Murder House

by Jordan Castillo Price

  While the coffee filter idea wasn’t a bad one, making friends was not exactly my forte. The more I thought about going over and trying to engage Hale in conversation, the more I second-guessed myself. I headed up to the massive third floor en suite for a fancy shower and a thorough toothbrushing, in hopes that he wouldn’t smell the telltale coffee on my breath. And as I scrubbed yesterday’s goop out of my hair, I imagined all the various ways he could probably trip me up if he actually read any of my “articles.” I didn’t know any more than the gist of them since I hadn’t managed to read any, myself. They were so tedious, I’d only managed to skim.

  I toweled off and replaced the goop, then pulled on some briefs and went to paw through the closet for yet another pair of skinny jeans. There were at least ten pair hanging there, each one more constricting than the last. I grabbed whatever was closest, shut the door, and began working the tight pants up my legs. I was thigh high when it hit me—a whiff of decomp.

  My blood ran cold, and I wondered if maybe Bly’s nightmare had less to do with my proximity and more with something else’s. White light. I filled myself full, but it hardly seemed like enough. I’ve heard people say their eyes are bigger than their stomach. Me, I just knew there was a whole banquet of light out there for the taking, and my capacity was slimmer than the jeans crushing my balls.

  Still, I did my best—yanked up my pants, pulled down the light and gave the big bedroom a thorough scrutiny. No ghost. And when I sniffed around for the decomp, I couldn’t find it. Just the smell of coconut and citrus.

  If Laura Kim knew I suspected spirit activity at this point in the game, she would move heaven and earth to help me clean the place out. I wasn’t willing to take one of those nasty experimental psyactives if nobody I knew was in imminent danger, though. The risk of ending up like Movie Mike—stroking out from the drugs—was all too real. And I didn’t want to call any attention to the GhosTV in my basement. Not with FPMP National sniffing around, and not over a vague smell that might have a more mundane explanation. I could team up with Darla, but she and her husband were currently vacationing in Prague—she occasionally texted me photos of weird spots where she heard ghostly, foreign-language banter—and I didn’t want to risk her getting called back over something I should be able to handle myself. It was just a matter of figuring out how.

  Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. Figure out if Sylvester Hale was really a medium…and see if he seemed capable of murdering his next door neighbor, too. I bundled up in my obnoxious red parka, put on my dumb baseball cap, tilted it just so, and headed outside.

  “Vic?”

  …only to be spotted by Terri-Anne before I was halfway down the walk. Damn winter. If it weren’t for the snowbanks, I would’ve just walked across the lawn and been at Hale’s door already. She dropped the bag of birdseed she was holding and started toward me with such purpose, there was no way I could possibly dodge her.

  “Hey!” she said brightly. “Thanks for coming by last night. It was so great getting to chat with you and your husband.”

  Who? Oh, right. “Same here.”

  “Really? I was worried some of Brian’s remarks might be…well, you know how it is. White male privilege.”

  A guy who wrote insufferable articles on gender and politics would have a field day with that. But all I managed to say was, “It’s fine. Look, I was just gonna see if Hale had any coffee filters—”

  “You need a caffeine fix? I just put on a fresh pot!”

  Ugh, why had I felt compelled to tell her that? Before I could think of any good excuse to opt out of the invitation, she’d looped her arm through mine and started hauling me across the street.

  First thing I noticed when we walked through the door was that her house smelled good—really good. She hadn’t been pulling my leg about the coffee. It smelled amazing. Once we got coats and snowy shoes situated, Terri-Anne led me to the kitchen. “Have you had breakfast?” My face must’ve conveyed that I was looking to linger the shortest possible amount of time, because she added, “There’s some galette left over from last night.”

  “I could eat,” I said noncommittally, when what I really wanted to do was take all the pie and cram it in my mouth.

  She flitted through the kitchen like it was her domain, knowing where everything was and exactly what it did. As she set me up with a drool-worthy hunk of pie and a giant mug of coffee, she said, “It’s nice to get to talk to you alone, too. Don’t get me wrong. Your husband seems like a really great guy. But he talks a lot, you know? And you hardly squeeze in two words around him.”

