“Um. No, it’s not.” Sadie took a gulp of water and then looked pointedly at Rosemary. “This is nothing like what I do every day. I clean up crime scenes, unattended deaths, meth labs, and occasional hoarding or squalor residences. I am certified by the American BioRecovery Association. I have blood-borne-pathogens training as well as certifications in meth lab decon and environmental disinfection.”
“And then you talk to the dead,” Rosemary said.
“And help them move on from this dimension,” Rick added.
“Well, sure, sometimes I do that,” Sadie admitted. “But the ghost thing happens only when a spirit has been left behind. It’s not an everyday experience and I certainly don’t go looking for ghosts. And I don’t think I can emphasize that enough.”
“Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud,” Maeva chided. “Besides, business for Scene-2-Clean is slow. You’ve complained about that yourself, right? The Thingvolds are willing to pay you a third of their take here, and—”
“So that’s what this is all about?” Sadie asked indignantly. “This is a mercy job? I don’t need your pity. As a matter of fact, I was just telling Osbert this morning how murders are picking up in Seattle. There was another prostitute killed in a hotel downtown and I’ll probably get the call to clean it up. I told Ozzie, the way business is booming I’d be getting him a Tickle Me Elmo.”
“You were discussing murders with my four-month-old son?”
“He didn’t seem to mind.” Sadie turned to the Thingvolds. “So you can keep one hundred percent of your take on this job, because I’m really not interested in doing . . . whatever it is that you plan on doing here.” She put fingers to her temples and rubbed. “Besides, I’m getting a headache.”
“That’s an interesting necklace,” Rick said. He got up from his chair and walked toward Sadie. He pulled the pendant away from her chest and rubbed the smooth, round disc in his fingers. “It’s old too.” Turning it over, he squinted. “What’s the Latin on the back mean?”
“I got it from a client who couldn’t afford to pay.” Sadie tucked the necklace inside her shirt. “He said the words were some kind of good-luck thing. It’s a rabbit’s foot and four-leaf clover rolled into one.”
“Well, a little good luck is always a good thing.” Rick nodded but frowned when he said it, like he didn’t believe it himself.
“Well, you guys have fun. I’m out of here.” Sadie turned on her heel and began to walk back down the hall.
“But you were specially requested. Invited even,” Rosemary called out to her back.
Sadie stopped and looked over her shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s probably best that we just show her,” Maeva said. “Besides, I’d like to see it too.”
The Thingvolds shared a look and then agreed.
“We didn’t want to scare you away but since you’re determined to leave anyway. . . .” Rosemary shrugged. “It’s upstairs.”
Rosemary led the way up the stairs to the second level of the old house. Everyone followed and, at the end of the hall, they opened a bedroom door and stepped inside.
The room was so cold they could see their breath, but that wasn’t what caught Sadie’s attention. In huge letters, each two feet high, were two words scrawled in a red paint that looked like blood.
Chapter 3
Sadie became aware that her head was spinning. She braced herself against a wall but it didn’t help. The room tilted and swayed before going to black.
Seconds later, she opened her eyes to a frantic wailing of “Psychic down! Psychic down!”
Sadie was on the floor looking up at Rosemary and Rick while Maeva bounced around the room shrieking hysterically and sounding much like a squirrel on crack.
“Shut up,” Sadie growled.
“Give her room,” Rosemary said.
“Are you okay?” Maeva asked.
“Wha . . . what happened?” Sadie asked, lifting herself up on her elbows.
“You fainted.” The reply came from a deep baritone voice and Sadie’s gaze searched the group for the source. She fixed her eyes on an extremely sexy man standing in the doorway. “It was quite dramatic. Very Scarlett O’Hara of you.”
Sadie struggled to her feet, blushing from her scalp to her sock-clad feet.
“I’m glad to entertain you.” Sadie scrambled to her feet. “Who are you?”
