by D. B. West
I laughed again, feeling better just from talking to her. It felt so normal. “Any chance you’re up for a sleepover?”
“What has you more shaken up? Seeing Gill or arguing with Hudson?”
Neither; more like the possibility that I was responsible for two people’s deaths—one of them a kid—and I had no idea why. But if I really was responsible, then I should probably hang out alone in my house until I figured out what was going on. “Both, but I’m being a baby. Forget it.”
“I’d come over, but I have a date.”
“It’s after nine o’clock,” I said.
She chuckled. “And a school night too.”
“Oh crap. You’re on the date.” I gasped. “Is it with Abby?”
“Yeah, but I wanted to check on you. Are you really okay? I can cut this short.”
“Don’t you dare. At least one of us needs to have a healthy and active romantic life. I’ll just live vicariously through you.”
“You’ll find someone,” she said. “Although admittedly the ghost-hunting thing is an obstacle.”
“So you’re saying maybe I should change my online dating profile from GhostHunterDiva10 to something more obscure?”
“You signed up for online dating?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
“That would mean my life had hit rock bottom, and if that were true, my love life—or lack thereof—would be the least of my worries.”
“But if you’d—”
“Go back to your date, Rhys. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” And hopefully I’d have a reasonable explanation for her too.
“If you need me, call. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
I hung up and decided beer wasn’t going to hack it. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and my laptop and went into the living room. I considered changing out of my skirt, but I didn’t want to go upstairs in the dark. I had a load of clean laundry in the basement, but I wasn’t about to go down there . . . for obvious reasons.
After I’d stretched out on the sofa, I realized I’d forgotten a glass. Too lazy to get up, I took off the stopper and sipped straight from the bottle, letting the smooth burn slide down my throat. Yep, this was good whiskey—a Christmas gift from Hudson—and it went down too easy.
I opened my laptop and booted it up. Finding out how to protect myself from demons was more important than getting a glass, although I was sure Nana wouldn’t agree with that.
I started to giggle. Good heavens. Was I partially drunk already, or was it nerves?
I was going with nerves, even though I felt the signs of tipsiness. What a lightweight. I needed to get out more.
I typed how to protect yourself from a demon. The first page results were disappointing. Most were from a Catholic Church point of view, which wasn’t surprising since Catholic priests were usually the ones who performed exorcisms, but I found that some Episcopalian priests could perform them too. While I’d attended my grandparents’ Methodist church as a kid, religion really hadn’t stuck.
Other than that, the only advice they provided—other than praying, of course—was to wear specific crystals such as amber or black tourmaline.
Which didn’t help me right now. I was screwed.
I took another swig from the bottle before setting it down on the floor and leaning my head back on the arm of the sofa. As soon as I closed my eyes, I relived everything that had happened at the Crawfords’. I told myself that I’d only imagined it was the same girl. That my first impression had been right—Gill had hooked up some kind of super-convincing hologram projector—and it was a coincidence a girl had been killed so close to their house.
I must have dozed off because one minute my eyes were closed and the next there was loud banging on my front door.
I bolted upright, terrified that the demon had found me.
“Piper Lancaster?” a man’s voice shouted outside the door. “Police!”
The police? Had Gill decided to press charges after all?
I swung my feet off the sofa and took a moment to get my balance, thankful I didn’t feel drunk.
The banging continued. “Piper Lancaster!”
“Coming!” I shouted and instantly regretted it when pain shot through my head. I stood and started toward the door, knocking over the whiskey bottle. Before I could right it, the liquor soaked one of the shoes I’d never taken off.
Great. I was going to open the door to police smelling like the inside of a whiskey barrel.
Looking through the peephole, I saw a uniformed policeman on my front porch. I opened the door and said, “What time is it?”
“It’s a little past three o’clock in the morning, Ms. Lancaster. We’d like to take you to the police station for questioning.”
My heart slammed into my rib cage. This seemed extreme for breaking a video camera. “At three o’clock in the morning? Can’t this wait until real morning . . . you know, when the sun is up?”
“I’m sorry, miss. We need to go now.”
“What’s this about?”
“Gill Gillespie.”
I could refuse. I wasn’t being arrested, at least not yet, which meant this was a request—and requests could be declined. But then they’d presume I had something to hide. There was no disputing I’d trashed the camera. There were four other witnesses who could attest to it. I was already up, so why not? “Can I grab my purse?”
“Sure, but I’ll come with you.”
To make sure I didn’t run off. This was a lot of effort for a camera. I was starting to get more nervous.
He started to walk into the house, then paused and glanced down at the floor. The salt I’d poured on the threshold was still there in a smudged line. Now I looked like a total nutjob. He stepped across the line and moved into the middle of the living room while I walked into the kitchen and grabbed my purse. I walked back to join him, and caught him glancing around the room.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
He smiled, but it was forced. “Habit.”
He was a terrible liar. I was in deep trouble.
