her about-face mesmerizing.

  “We were driving home from a party. We were both drunk, but she was behind the wheel. She crashed. It was bad enough that we were flung from the wreckage. She survived and I didn’t.”

  “How is that a lie?” I ask, confused.

  He reaches for her, looking suitably lovesick. When his hand drifts through her body, he lets out a sad sigh. “She moved my body. Dragged me over so it looked like I was driving, but I wasn’t. She was.”

  Well, isn’t that interesting?

  My glance cuts between the two of them, and I try my hardest not to smile.

  Miss All-America has a secret. Make that a doozy of a secret, in fact.

  In front of me, Miss Preppy is so hunched over, it’s like I cut out her spine. I’m not sure if it’s guilt at what she did that has triggered that reaction, or if it’s fear that her house of cards is about to crumble.

  Call me uncharitable but I’m guessing it’s the latter.

  Just another day at the office, I tell myself, refraining, barely, from rubbing my hands together with a most unbecoming glee.

  There’s only one thing to do…

  Let the shit-stirring commence.

  Chapter Three

  Drake

  “How did the appointment go with Christine?”

  I watch as Jayce bows her head and busily focuses on the buffet before her.

  She’s carb-obsessed, and is currently packing bread, two types of pasta salad, and about three kinds of dips onto a plate.

  With thousands of eating establishments in Manhattan, it should have come as no surprise that when I asked her where she wanted to go for her birthday, she chose New Jersey.

  The taxi fare will probably cost more than the meal, but hell, it’s what she wants.

  Who am I to argue? And the prime rib buffet sure as hell looks fine to me.

  I have to admit, I like that Jayce is low-maintenance. One reason I always found it hard to date in New York is because everyone’s snobby. They need to eat and be seen at certain places, and it gets tiring.

  God forbid, you actually go somewhere because the food is phenomenal. That would be too much to ask.

  Jayce, on the other hand, likes things easy.

  If having to travel an hour for a restaurant can be considered easy, that is.

  With her plate loaded with more shit on it than I could eat, never mind Jayce who isn’t exactly large, I watch as she bats big blue eyes at me while I dose my own dish with steak and a few sides.

  The joys of being young—a metabolism to end all metabolisms.

  I’m not exactly elderly, but the gap between Jayce and I certainly makes me feel it. I saw forty-two last year, and she’s only just turned thirty.

  Plus, she’s beautiful. And curvy, and gorgeous, and like sin… the list could go on.

  Though I’m head over heels for this woman, that angelic look goes right over my head. I know not to trust the innocent act.

  “What did you do?” I ask, frowning at her, knowing she looks her most angelic when she’s done something bad.

  Isn’t that the same with puppies and toddlers? Lord help me.

  “Nothing,” she denies, and begins to retreat to our table.

  I follow her, unashamedly watching the sway of her ass as she moves.

  Jesus, she’s fine. More curves than a circle, an ass made for fucking, and a face for serenading. All of that’s combined with a brain so sharp, the two of us could cut each other when we go head-to-head.

  Clearing my throat before I start thinking of ways to claim her ass, I begin to pepper her with more questions—it’s an ingrained habit. Plus, with Jayce, you have to ask questions. She’s so accustomed to not sharing that she wouldn’t say a word if I didn’t interrogate her from time to time.

  “I wish I could talk to Kenna,” I tell her, when she remains as close-mouthed as ever. “I’m sure she’d tell me what happened.”

  She purses her lips, and I know Kenna just said something. Something funny by the looks of it.

  It should have been weird knowing there’s more than just my girlfriend and I at the table, but I’m too used to it for it to be a problem.

  In fact, I grew accustomed to it astonishingly quickly.

  Do I find the ghosts a comfort?

  Hell, no. From Jayce, I learned that ghosts aren’t guardian angels. They’re just witnesses to the mistakes humanity makes. They have no voices, can’t be heard, not unless they meet someone like Jayce who can speak on their behalf.

  Just like she did for my nephew.

  “What did Kenna say?” I ask, seeing she’s still trying not to smile.

  She lets her grin out. “She says that it’s to my benefit we can’t talk.”

  “Oh, she’d get you in
to trouble, would she?”

  Jayce giggles. The sound is so unusual for her, but she’s doing it more and more often. It makes her seem a lot younger than the maturity she exudes. I like that.

  She’s a joker, at heart. Brushes stuff off with a shrug of her shoulder. Stuff that would have most people cowering on my office couch, but not her.

  She’s strong, my Jayce.

  And yeah, she’s mine. I have no doubt about that fact. None whatsoever.

  “What have you done that’s so bad?” I ask, genuinely curious now. Hell, she’d been meeting with a reporter. How bad could it get?

  Then, I snort at the thought. With Jayce, hell only knows how bad something can get.

  “She kind of had a walking time bomb following her around,” she tells me and then, so earnestly it makes me want to chuckle, says, “She was fucking snob. I just wanted to ruffle her feathers a bit.”

  “And you succeeded?”

  She shoves a huge boatful of bread loaded with hummus in her mouth.

  “Don’t you know bread is the cardinal sin of any buffet-goer?” I chide, taking her delaying tactic and tossing it out the window. “You should fill up on the beef. Not the bread.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “They do the best focaccia this side of the Atlantic. I’d pay the cover fee just for that alone.”

  I roll my eyes at the carb queen, promptly reminding her, “You were saying? Walking time bomb?”

  “She and her boyfriend were driving home after a party one night. She was behind the wheel but she was drunk, and she crashed. Their bodies flew out of the windshield, and he died. Before the police came, she switched their bodies around so it looked like he’d been driving.”

  For a second, I just gawk at her.

  These kinds of stories should stop coming as a shock to me. I hear them far too often when I’m with her.

  The truth is, as a psychologist, I hear a lot about the shitty things mankind does to one another.

  And with Jayce as a girlfriend, it’s only compounded.

  Except with her, the dead have voices and can speak up against those who have done them harm.