“This is Owen Sorkin. He’s one of the owners of the house who hired us,” Rosemary said. “Owen, I’d like you to meet—”
“Let me guess.” He offered a crooked smile and pointed his thumb behind him toward the bedroom wall. “You must be Sadie. When Rosemary said she and Rick knew who this graffitied mess was talking about and said they were going to deal with it tonight, I just had to stop by and see for myself.” He stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and chuckled. “I figured they’d catch a couple teenagers with spray paint. I didn’t expect to find a pretty woman dramatically fainting on the bedroom floor.”
Sadie blushed to an even deeper shade and smoothed the front of her T-shirt.
“Are you okay? Your color isn’t good,” Maeva said to Sadie. Then she pointed a finger at Rosemary and growled, “Put down your phone. We don’t need you tweeting every goddamned catastrophe and event!”
“It’s good for business,” Rosemary said, but she reluctantly pocketed her phone.
“I need to go,” Sadie said. She took long, determined strides. Owen Sorkin stepped aside to allow her through the bedroom door and she kept right on going down the stairs to the front door.
“Hold on a second!” Rick shouted after her. “We need your help with this situation!”
Sadie paused to stuff her feet into her Nikes. The rest of the gang followed down the stairs and watched her.
“Well, are you coming, or do you want to get a ride with Rick and Rosemary?” she asked Maeva.
“But it’s not even eleven.” She pouted. “I’ve got another hour before I have to go home.”
Owen Sorkin remained a few steps up on the stairs and leaned casually against the wall. He seemed to be regarding the entire situation—purple flamboyant Maeva, tattooed and pierced Thingvolds, and fainting Sadie—with complete amusement.
“I don’t care if it’s only eleven,” Sadie said. “I’m not sticking around just for everyone’s entertainment.”
She directed the last part at Owen’s smarmy grin, which, at her comment, broke into a beaming movie-star smile boasting perfect teeth.
“Don’t leave on my account,” he said. “I’m just here as a curious observer.”
Sadie stormed out the front door and strode angrily down the stone steps toward her car. A light drizzle had fallen and coated the dimly lit path with a fine, slick mist. When Sadie reached the last step her feet went out from under her and she landed with a painful thud on her ass.
“Are you okay?” Owen asked. Much to her dismay, Owen Sorkin had exited the door after her and witnessed the entire thing. He rushed to her side as she was struggling to her feet and, with hands under her armpits, he hoisted her effortlessly to her feet. “Do you always have this much trouble standing upright?” he joked, offering a steadying grip on her shoulders.
Sadie pushed his hands off her and turned to face him. “Do. Not. Touch. Me,” she said in a seething hiss between her teeth.
“Sorry.” His hands went up in a motion of surrender. “Thought I was helping.”
She stomped over to her car and pressed the key fob to unlock the door, but Owen was right there and opened the door for her. Sadie glared at him.
“Sorry again,” he said but didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “My mother raised me to open doors for ladies.”
When she climbed behind the wheel and tried to close th
e door he still had it in his grip and it didn’t budge.
“Look, obviously we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Owen Sorkin. Owner of haunted real estate and apparent asshat and jerk.”
Sadie felt some of her anger dissipate.
“I’m Sadie Novak. Friend of Madam Maeva’s psychic friends and apparent overreactor.” She took his hand for a quick shake, but his grip lingered and she felt herself begin to blush again.
“I’m sorry I offended you,” he said. His voice was low and sexy and he still had her hand in his. “I have a hard time believing everything going on inside this house is somehow ghost-related, and I keep feeling like I’m the butt of some elaborate joke.” He released her hand and used his fingers to comb through his spiky blond hair in a sheepish look.
“I’m sure if it is about ghosts, then you’ve got the right people. Madam Maeva is very qualified. Now, if you don’t mind . . .” She pointed to his other hand that still held her door, but he pretended not to notice.
