Her eyes widen. “You still have my knife?”
“It’s a great little knife. Saved my life a time or two and more than earned its keep.” I toss it in the air and catch it, loving the weight and balance of it in my hand.
“Can I have it back?”
“Maybe when you’re several continents away from me, I’ll consider sending it to you. What are you really doing here, Jillian?”
“Exactly what I said. I came home to get my father’s ashes, and to ask you questions about him. Apparently I’m next of kin. Do I have brothers and sisters somewhere?”
“Nope. He got himself snipped after your mother got pregnant. Said he had no intention of settling down and it wasn’t fair to bring kids into the world.”
What he also said, and what I’m not telling Jill, is that kids could be used as pawns, as leverage, as hostages. In his business, and especially after he and I incurred the scrutiny of the Unit by refusing to participate in a Paranormal-Human research project, this was one of the reasons he managed to live as long as he did.
Me, I’m still playing the life game, but my continued survival is against the odds. Meanwhile, I’ve got two dead bodies and the Medusa on the loose. No more time for sparring with Jill. “Look. Maybe you don’t require sleep, but I do. Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“No way. I’ve learned more about Dad in the last hour than I have in my entire lifetime. Tell me more.” She gets up and goes to pour another glass, then shrugs and swigs right out of the bottle.
My patience is done. “He liked the color green. Whiskey was his favorite drink, but he’d only drink when he had a partner with him who was sober and could watch his back. Women were his undoing. There’s nothing else I can tell you.”
“How about this. What was he, exactly? Some sort of spy, right? FBI? CIA? He always said he couldn’t tell me.”
“If he wouldn’t tell you, I’m certainly not going to.”
She shuffles back to the chair, very carefully now, bottle in hand. “He’s dead. No need to protect him anymore. Tell me the so-big secret that kept my father from being my father. Tell me why he chose you over me.”
Her voice wobbles on these last words, and comprehension floods through me. I can see how it would look that way to a teenager. Phil was a fantastic agent and an amazing lover. Not so great in the commitment department.
Just like I’m not great in the capacity of counselor and advisor.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell her. “He loved you. Let that be enough for you.”
“It’s not enough. It will never be enough. I have a right to know—”
“You don’t have a right to anything he didn’t give you. It’s not enough for you that he left you a couple of million? Go look through his house. Maybe there are answers there.”
Somebody taps on my door. It’s quiet, something you wouldn’t hear if you were sound asleep. Or even wide awake in the room across the hall. I want to ignore the door, but Jill is already staggering onto her feet. “Shall I get that?”
“It’s my door. I’ll get it. Give me your gun first.”
“I have no idea what—”
“Left leg. Ankle holster. Sit down. Let me get it.”
The tap at the door comes again. Jill sinks back down on the couch, laughing like a maniac. “Of course I have a gun. Phil taught me how to shoot. He had me sent to Juvie for stabbing you. Did you know that? And when I got out, he said I clearly needed discipline and training. We went to the shooting range. He bought me martial arts lessons, too. What sort of man teaches a sixteen-year-old to shoot a gun and use a knife after she’s just tried to kill somebody?”
“You lied to me. You said you hardly knew him.” I kneel down, biting back a groan and a curse as every muscle in my body sends up a full-scale rebellion. Once we solve this Medusa thing, I need to go on some sort of healing retreat and teach my body to mind its manners.
“A few hours on the shooting range don’t exactly constitute a close relationship.”
The gun is a sweet little .22, lightweight and nicely balanced. Spoils of war, I figure. I’ll take it out and see how it shoots. If I still like it, it’s mine. I slide the cartridge out and tuck it in one pocket, the empty gun in the other, before I cross to the door. Even so, I feel exposed when I turn my back to Jill. There’s no rule that says she can’t be carrying another. Or that she doesn’t have a knife in her pajama pocket and finely honed throwing skills.
Sophie stands outside my door, the old dog we rescued at her side, the potato salad container clasped in her arms.
Hell. I am not the shelter for strays.