  “It’s better that way,” I said. She looked at me funny, which I took to mean that I was not really passing for an actual person. “Bly’s the one with the gift of gab. Uh, that’s what I call Jack. Me, I’m more of a…writing person.” Talk about a bald-faced lie, but apparently she bought it.

  “I really shouldn’t pry.”

  Probably not, I wanted to say. But that would’ve been the real me talking. Stay-at-home douchebag was the type of guy who wrote articles, which meant he was delusional enough to think the world actually gave two damns about his opinions. “You reach a bigger market when you write,” I said. “What difference does it really make what one person thinks? I speak to the global audience.”

  Terri-Anne frowned and stirred her coffee, and I was pretty sure I shouldn’t have thrown together a bunch of phraseology I didn’t quite grasp. Then she said, “But, what your spouse thinks…that matters. Doesn’t it?”

  The last thing I needed was to make up a bunch of bullshit about my “marriage.” I stood the risk of forgetting something important by the time I’d get a chance to text the cover story to Bly. So I did what any good friend would do, and turned the microscope back on her. “Is this something to do with Brian?”

  That simple question opened up a whole can of worms. Terri-Anne launched into a lengthy analysis about how much Brian talked about sports versus how much airtime he gave their relationship. I listened, sort of. But I was still pondering the question I’d just dodged: whether what your spouse thinks matters.

  Not only did it matter what Jacob thought, but he was the only person in my life I’d bother running something past before I pulled the trigger. I wasn’t used to giving anyone else a say. Was it some kind of boomerang effect—a reaction to having my personal liberties restricted at the age where most guys were busy puking at keggers? Or had I evolved into as much of a “lone wolf” as Bly claimed to be, having lived by myself since I clawed my way out of Camp Hell?

  Not that Jacob reciprocated. His personal style was to beg forgiveness, not permission—but little by little, I’d developed the surprising habit of checking in with him before I did anything we’d both regret. We held lengthy discussions about all kinds of things, from what little I remembered about my foster families to how I should avoid getting on Darla’s shit list again. We even sat on the couch and gazed fondly together at the spot where Lisa’s tent used to be.

  Terri-Anne interrupted my thoughts by asking, “What do you think?”

  Crap. I gave my best douchebag non-answer. “Men express themselves in a convoluted way. The sports talk is probably a metaphor.”

  Judging by how baffled she looked, I suspected I’d just taken my attempt at armchair psychology a little too far. She lunged for me and I nearly ducked, but it was just a hug, nothing more. As I did my best to relax into it, she said, “That’s so insightful—thank you so much. I really mean it.”

  When she finally released me, unshed tears glittered on her eyelashes. My need to get away from her outpouring of emotion ramped up to critical. “Yeah, there’s plenty to unpack there. So I’ll leave you to it.”

  I thanked her for breakfast and fled back across the street to the townhouse, which felt flimsy and cheap in comparison to the solidity of a real home. I paced the living room with my phone in my hand, battling the impulse to call Jacob and reflect on why I felt so freaking uncomfortable around Terri-Anne. No Jacob allo
wed, though. Not until we dug up the intel we’d come to get on Sylvester Hale.

  11

  Since I couldn’t call Jacob, I did the next best thing and called my fake husband. Not because I thought anyone was listening in, but because he was the lead investigator. Besides, he was supposed to be training me.

  “Is there any way we can get Terri-Anne off my trail?” I peeked out the front window. Had her curtains just moved? Hard to say. “I feel like I can’t set foot outside the house without getting accosted.”

  “Have you tried saying something dickish?”

  “Like…what?”

  “I dunno. Criticize her cooking.”

  “Like she’d believe that.”

  “Pick a fight with her husband.”

  “She’d probably take my side.”

  “Imply that you think her kid is awkward.”

  “I like her kid.”

  Bly gave an exasperated huff. “Your opinion doesn’t matter. Remember, you’re not you. You’re playing a role.”