“My partner on this house insisted on calling Madam Maeva’s when we kept losing renovation workers. She told me she’d heard all about them at some convention or another. Next thing I knew she hired Mr. and Mrs. Thingvold. Truthfully, if I’d met them first, well, I probably wouldn’t’ve given them a cent.”
Sadie didn’t argue. The piercings and tattoos were a lot to handle if you weren’t prepared.
“If it’s a spiritual problem and not kids breaking into your house to smoke weed and spray-paint, then you’ve got the right people,” Sadie repeated.
“My partner and I were here last night and saw the painted wall, but Rosemary assured us that she knew the Sadie the spirit wanted. Rosemary said she’d bring her here and Sadie could solve the whole thing. Naturally, I had to come see for myself.” His tone softened. “I’m sorry if I’m just not very good at this kind of thing and if I insulted your, um, ghost-hunting profession.”
Since he managed to say it with a completely straight face, Sadie reached into her purse and pulled out a Scene-2-Clean business and handed it to him.
“I do trauma biohazard cleanup. That kind of thing,” Sadie explained, trying for a businesslike tone to appear more dignified and to cover for the fact that she’d fallen in front of this man twice in five minutes. “So even though Madam Maeva and her partners are friends of mine, and regardless of what Rosemary may have implied, ghost hunting isn’t my area of expertise.”
“Crime-scene cleanup?” Owen whistled as he looked at her card intently. “That sounds very CSI.”
“Investigators collect evidence. They don’t clean up afterward,” Sadie pointed out.
“I didn’t know that, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have thought that kind of messy work would involve such a beautiful woman.”
“Um. Thanks,” Sadie said, praying she didn’t blush again. She said good-bye and then she tugged the car door shut. She offered Owen Sorkin a friendly wave as she started her car and pulled away from the curb as quickly as possible.
***
When Sadie came home she sent multiple long text messages to Zack describing everything that happened. Well, not everything. She didn’t tell him that Owen Sorkin looked like a rough-and-tumble version of actor Matthew McConaughey and that he had flirting down to a fine art. But she did put a comedic spin on how someone had painted “Bring Sadie” on the wall and she’d fainted like a teen at an Elvis concert.
She undressed and was just crawling under the cool covers of her bed when the bedside phone rang. It was Zack.
“I don’t understand your last text,” he said when she answered.
“What don’t you get?” Sadie stifled a yawn behind her hand and snuggled deeper under the covers.
“Your message says, ‘Someone painted me on a wall and I was like a fifteen-year-old seeing Elvis.’” He paused. “Were you out drinking with your sister again?”
Sadie giggled at her own abbreviated version of the event.
“Someone painted ‘Bring Sadie’ on a wall and I fainted, probably because I worked all night and I’m beat. This would be easier to explain in person.” She sighed. “I really miss you.”
“I’m working. The only reason I can talk to you at all is because I’ve been staking out this guy’s house for two hours and it’s quiet.”
Sadie waited a beat, hoping he would add miss you too. But all that came was, “So, who wrote ‘Bring Sadie’ on the wall of that house?”
“Don’t know. Maybe it was an elaborate prank by Maeva and the Thingvolds to give an excuse to cut me in on the job and pay me,” she joked.
“That doesn’t sound like Maeva.”
“I was kidding.”
“Oh, then you believe it could have been a ghost? You do seem to bring out these kinds of scenarios.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. If it is something spiritual-related, nothing good will come of dealing with a ghost who summons me.” And nothing good will come from working with Owen Sorkin when I’m trying to have a relationship with you. “Whatever it is that’s going on at that house, Maeva and her posse of merry misfits will have to deal with it on their own. It’s best that I stick to mopping up Seattle’s dead like a good little trauma cleaner.”
“Sounds good to me.” Then he added, “I was new on the force when that Halladay Horror thing hit the papers and Della Prior killed her fourteen-year-old daughter, then herself. I remember cops saying how they got the willies just being around the mom because she was so convinced that her daughter was demonically possessed.”
