Chapter Sixteen
IF BOSWELL TRULY was a medium—and he was willing to play nice—he could score himself training, counseling, and a regular paycheck. But no one was gonna force it down his throat.
Between the repeater at the bus stop and history I was now privy to, I was inclined to recommend F-Pimp make the offer. But even if Boswell decided to get with the program, it would be a rough ride for everyone involved. And I wanted to be absolutely sure.
We trooped into the bedroom and looked around. Same as last time. White walls, hardwood floor, creaky ceiling fan, and a closet door that didn’t quite match the other woodwork.
I pulled down white light and scanned. Nothing.
Jacob and Evelyn stayed in the background.
And Boswell rocked anxiously on his feet.
It was a long, uncomfortable silence…until a loud creak from a nearby apartment made us both flinch.
If he was eager to make himself look psychic, it would’ve been the perfect time to do it. But Boswell didn’t rise to the bait.
“It’s unnatural living in such close proximity to other people,” he said.
“People above, below, to either side. You’re always hearing their noise, smelling their smells, all of it constantly reminding you that you’re trapped among all these random strangers you’d never choose to associate with if the choice was yours. ”
Yeah. Imagine how his neighbors felt.
“Whoever lived here before me was a real piece of work,” he said.
“Wait…you were spying on them before you moved in?”
He scoffed. “Unlikely. How on earth would I know this apartment would be available before it went up for rent?”
Well, you could drive out the previous tenant, for one—though the smug mailman hadn’t mentioned it—or you could be a precog instead of a medium. Wouldn’t that be nice? It would make Boswell someone else’s problem.
“It’s the junk mail,” Boswell said. “It doesn’t forward. You can tell a lot about a person by the catalogs they receive.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Someone, somewhere down the line had convinced themselves that Jacob and I went in for kitchen gadgets—even though we had maybe two feet of counter space, on a good day.
We’d never once ordered anything. But advertisements for the latest espresso-juicer-bread machine-tofu maker were shoved through our mail slot at least once a week.
“Like Mr. Z Sledge,” Boswell went on. “If that even is his real name. I could forgive the questionable clothing catalogs where all the models are leaning on cars like jerks and peering over their sunglasses. That’s just how marketing companies trick you into buying fast fashion.
No, it’s the supplements that tell the story. ”
In the doorway behind Boswell, Jacob and Evelyn looked on, not bothering to hide the “this guy is clearly a kook” looks on their faces. Evelyn blanched and shook her head as if to tell me I was headed for a whole lot of nonsense.
“Z Sledge was into all kinds of herbal ‘stacks’ with dubious promises and zero medical merit. You can always spot this type of thing by the claims they make. Natural. Plant-based. Clean. Weasel words that let the seller fly under the radar of the FDA. Which is also in the pocket of Big Sugar, but be that as it may—”
“Let’s not worry about Sledge—” I cut in, but Boswell was on a roll.
“—there was a pattern to all the marketing. On the surface, it might look like nothing but a few herbs laced with caffeine. But things like adaptogens and green tea extract and ginseng, combined with the ad copy about strength and virility and getting ripped? Herbal testosterone. So either he was overcompensating for something—or he was a prime example of toxic masculinity.”
Okay. Never mind that I’d had the same impression about the guy after talking to him for two minutes.
“Zachary Sledge isn’t the subject of my case, Boswell. You are.”
“And then there’s Sergei Kostic. Elderly, judging by the amount of support stockings and jar openers they try to sell him.
He was big on the supplements, too. Again with the claims of energy and vitality, the type of mealy-mouthed promises big companies make to shill their useless products on people too ignorant to know any better.
This guy would be better off just going outside.
We manufacture our own vitamin D from sunlight, but someone got the bright idea to put it in a pill, and the gullible public can’t get enough.
What other vitamins are completely unnecessary?
Society is brainwashed! Give us a pill and we’ll line up to swallow it down. ”
I dry-swallowed around the phantom necklace my own personal habit demon had left behind. I didn’t jones for Seconal anymore. But my throat still remembered how good it felt to scratch that itch.
Boswell’s ranting didn’t unsettle me because it was paranoid. I found myself agreeing with it. And that was even worse.
“And that’s how the government tracks you,” he concluded.
Hopefully not. And given that he accused the splinter of being a tracking device, I was ninety-nine percent sure he was delusional.
The remaining one percent…I’d have to ignore.
“Forget about the catalogs,” I said. “This is the spot you claimed was haunted. Why?”
“I suppose you’ll want me to say I heard voices—everyone always accuses me of hearing voices.”
Given his proclivities, it wasn’t a stretch.