Behind me, Jill is slumped down on the couch, the bottle loosely cradled in both hands and resting on her lap, her head tipped back, eyes closed. I crack the door, intending to tell Sophie to go away and come back later, but she shoves it open, barging into the room without even looking first. The dog scrabbles on the hardwood for traction, sliding slow motion into a box. As soon as he’s back on his feet he goes after the cat, barking like it’s the end of all things. Anubis stands his ground, hissing.
A cold draft brushes over my skin, and I know we have company.
“We’ve got a problem,” Sophronia says, then stops, catching sight of my visitor. Her eyebrows draw together, her eyes flare green. “What is she doing here?”
“Asking questions. What are you doing here? It’s four in the morning.”
“Couldn’t sleep. What are you drinking? Can I have some?”
“Absolutely not. Look, whatever the problem, you should come back when…”
But she’s already bounced across the room and is standing over Jill.
“Sophie, don’t—”
She spins around and fixes me with a glare. Her night-black hair drifts around her as if blowing in a breeze. There is no breeze in my room, and I know what it means when Sophie begins having an atmosphere of her own. “What exactly do you think I’m going to do?”
Jillian takes one good look at Sophie and shields her face with both arms. The bottle crashes onto the floor. Scotch puddles around her feet. “I’m not ready,” she wails.
“Neither was Phil,” Sophie says, her voice eerie and very nearly echoing. The electricity flickers. Sophie’s green eyes glow with a light of their own. “You cremated him. No time for him to be ready, for his soul to adapt. And that is a problem.”
“I’m sorry,” Jill says. “I couldn’t be there. That coroner, Charlene—”
“His murderer,” Sophie says. “His murderer suggested you rush into burning his body. And you went right along with that.”
I can’t imagine being drunk and having an angry Sophie show up. I’d be enjoying the show if I didn’t know exactly what this girl is capable of, should she ever cross the line.
Jill leans forward and pukes. All over my floor. All over Sophie’s feet. Before I can stop it, the dog skitters across the floor and starts lapping up the mess.
That action snaps Sophie out of her avenging spirit mode. She takes a breath. Her eyes go back to human. “Ewwww,” she says, stepping back. “My shoes.”
“You shouldn’t go scaring drunk people like that.” I take a deep breath and wish I hadn’t. “You want to tell me what this is all about?”
“Phil,” Sophie says, her voice bereft now, and very young. “He’s—Phil doesn’t want to cross.”
Chapter Eight
“What do you mean he won’t cross?”
I’ve only had a sip of scotch, so I know it’s not that, but all at once I need to sit down. The dog comes over and tries to lick my hands.
“Get away from me. I know where that mouth has been. Sit, or whatever.”
He ignores me.
“Morpheus, sit,” Sophie says, and the dog obeys, plopping down on his haunches right in front of me, tongue lolling. He smells strongly of whiskey and lists a little to one side.
“I’ve been coaxing him for weeks,” Sophie says, sinking down into the armchair. “Phil, not the dog. I’ve
tried every ceremony I could think of. Offered him wine, gold coins, sang him songs, told him stories. He won’t go.”
Jill pushes herself upright and blinks at Sophie. “Wait. Just a minute. I’m a little drunk, so say that again. My dad is—”
“Refusing to cross.”
“Cross what? Cross where? I’m not familiar with undertaker language so ’splain it to me.”
Sophie telegraphs a question to me and I shrug. “Might as well tell her.”
“Sometimes,” Sophie explains, still looking at me and not at Jill, who is focusing so hard her forehead is about to implode, “when someone dies—especially if they die suddenly, or they’re murdered, or feel they have left something undone…” She lets that hang, staring off into space.
Anubis, up on the counter to get away from the dog, makes one of those eerie noises only a cat can make. The room temperature plummets.
“Huh. That’s interesting,” Sophie says.
“What?” I cross the room and grab the sweater I left hanging on the bedpost.
“They usually stay downstairs. I’ve never seen them up here before.”