  “I just told her I had to work, but if she sees me out looking for Hale, she’ll feel like I was giving her the brush-off.”

  “And there you go. Perfect solution.”

  Was it? I’d meant to explain why I didn’t want to be an asshole to Terri-Anne, not be convinced that I should. I hung up with Bly and considered my options. Stay home and make no headway on my assignment, or go back out and risk being waylaid by Terri-Anne. What would a stay-at-home douchebag do? If he needed to go out, he wouldn’t sit around worrying about his neighbor. He’d go. I trudged upstairs to find my laptop bag, figuring that if Terri-Anne spotted me, I could claim that I worked better in a coffee shop. Unfortunately, the bag was in the third floor closet with all my other stuff. To get to it, I’d have to go through the room where the last occupant died.

  I sucked down a bunch of white light and mentally shored up my defenses. Paused at the top of the stairs and scanned the room that was now our home gym.

  Nothing.

  Most dead people didn’t leave full-fledged ghosts behind. Not unless they offed themselves, or…they were murdered.

  More white light. Another look around. Still nothing.

  Feeling ridiculous for letting a middle schooler’s gossip get under my skin, I grabbed my bag and headed for the stairwell. I was just about there when the faintest whiff of decomp hit.

  Sonofabitch.

  If the area had been zapped by ozone—that’s what the heavy hitters use when they clean up crime scenes—then the smell might be all in my head. Which meant the third floor was gonna need another salting.

  I put in a call, and Carl showed up in his realtor jacket and a briefcase in his hand. He was all smiles and jocularity on the doorstep, but the cheerful demeanor morphed into grim purpose the moment he crossed the threshold. “Agent Bly’s report states there was an allegation of foul play in regard to Griggs?”

  “By a thirteen-year-old girl. Who’d probably also warn you against saying ‘Bloody Mary’ in the mirror.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s prudent to take every allegation seriously.” We trooped upstairs. “You haven’t seen anything?”

  “No. I just keep getting odd whiffs of decomp.” I pointed out the various spots where I’d smelled it, and we both gave them the sniff test. Nothing.

  When ghosts were involved, it was definitely better to be safe than sorry, but I was still getting used to the fact that my fellow agents didn’t try to ward me off with a crucifix like they thought I was Dracula. Carl had treated even Richie with respect, so as for me? Well…he’d seen some serious shit on my watch. When I called ghost, he wasn’t about to second-guess it.

  Carl had been precise about setting up the ritual before. Now, he was downright exacting. He circled the room and chose his coordinates, put down a prayer mat with elaborate ritual markings, and tweaked it several times before setting the candles. We debated whether or not to light incense, since the oily smoke would mask the telltale signal I was using as my litmus test. Then again, so would Florida Water. That stuff reeked like the stinky lovechild of ribbon candy and cheap bodega soap.

  It was a tough call, but I decided it was best to hit the clearing with every tool in our arsenal. If there was a smelly repeater sticking around and I wasn’t strong enough to evict her for good, hopefully her presence would at least be muted for the duration of the assignment.

  The sun was lowering by the time we finished, and I felt drained. Ghostly presence? None. Then again, aside from the fleeting whiff of rot, there hadn’t been any to begin with.

  My fake husband came home, and Carl handed me off to him. Bly poked through the home gym and came up with nothing. No weird emotional residue. No smells, either, other than the stink left over from the ritualistic cleanse.

  He handed me my laptop bag and said, “Go sit in that coffee shop and see if you get lucky with Hale.” He cut his eyes to the elliptical machine in the corner. “I’ll be doing push-ups…in the living room.”

  I could get on board with that plan. First, it got me out of the townhouse. And second, eating out meant that dinner was on the FPMP. My plastic, for the duration of the assignment, was in the stay-at-home douchebag’s name. Maybe it was only one letter different from mine, but the important part was that the expenses were all billed to the Program. Bonus: I wouldn’t need to pretend one of those sad little pre-packaged meals was actually filling.