Chapter Six
Before I knew it, I was headed downtown in the back of the officer’s squad car. When we got to the station, he took me to an interrogation room. “Detective Lawton will be with you shortly.”
I sat on the hard metal chair and looked around the room. There was a large, blacked-out window on the wall across from me, and I couldn’t help wondering if Detective Lawton was watching me from the other side of the glass.
As anxious as I was about the whole situation, I was also exhausted and they left me in the room long enough that my eyelids started to droop. Just when I couldn’t keep them open any longer, the door burst open and a man in dark pants and a pale blue button-down shirt walked in. He was younger than I’d expected—probably in his thirties—and he appeared to be a whole lot more alert than I felt. He was pretty smug about it too. Looked like I’d been right about him watching me through the window.
“Piper Lancaster?” He shut the door behind him as he clutched a thin file with his other hand.
“Yes,” I said, sitting upright.
“I’m Detective Lawton. Do you know why you’re here?”
Admit nothing. “No.”
“You didn’t find it odd that Officer Peters showed up at your house at three a.m. and asked you to come down to talk to us?”
“Of course I found it odd. I asked him why, and he told me it was about Gill Gillespie.”
He tossed the file on the table, then sat in the chair across from me and crossed his legs. “And did that make a difference?”
“I would have come regardless, Detective. I have nothing to hide. I would have preferred to wait until morning, but you’re clearly working overtime to question me, so I figured this was important.” Which was pretty odd, wasn’t it? I was beginning to suspect this was about more than a busted video camera.
“Most people wouldn’t be so cooperative.”
“What can I say?” I said, stifling a yaw
n. “I’m a good citizen. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with this so I can get home and get back to bed.” Or my sofa. Whichever.
“Tell me about your evening, Ms. Lancaster.”
“I had a lot going on last night, Detective. Maybe you could be more specific.”
“At the Crawfords’.”
“I showed up shortly before eight and walked through Ms. Crawford’s home. I had a verbal disagreement with her husband’s guest, Gill Gillespie. Then I left and went home.”
“When did you get home?”
“I wasn’t watching the clock, but I would guess around nine.”
“And what did you do after you got home?”
I sure wasn’t going to admit that I’d salted my house and researched protection from demons. “After I got home, I talked to two of my friends on the phone and then lay down on my sofa and wasted time on Facebook until I fell asleep.”
“And what time did you fall asleep?”
“I don’t know, maybe around eleven.”
His eyebrows rose. “Are you sure you didn’t go to a bar?”
My shoe was still damp from the whiskey, so I had no doubt he could smell it. “I had a few drinks in the privacy of my own home. Last I checked, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“And why did you feel the need to get drunk on a weeknight, Piper?”
We were on a first-name basis now. He was trying to trick me into admitting something. What? There was no way they’d go all super detective about a camera several witnesses had watched me break. “Who says I got drunk? Sometimes you have to unwind, you know?”
“Because you had a very public spat with your ex-boyfriend in front of other people, and it stressed you out?”
I pursed my lips. “Maybe . . .” And maybe because there was other scary crap going on in my life.
“What was the fight about?”
“Gill stole money from me back when we were dating.”
“If he stole your money, why didn’t you contact the police?” he said. “File a report and get your money back using the legal system?”
“Because he took cash and I couldn’t prove it.”
He gave me a sympathetic glance. “How much did he take?”
“Nearly fifteen thousand dollars.”
He released a low whistle. “That’s a lot of money. I bet you were one pissed woman.”
“I wasn’t a very happy person.”
“I hear you were livid last night. You decided to get your money back by taking the equipment he bought with it.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m not proud of my behavior.”
“And what were you doing in the Crawfords’ house?”
Detective Lawton didn’t look like the type of guy who’d appreciate the truth, but he undoubtedly already knew what had brought Gill and me to the Crawford house. “I was looking for signs of spirits lingering in the house.”
Amusement tempered with skepticism filled his eyes. “Spirits?”
“Most people call them ghosts. I prefer the term spirits.”
“So it’s semantics,” he said.
“I guess.”
“But last night you called them entities,” he said. “Why the change in terminology?”
He must have talked to the Crawfords because Evelyn had been wigged out about that. But why would an obvious skeptic care about the change in terminology? “The beings in the Crawfords’ house were different than the ones I usually encounter. Most spirits are harmless, but one of the entities in the Crawford house was destructive and evil. It didn’t seem fair to the peaceful spirits to lump it into the same category.”
He looked incredulous. “You’re serious.”
My ghost whisperer business had been a joke at the beginning, but after last night, I was questioning everything. Strangely enough, I felt protective of my previous clients and the two spirits I might have seen. “I am.”
“You’re actually claiming to talk to ghosts?”
“I just told you that I do.” I cocked my head. “If you’re curious about my service, I would be more than happy to chat with you over coffee. During the daytime.”