Jill glances from Sophie to me, mouth hanging slightly open. “Why is it so cold in here?”
“Old building,” I lie. The only thing I know of that drops the temperature like that belongs in a grave. “Go on, Soph.”
She startles, as if I’d poked her. “Right. Anyway—when those things happen, and especially if the deceased is buried precipitately, or their body is cremated while they’re still around to watch—they refuse to go into the spirit world.”
Jill processes this, cogs turning, but slowly. “Wait. Just a minute.” She holds up one hand in an overdramatic stop signal. “Are you trying to tell me that my father—the infamous Phil Evers—is now a ghost?”
“I wouldn’t say ghost, exactly,” Sophie says. “Spirit, maybe—”
She doesn’t get any further, because Jillian bursts into laughter. Tears pour down her cheeks, and her face flushes crimson.
Sophie glares at her. “It’s so far from funny I can’t even—”
“I’m sorry.” Jill sucks in a deep breath, gets her face in order, but then breaks up again. Her foot stomps on the floor. Another whoosh of laughter escapes her. “A ghost. Really. You can’t make this shit up.”
Sophie looks exhausted. There are dark shadows under her eyes. Her cheekbones jut out under her skin, which is even paler than usual. A tiny piece of me comprehends what Jill is finding amusing, but the rest of me is wrapped in a dark, anticipatory dread. Phil, with his extensive knowledge of things in the spirit world, would make a formidable ghost if he took a turn toward the dark side.
Jill’s laughter ebbs, and she wipes her eyes with her hands. “Hoo boy,” she says. “Haven’t laughed like that in months.”
Ignoring her, Sophie turns back to me. “Tonight, I tried to force him. I figured she’s here for his ashes. So far he’s at least stayed tethered to them. But if she’s taking them, then he needs to be safely through the crossing. I thought I was strong enough. I should have been.”
“Women,” Jill says. “You forgot to bribe him with women. Maybe if you’d promised him the seventy-two virgins, he’d be willing to go.” Drunk as she is, her laughter fades as she peers at Sophie’s serious expression, then mine. “You’re not honestly scared of a ghost, Maureen?”
“He could get out of hand,” I say, carefully. “Spirits are unpredictable.”
“Something happens when they hang around too long,” Sophie adds. “They forget. Without the body to help them remember emotions, they lose them all, one by one, except for whatever it is that’s keeping them here. Have you seen Poltergeist? Or The Shining?”
Jill’s face works as if she’s caught between laughter and tears. And then she leans forward and pukes on the floor again. The dog is no longer in cleanup mode; he’s lying stretched out flat and snoring like a wino.
By the time I clean up the mess and get Jillian across the hall and tucked into her bed, Sophie has fallen asleep in mine. Not that there’s any point in going to bed now anyway. Not much time before dawn, and the day isn’t going to wait while I try to get some sleep.
So I go back to work unpacking boxes and making some sense of my living space. When my cell chimes, I check it automatically, thinking it’s Jake. Maybe he’s working late. Or early, whichever way you look at it.
When I see the message displayed on the screen, I drop the phone. It clunks onto the floor and skitters under the chair. This wakes the dog, who staggers to his feet, looking positively hung over. Anubis hisses at him. Cursing vigorously, I crouch down, and then work my way over onto my knees, bending down to peer under the chair. I can’t quite reach, unless I get flat and stretch.
“What are you doing?”
I crane my neck to see Sophie peering down at me.
“Dropped something. Did you have a nice sleep?”
“Your pillows suck.”
My fingers catch the edge of the phone, just enough to skitter it out of reach. “You could always sleep in your own bed.”
She sinks down onto the chair, the mutt climbing up into her lap. He’s way too big to be a lapdog. Too hairy, too.
“No dogs on the furniture.” Either she doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me, and I go back to my fishing expedition.
“I can’t sleep,” she says. “They won’t let me.”
“Is that normal?”
“No.”
“So, is Dason here, too? Hanging out with Phil? Or is he with his body?”