“Or maybe that I felt a cold spot. But it was nothing like that. It was more like a feeling of aversion. But that feeling wasn’t even mine. And when you think about the proximity of the high-tension wires down the block, it’s no wonder—”
As Boswell rambled, I pulled down white light. It wasn’t adrenaline-fueled urgency driving me, not like the corner store where I’d stumbled upon a truly scary ghost. More of a curiosity. And the desire to figure out if Boswell’s case belonged with the FPMP, or a good social worker.
I didn’t look at the spot where I might or might not have seen a flicker. I couldn’t bias Boswell. Not if I wanted to find out for sure if the haunted room was just another one of his conspiracy theories that hit too close to home.
“And never mind that cable TV runs both ways,” he was saying. “It’s not only marketing agencies that keep a dossier on everyone—”
Before I could be a big fat liar and deny having seen his permanent record, a flash of darkness streaked between us. It was just a flash, not even a heartbeat. But time lurched in a peculiar way, like a snapshot from a high-speed camera, as my gut registered a sickening spike of wrongness.
There was a suggestion of a face in the dark blur. A woman’s face, with its mouth open in a silent scream.
I staggered back, and Boswell did too, both of us propelling away from the shadowy streak. Boswell’s wild eyes locked onto me. “You saw that!” he crowed, jabbing a finger at the empty space between us. “Don’t deny it. I saw you flinch!”
“We both saw something,” I admitted. “But we’ll need to dig deeper and find out exactly what.”
“What difference does it make? Haunted is haunted. So there’s no reason to keep raking me over the coals over a completely accurate review.”
I blinked. “You’re worried about vindication?”
“I’m worried about my security deposit!” He flung his hands up. “The FPMP has legal resources! If you’re verifying my claim, that means the haunting is real, which makes the landlord’s ‘normal wear and tear’ clause apply—”
Jacob’s notepad tapped against his thigh—an obvious prop, since he hadn’t taken even a single note. “Let’s debrief.” His tone was pure bureaucratic calm, but I caught the tightness around his eyes. “For the report. Mr. Boswell, describe the entity. Vic, corroborate. Evelyn—?”
Her expression was neutral, but she’d definitely gone pale. “We’re all upset.” A shaky inhale. “Let’s take a breath. And maybe… adjourn to the living room?” She edged toward the door like the walls might bite.
Boswell huffed. “Fine. But if we’re documenting the apartment, the rust on the mini blinds absolutely counts as a biohazard.”
Right. Because that was the pressing concern here.
We backed into the hallway to put Boswell and me out of harm’s way. Whatever was haunting this place, it was fast. And I didn’t want to find out what would happen if it slammed into one of us and figured out how possession worked.
“What did you see?” Jacob asked Boswell.
“How many times do I need to repeat myself—are you trying to trip me up or what? It. Her. The woman in the bedroom.”
Jacob cut his eyes to me.
“I just got a glimpse,” I said. No need to spin theories in front of the civilian, after all. He might grab one and run with it, and then I’d be the one responsible for his next maladaptive coping technique. “But it was enough. Thank you for your time, Mr. Boswell. We’ll take it from here.”
“But my security deposit—”
“We’ll look into it,” I said blandly. “And the next time I call you…answer the damn phone.”
Once Boswell finally left, Jacob locked the apartment door behind him with a decisive click. The hollow sound echoed off the bare walls.
“I did see something.” I shook out my hands like I could physically discard the lingering wrongness of that face. “But it was so fast…let’s just say I couldn’t pick anyone out of a lineup.”
Evelyn was already unholstering the SPECs case from her purse. “Since we’re here—and since there is something to see…. Would you indulge me?”
“Might as well try.” I slid the prototype on, then caught my reflection in the medicine cabinet as we passed the bathroom. Between my black suit and the thick-framed, reflective shades, I looked like I was playing a secret agent for Halloween.
I also caught Jacob watching me intently…
and not just to admire the cut of my jib.
Ever since his grandmother admitted to that cold war experiment she’d unwittingly signed up for, he’d been obsessed with finding tangible evidence of his talent.
Never mind that it didn’t get more tangible than popping habit demons with your bare hands.
He needed to see. And he wanted those SPECs.
It must’ve been killing him to be so close, yet so far.
I tapped the on-button, jonesing for Mood Blaster.
But there was no comforting binaural thrum, and the vibrations against my temples were too subtle to feel at all.
I scanned the bedroom’s landlord-white walls through the lenses.
Three slow rotations, checking every last corner. Nothing. Not even a cobweb.
“Clear,” I said regretfully, peeling them off.
Jacob’s earnest eyes pleaded, Let me try. But I dashed his hopes and handed them back to Evelyn.
“I’ll have the Records department dig deeper,” Jacob said. “If there wasn’t a woman on the lease, maybe there was an incident involving a guest. Or even someone here between tenants, like a painter or a realtor. Something accidental that wouldn’t have made the news.”
An image of the screaming face came to mind and I shivered. I’d seen more than my share of death.
It sure didn’t look like an accident to me.