Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Eighth Avenue street fair bustles around them, a whirl of colors, sounds, people, and delicious smells.
Frannie and Gretchen are still near the top, heading down toward Times Square, which is at least five blocks ahead of them, and Frannie’s already a little overstimulated.
But it’s a beautiful, crisp October day, and it’s good for her to be outside.
Good for her to be somewhere other than her apartment or the Dakota.
Good for her to be talking to someone alive.
At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself.
“Ew. No,” Gretchen says, looking at Frannie. She drops the set of hanging beads she was admiring.
Frannie laughs and plucks the red fedora off her head. “Someday, a hat is going to suit me.”
Gretchen squints, blue eyes considering Frannie’s now slightly chilly head. “Maybe a beanie, if you braid your hair? There’s a stall up—” Gretchen turns her head, glancing at the stalls around them. “There was one, I’m almost positive.”
“We’ll find one,” Frannie agrees, popping the fedora back onto the hat stand. “You want the beads?”
“I think I’m looking for purple and blue,” Gretchen says.
To match her wild tie-dye sweater, apparently. Today, she’s got a bright purple peacoat over distressed wide-leg jeans, and a green beanie with an orange poof on top. It’s a style, and one Frannie thinks only Gretchen could even come close to pulling off.
Frannie’s in a simple black jacket with a solid green shirt and dark-wash jeans. They make quite a pair, but it’s been fun enough being out on their “roommate playdate” so far. Gretchen grabbing her elbow to haul her down the block toward yet another crystal stall is certainly a distraction.
And Frannie needs one, desperately. Otherwise, she’ll just be thinking about the feeling of Elsa’s skin beneath hers, again, and that’s not productive in the slightest. Or normal.
“You said last week you were up to produce a story, right?” Frannie asks, following Gretchen into the crystal tent.
“Yeah,” Gretchen says, reaching out to touch a big purple crystal, before wrinkling her nose.
“It’s another puff piece. You ever heard of Brad Drill?
” Frannie shakes her head. “He’s some ghost hunter with a popular TikTok.
They’ve given him a twenty-minute spot, and he’s going to the House of Death to interview one of the tenants. ”
A little over a month ago, Frannie would have scoffed, but she’s a believer now. An interview with a ghost hunter sounds absolutely amazing.
“House of Death?” she asks casually.
“Yeah, Mark Twain’s house, in the Village. It’s apparently one of the most haunted buildings in the city.” Gretchen picks up a green crystal, shivers, and puts it back.
Frannie stifles a laugh. “And you’re going?”
“He usually does everything alone, but this’ll be with a full—well, with a cameraman, and he asked for some help, so they’re giving him me. They don’t think much of TikTok.”
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short,” Frannie says immediately. “I’m sure you can offer tons of help. And it’ll be interesting to see a ghost hunter do … whatever they do.”
“He does pretty good work,” Gretchen admits, stopping in front of a small stand full of clear crystals.
“Most of them are totally bogus. But Brad’s videos give a deep dive of the history of every haunt he goes to, and then he explains how the ghosts were made, how they survive in the house, what kind of powers they have—he’s really compelling. ”
Frannie’s mind whirs dizzily. Are her ghosts a specific type? Michael said they were all electrocuted. Does that mean something, or give them some kind of particular power? Can some ghosts leave their haunts, and others can’t? Hers can manipulate stuff—is that normal?
“You okay?” Gretchen asks.
“Oh, yeah,” Frannie says quickly, following Gretchen down the avenue. “Have you met Brad yet?”
“We’ve had a prep call, and we’re meeting next week to go over the shot order.”
“How many hunts does he do a month to keep his TikTok going?”
“I think about ten,” Gretchen says, nodding when Frannie’s jaw drops. “It’s his main source of income.”
“How does he find out where to hunt? Is it something where he goes in and knows, or does he have some kind of … is it an EMF reader?” Frannie asks.
She really should do some reading on ghosts, given she’s living in a ghost story.
“Do you want to come on the hunt with us?” Gretchen asks.
Frannie keeps her face impassive, tamping down on the urge to scream her reply of, “That would be awesome.”
Gretchen smiles. “Cool, I’ll text Brad, let him know you’re coming.”
Gretchen’s already got her phone out, and there’s a little smile playing at her mouth Frannie’s never seen before.
“If I’ll be third wheeling, I can always grill you later,” Frannie says reluctantly.
She desperately, desperately, wants to talk to a real-life ghost hunter.
She could ask him all the questions it feels impolite to ask the kids and Elsa.
But she likes Gretchen, and she doesn’t want to jeopardize their tentative friendship, even if it means giving up on a primary source on all things ghostly.
Gretchen scoffs. “No. Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re giggling while texting this guy you’ve had one call with.”
“Shut up,” Gretchen says, nose wrinkling again as she shoves her phone into her peacoat. “He’s—this is work.”
“Okay,” Frannie says, holding up her hands. Gretchen scowls at her. “I want to come on the ghost hunt. I believe you.”