  I trudged through a snowy gale toward the cafe. While the cannery’s residential neighborhood quieted down at night, Boystown was just heating up. People had dinner, people met up for drinks, and in a few hours, people would vie for parking outside their favorite clubs. The cafe was doing brisk business on a brisk night. The espresso smelled delicious, but regretfully, I had to settle for a decaf latte that was mostly steamed milk, or I’d be up for the rest of the week.

  As I stood by the counter waiting for my drink, I scanned the crowd in search of Hale. A couple of old men were chatting in the corner, but neither one was wearing a cape. I dredged up what I remembered of him other than his pretentious fashion sense and looked harder, so as not to overlook anything important.

  My eyes were on the back table when the cafe door opened and a blast of winter air hit me hard. I turned to see who’d had the nerve to intrude.

  I saw him. And time stammered while my heart skipped a beat.

  Damp. Flushed. In faded sweats, with earbuds in.

  Jacob.

  Damn. That was one fine-looking man.

  I blinked, and wondered if he’d been sent to check up on me. I didn’t think so. First of all, unless I was violating some FPMP policy, there was no reason for the Oversight Division to get involved.

  His gym, I realized, was just down the block, and he definitely looked as if he’d gone a few rounds with the heavy equipment. Plus, why bother making dinner for just himself if he could grab something on his way to the car, instead?

  Chicago’s a big city. And yet, add together all the logical reasons why we might cross paths, and it truly was a small world.

  If my handlers had given me any instruction on what to do if I ran into someone I knew, I couldn’t remember it. Probably because my brain was fixing on the high color in his cheeks—that was the way he looked in bed from huffing and puffing and exerting himself. That was the face I saw hovering over me whenever I got plowed. Suddenly it felt like we’d been apart for two years, not two days. And I was aching with the need to go touch him, and smell him, and kiss him.

  As if he felt me yearning for him, suddenly, he looked up and our eyes locked.

  “Hey,” I said lamely.

  “Hey.” He looked just about as flummoxed as I felt, but his recovery was smooth…ish. “You, uh…come here often?”

  “Just discovered the place yesterday. You?”

  “I stop in now and then.”

  The awkwardness was palpable. Not because we couldn’t figure out what to say—the words didn’t matter—but because we were drawn together like a pair
of magnets. With every syllable, we’d eased closer together. We were nearly chest to chest now, and it took everything in my power not to press up against that broad chest and mash my mouth against his. I’d always figured myself for a lone wolf, like Bly. But one look at Jacob after a fairly minor separation showed just how wrong I was.

  His pull was so strong, it took actual effort to stop myself from melting up against him. It would have been so easy to surrender. So sweet. But I had a job to do…and sucking face with him in public while I was posing as the stay-at-home douchebag would only make us both look bad.

  “Anyway,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

  His eyes went to my hand. My left hand. Or, more precisely, the gold band on the ring finger of my left hand.

  He looked away.

  A pang of guilt welled up in my chest. Not because I thought I’d done anything wrong, and once Jacob had a chance to think it through, intellectually, he’d realize a fake ring didn’t mean anything. Still…I wished he hadn’t had to see it.

  Jacob rallied, and tried to sound normal. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, and then I realized how often I really mean Let’s not talk about it right now when I say those words. “Nothing I can’t handle. You?”

  His eyes darkened. “The cannery’s kind of…empty.”

  He tried to soften the longing in his words with a smile, but I didn’t buy it. “Not much longer.”

  He shook his head, leaned in, and spoke urgent and low. “No, don’t rush anything, not on my account. What we do is important. You need your head in the game, and you can’t cut corners.”

  He was right. Damn it. I nodded, and he fell back a few paces. The tractor beam wasn’t entirely nullified, though it was somewhat weakened.

  Even though it felt like Jacob and I were the only two people in the world and the rest of our surroundings were nothing more than set dressing, of course, life went on around us. Customers placed orders, the kitchen cranked out food, and no one gave a damn about my debilitating bout of loneliness. No, they wouldn’t. Especially with the guy making a spectacle of himself over by the cream and sugar.