“That poor girl,” Sadie said with a sigh. “She was probably only possessed by a bad case of teenage rebellion but got cursed by having a crazy mom.”
“So how’s business?” Zack asked. “Do you have any more jobs lined up for this week?”
“I heard on the news yesterday that there’s been another hooker killed at a hotel. I’m hoping I’ll get the call to clean that one once the SPD is done with its investigation.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll call up the hotel manager myself and offer my discrete but efficient services.”
“Way to be proactive.” Then he cursed and there was suddenly a lot of raucous noise on his end of the line. “My guy’s on the move. Gotta go.”
Zack ended the call abruptly without any niceties. Sadie stared at the dead phone in her hand and said a word rhyming with duck. She didn’t want to think about Zack being out this late at night somewhere noisy. Noisy could mean dangerous. Or fun. Or dangerous fun. She fell asleep deeply worried about Zack but ended up having an X-rated dream about Owen Sorkin.
Sadie woke up in a hot sweat and tangled in her sheets. She bolted upright, positive a sound in the house had woken her. A glance at the clock told her it was nearly four in the morning, far too early for Hairy to be thumping around demanding a treat. She strained to listen. Wind and rain were kicking up a fuss outside and she could hear her recycle bin scooting along her back deck. Convinced that sound was what had woken her, she began to relax. Then, suddenly, there came a loud muffled bang for the other end of the house.
She swung her legs out of the bed and reached into her nightstand for her only weapon—a can of pepper spray she’d received as a gift from Zack on Valentine’s Day. Apparently it’s the kind of gift a paranoid ex-cop gives his girlfriend. If it hadn’t been accompanied by a heart-shaped box of chocolates, Sadie probably would’ve been tempted to test out the can with a spritz in his face. Now she was grateful for the protective aerosol.
Sadie picked up the cordless phone in one hand and dialed 9-1, saving the last remaining digit for when she thought it might be needed. Spray in one hand and house phone in the other, she tiptoed down the hallway, turning on all the lights along the way. She glanced in the living room but not a creature stirred, not even Ha
iry, who was nestled cozily in his bed in the living room.
The bang came again and Sadie narrowed her search to the kitchen, where she discovered the back door swinging wildly back and forth in the gusty breeze and a large branch, as thick as her thigh, half inside the house. The rain pelted her back deck and the wind howled but she had no trees this size in her yard. She hoisted the limb and tossed it off the deck, into the yard, and then slammed the door shut. The doorjamb was splintered where the dead bolt had torn through the frame and the door flew open again. Necessity being both the mother of invention and the parent of paranoia, Sadie pushed both a kitchen chair and then the table up against the back door to secure it. Her large new purse from Maeva had been knocked to the floor but remained unscathed. Sadie plopped it back on the counter.
The lights flickered momentarily but the power remained on. Sadie set her house alarm and padded barefoot down the hall to bed, but she was wide-awake and the wind howling outside did little to help her sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling while overanalyzing her earlier hot dream about Owen Sorkin. Finally she gave up trying to sleep and crossed the hall to her den.
Sadie figured after a few rounds of computer solitaire her eyes would grow heavy, but curiosity got the better of her and she began researching the Halladay Horror home. Every article showed a close-up of the front of the house she’d been inside earlier that evening. There were various photos of the mother, Della Prior, being led away in handcuffs. Her crazed, wild eyes looked directly into the camera and made Sadie shudder. How does a mother kill her own daughter?
Sadie glanced through the articles for pictures of Iris but there was only one blurry shot of her, looking much younger and with a mass of curls covering most of her face. As she read through the various reports, most of the journalists stated the same facts: Della Prior was a single mom and a deeply religious woman. She worked nights as a nurse and homeschooled her daughter. Neighbors described both mother and daughter as quiet, and a neighbor was quoted as saying that Iris’s father, Eddie Prior, walked out when the child was only a couple years old.
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