“Good,” Gretchen replies, her scowl settling into a smile. She points behind Frannie. “Beanies!”
Frannie follows her over to the next stall, comprised entirely of beanies and hats.
She tries a couple on, but she can’t give her terrible luck with hats proper attention.
Are there ghosts everywhere? Her ghosts—she really needs to stop thinking of them as hers—the Dakota’s ghosts have never met any other ghosts.
Does that mean ghosts can’t move around at all?
How many ghosts are there in New York City alone?
Gretchen’s smiling down at her phone again. Oh, there’s definitely something going on with the ghost hunter. Maybe Frannie can foment some romance when she’s with them.
Frannie guides them farther down the next block. Her nose is cold, her fingers starting to tingle; she could use a hot chocolate or a coffee, whatever comes first.
“Workplace romances are the stuff of romance novels. You should try it,” Frannie taunts.
Gretchen snorts. “That’s terrible advice. HR would have your head.”
“Perks of working for a distracted writer; we don’t have HR,” Frannie replies with a grin.
“That’s not something to be proud of.”
Frannie forces a laugh. She doesn’t need yet another person telling her to get out of her job. “That’s why I have to live vicariously through you for office drama,” she says brightly.
“I suppose,” Gretchen agrees, her eyes traveling over the stalls. “Not like you’ll fall in love with anyone at your gig. Your boss is ancient, and I don’t see you having a romance with one of the doormen.”
Frannie nods. She’s not going to fall in love with Jose or Paul. But she might—
Nope, no, she’s not going to think about the funny, smart, beautiful, mysterious hot lady ghost she’s had all of two good conversations with about …
everything she loves. It would be ridiculous to pursue her; there’s no future in it.
Even if Elsa does feel as corporeal as a real person, and has a killer smile.
“Oh, wow, I thought DVDs had totally gone extinct,” Gretchen says, nudging Frannie as they cross the next intersection.
Frannie follows her look, equally surprised to see an enormous two-stall spread of DVDs stacked on top of folding tables. There must be five hundred or so. They wander toward the tables, unable to resist.
“They’ve got all the WB shows!” Gretchen says gleefully, letting go of Frannie’s arm to peruse.
Frannie’s about to join her when a blue-and-yellow cover snags her eye. She rises on her tiptoes and plucks up a pristine copy of Singin’ in the Rain with a grin. It’s been ages since she’s seen it. It was always one of her favorites as a kid.
“Really?”
Frannie glances at Gretchen. “It’s a great movie.”
Gretchen holds a stack of four seasons of Dawson’s Creek and Angel. “They’ve got every season of SVU, and you want that?”
“You can stream all that,” Frannie argues, nodding toward Gretchen’s stack.
“Not with commentary and all the bloopers,” she says seriously.
“Go buy your aughts marathon fodder and let me buy my musical in peace, please.”
“Jonathan hates movie musicals. He won’t watch it with you.”
“Like I’d watch this on our puny TV. I’m watching this at Henry’s,” Frannie says without thinking.
“Hanging out at your boss’s house alone? That’s pretty sad.”
“I’m cold; let’s buy these and get coffee,” Frannie prompts, wanting to avoid Gretchen’s narrowing eyes.
“You’re not … meeting people at your boss’s apartment, are you? Pretending it’s yours?”
“No,” Frannie says quickly, reaching out to push on Gretchen’s shoulder and herd her over to the DVD peddler, a tall, lanky guy in a Mets cap.
“You’ve been staying late while he’s been out of town. It’s a logical conclusion,” Gretchen argues.
Frannie scoffs, hamming up her false indignation. “I’m not committing apartment fraud to impress anyone. I have a novel to write. His place is quiet.”
So what if she’s secretly hoping to entice one very pretty, very blond, very dead woman to enjoy Gene Kelly’s tap dancing with her? Completely platonically, because otherwise it would—
“Be a good scam, though,” Gretchen says as they get rung up.
“Telling people I live in the Dakota to get dates?” Frannie asks, hoping her cheeks haven’t gone too pink.
“Taking people back to Henry’s apartment while he’s out of town. But you need better bait. ‘Come up and watch this really old musical with me’ won’t get you laid, Frannie.”
Frannie laughs. “I’m not trying to get laid.”
Gretchen’s phone pings. She juggles her bag of DVDs, squirming to pull her phone out of her opposite pocket. Her cheeks lift when she sees the message, and Frannie laughs. Gretchen looks down at her, eyes narrowed again.
“I didn’t say anything. But you need some better bait if you’re looking to land the ghost hunter,” Frannie says. Gretchen scowls at her. “Oh, on our ghost hunt, you should get scared and jump into his arms!”
Gretchen starts laughing, cheeks flushing. Frannie’s DVD bag knocks against her hip as they hustle down Fiftieth Street to head toward the subway. She’s not thinking about Elsa’s smile and whether or not playing Singin’ in the Rain might get her another chance to see it. Not at all.