“You’re committing fraud by deceiving these people.”
“I don’t charge for my services, so how can that be fraud?”
“You’re using them for your own personal gain.”
“And how have I personally gained?” I shook my head in disgust. “Have any of my clients filed a complaint against me?”
“No.”
“Then you have no charges. So why am I here? And in the middle of the night, no less.”
“Did you know Gill Gillespie would be at the Crawfords’ place last night?”
I leaned back in my chair. “If I had, I would have stayed home. If I never see that man again, it will be too soon.”
“How far would you be willing to go to make that happen?”
Something about the way he said it set me on edge, and I sat up straighter. “Look, Detective Lawton, I’m trying to stay out of his way. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last six months. I didn’t plan on seeing him there, and if we want to get technical about it, I was there first.”
Detective Lawton fingered the edge of the file. “But it had to bug you that he showed up and tried to take over. You didn’t want to have to worry about running into him again. So maybe you decided to do something more permanent to make that happen.”
What was he talking about? I stared at him in confusion. “You mean like file a restraining order?”
“No. More like kill him.”
“What? No. Why are you asking me that?” Then it hit me that only one thing could explain the late-night interrogation and the detective’s strange intensity.
Gill was dead.
My blood turned to ice and my stomach roiled. How could he be dead? Sure, he’d pissed me off—a lot—but this wasn’t something I’d wish on anyone. Him included. But how had he died?
Oh God.
“Gill went into that house,” I breathed out in a gasp.
That thing had been in the house waiting for Gill the demon slayer.
A tiny smile lifted the corners of his lips. “He did, but then it looks like you knew that already, didn’t you?”
My head felt light and the room began to fade to black. I placed my hand on the table to steady myself. I was in serious trouble. “You think I killed him?”
He didn’t answer, just gave me a look that said he’d already decided I was guilty. He was only waiting for my confession.
“I didn’t kill Gill,” I insisted.
“Then why did you ask if he went into the house?”
How much could I tell him without getting locked up in a psych ward? But, like Rhys had said, half the people in North Carolina believed in the supernatural now. Talking about demons didn’t carry the same risk of a seventy-two-hour lockup that it had a few months ago. “The entity I told you about—the evil one—it was looking for something . . . or more like someone.”
He smirked. “And who was that?”
“Gill,” I said. “He was looking for Gill. He called him a demon slayer.” But that wasn’t entirely true. He’d thought I was the demon slayer, but I’d told him it was Gill.
Oh my God. I’d sentenced Gill to death.
The shock must have registered on my face because a look of triumph filled the detective’s eyes. “Realizing you’ve been caught in your web of lies, I see.”
I didn’t answer. I was too busy freaking out that I might have gotten Gill killed . . . and maybe the old woman and the little girl too. “Did he die in that house?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Piper?”
“I don’t know how he died,” I said, sounding hysterical. “That’s why I’m asking.”
He opened the file he’d brought in with him, moving it slightly so I could partially see the photo on top. Gill’s bloody body.
“What about Ethan and Ricky? They would have seen me there.”
“Gil
l was on the property alone. He’d sent his associates to the convenience store for drinks, and they found his body when they returned. The clerk at the convenience store confirms they were there, and video backs it up.”
I felt like I was going to throw up. “Can I have a drink of water?”
“Getting nervous?”
I shook my head. He had no idea.
“So after you left the Crawfords’ home,” he continued, “you made two phone calls, then you hung out alone until Officer Peters showed up at your doorstep, which means you have absolutely no alibi around midnight.”
“Not unless my whiskey bottle can talk.”
“Can it?” he asked in a patronizing tone. “Is it a spirit too?”
“Why don’t you drop me off at my house, and I’ll let you ask the bottle yourself.”
“Cute,” he said, “but not cute enough to get you out of this.”
“Get me out of what? Gill’s murder?”
“So you’re admitting to murdering him?”
“No!”
“You have motive, Piper, and you have no alibi. Why don’t you just save us all a lot of trouble and confess.” He switched to good cop for half a second, and an understanding look filled his eyes. “Look, there were extenuating circumstances, weren’t there? I’m sure the DA’s office would be willing to plea you down from first-degree murder to second.”
“First-degree murder?”
“You drove back, went into that house, and slaughtered him. Premeditated.”
Slaughtered him. How bad was it?
I swallowed bile and took a deep breath, hoping to calm down.
Could this really be happening? Maybe I was still drunk and sprawled out on my couch, having a messed-up dream.
But that was only wishful thinking. This was very real, and I had no idea how I was going to get out of it. I needed to get an attorney. Would it be a mistake to call Dad’s firm? They could undoubtedly get me out of this, but it would serve as ammunition against me. “Am I under arrest?”
“You’re here at the police station.”
“But I wasn’t placed under arrest. I wasn’t read my Miranda rights.”
“We can change that,” he said.
I decided to call his bluff. “Then arrest me.”