“He’s here.”
I lay down flat on the floor and manage to retrieve the phone, then stay where I am, not entirely sure I can get to my feet without help.
“I wish it was like the movies, and he could talk to me,” Sophie says.
“Wishing is for people with time and money and nothing better to do.”
“Maureen? I’m not sure letting Phil out of the funeral parlor was a good idea.”
Her face is averted, her hands playing with the dog’s ears. I get an image of an angry and invisible Phil, with no remaining remorse or compassion as ballast, loose in the Manor. There are already a few ghosts hanging around here, thanks to the experiments performed when it was the Home for Unwed Mothers. One spirit on its own is limited in strength. If they get together and form a coalition, God help us all.
Good thing we have tools to handle that. “It will be okay,” I tell her. “Go home. Get some rest. Let me think about this.”
“Think fast,” she says.
“A word of advice—don’t try to force Phil into anything. Alive or dead, he’s got a will that isn’t going to bend. Don’t bother trying to coax him, either. He’ll go when he’s ready.”
“That’s what scares me.”
I’d like to comfort her, but the truth is, she’s probably not scared enough. I need to talk to Matt and get Thanksgiving dinner canceled. The Manor is going to be no place for kids.
Sophie yawns, stretches, and trails toward the door. “Come on, Morpheus.”
The dog scratches at what had better not be a flea, and then follows her.
As soon as they are out, I sit down and stare at the message on my phone. Two little words that make my skin crawl and my blood run cold.
Hi Jinx.
It’s been thirty years since I’ve seen those two words together in a message directed to me. Even Ed, for all the years we spent together, doesn’t know about Jinx. The only person who ever called me that is dead and currently occupying a potato salad container.
Chapter Nine
I hold the phone like a ticking time bomb about to explode. And then it occurs to me that maybe it is a ticking time bomb about to explode, or at least that if I push any of the buttons, something else is going to blow up. Scarcely breathing, holding my hands as steady as I can, I remove the battery cover. The battery looks innocent and normal, but I know damn well this is the tricky part.
Using just the tip of my fingernail I catc
h the edge and flip it up and out, holding the phone in one hand, the battery in the other. Waiting.
Nothing happens, and I dare to take a full breath.
My hands shake as I set the gutted phone down on the table. Somewhere in this mess, there ought to be a locked toolbox. It takes a minute of sorting through boxes before I find it. I enter the combination code and pull out my full-sized electronic scanner. My pocket-sized bug sweeper isn’t going to cut it. Setting the unit up on the table, I proceed to go over every inch of the suite, looking for phones, cameras, any kind of bug. I pay special attention to all of the places Jill has been, especially the couch. That whole drunk thing could have been an act, and the perfect opportunity to plant something.
On the off chance there’s some new technology my sweeper doesn’t recognize, I tear the couch apart. I’m fond of this couch. But if everything blows up, it will be ruined anyway. I do make the cuts on the backs of the sofa cushions so I can disguise the damage, throwing each one on the floor when I’m done with it. Nothing under them but loose change and a few pens. Anubis emerges from under the bed, where he took refuge from Morpheus, and immediately sticks his inquisitive nose inside one of the slashed cushions.
Somebody knocks at the door.
Goddamn it, this place is like Grand Central Station. What does a woman have to do to get a few minutes of privacy? I stalk across the floor, check who is out there, and fling the door open.
“What?”
“Hello to you, too,” Jake says. “Are you re-upholstering?” He hands me a grande coffee cup. For me, this is the equivalent of roses and chocolate, and I smile despite myself.
“You look like miles of hard road,” he says.
“Thank you so much. And you’re Prince Charming.” All sarcasm aside, he does look amazing. The man has got to be sixty, given his hair and the lines life has carved into his face, but he clearly works out. The uniform emphasizes lean muscle and brings out the gray in his eyes.
I turn away, before my face can reveal what I’m thinking. “No sleep. Since you’re here, help me out a minute, would you?”
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