Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Frannie coughs, rubbing at her itchy nose.
Henry’s other storage closet is full of floating dust, but she doesn’t have time for it to settle, nor to climb up and open the skylight to let some of it out.
She knows the book must be here somewhere.
She saw it once, two years ago, when she organized the bookshelves during one of Henry’s compulsive cleaning sprees.
She doesn’t know if it’ll actually have any information on the original electrical system for the building, but it’s worth a shot. None of the books she found for Michael was specific enough, and she needs hard answers. She needs to know if it’s really possible.
“What are you doing?”
And there’s the boy in question, standing by the still-closed door, watching her apprehensively. It’s absurdly good to see him, even in the stuffy, dusty storage closet.
“I’m looking for a book,” she says, just to see his eyes narrow.
“You ran out last night. We were gonna celebrate with you,” he says, scuffing a foot on the ground like Bridgette usually does.
Frannie nods, guilt and frustration heavy on her shoulders. “I know, I’m sorry. I needed—I needed a little time.”
“That’s what Mom said.” He doesn’t look convinced. “But it’s been two weeks since she let us come visit you. And now you’re—what book are you looking for?”
She really shouldn’t say anything. It’s a pipe dream, a lark, an absurdity. But that $250,000 is still circling around in her head.
“I need the biography of Edward Clark that Henry stashed here somewhere.”
“Why?” Michael presses.
She can see it on his face, the anticipation, the hope. She really shouldn’t feed it. But she needs at least one ally in this fight, and he’s been her Dakota Building buddy since the beginning.
“Because I want to rent an apartment across the street, and I need to figure out if it’s possible to get you guys over there safely,” she says, her voice tight as she speaks this ridiculous, impossible, irrational dream into reality.
If she can’t stay here, then she’s getting them out. It’s the only answer.
Michael’s entire face lights up. He launches himself across the room and into her arms, knocking her back onto the floor. His arms around her neck, his babbling into her shoulder, squeezes at her heart. She’s missed her friend.
“You’re really gonna try and get us out?” he whispers, shifting to sit next to her, their backs pressed up against the bookshelf.
“I’m going to try,” she says. Promises. Because she can’t destroy the hope in his eyes.
He squeezes her arm and then pulls away, peering up at the bookcase. “Is it the red one?”
“I think so,” she says, relief coursing through her. Michael will find it. Michael’s the best.
Of course, then her alarm goes off. Five minutes until ghost hunting. She needs to get down to Henry’s apartment.
“We’ll pick this up later,” she says, hauling her sorry ass off the floor. She’s covered in dust.
Michael laughs and stands up with her. “I’ll go join Mom and Bridgette. We’re gonna make you all scream sooo much.”
Frannie can’t help but grin back at him. “I’m counting on it. Get Henry good, okay?”
“You got it, Frannie,” he says.
He steps forward and wraps his arms around her stomach. Frannie lets him, curling her arms around his shoulders for a moment, the two of them just standing there in the floating dust. And then he’s gone.
Twenty minutes later, she’s trailing Brad and Gretchen along the first-floor corridor with Henry. Gretchen’s holding Brad’s steady cam rig with his extremely fancy iPhone set up. Her combat boots mixed with her gray blazer and edgy haircut make her look like a consummate producer.
Brad’s in one of his signature polo shirts and khakis, like he’s about to sell them a Nissan Altima instead of taking them through one of New York City’s most haunted buildings.
Henry’s watching the two of them curiously. His arm bumps Frannie’s. “Think we’ll see anything?”
“Who knows,” she says casually. She’s eager to see what her ghost friends are capable of, but she’s not about to let on that she expects anything.
And for the next two hours, she’s not going to think about everything else. About the conversation she needs to have with Elsa, about not having seen the kids for two weeks. And she’s certainly not going to think about her book offer.
Today is just for the shenanigans, and God, could she use some.
“I did wonder, with your book, is that based on anything you’ve seen?”
Frannie expects the question to come from Henry, but it’s Brad looking over his shoulder at her expectantly.
“Nope,” she says immediately. She thinks she might hear a little childish snickering. “Just heard the stories and had an idea.”
“Bummer,” Brad says. “It would be great to get a testimonial from someone who’s actually interacted with them.”
Frannie shrugs, using all her former high school theater kid talent to look entirely innocent. “Never know, maybe they’ll find us today.”
There’s another faint snicker. Clearly, they already have.
“Gretchen tells me your book’s getting some real heat,” Brad says.
“A ton,” Henry cuts in. “Frannie’s going to be the next big thing in publishing.”
Frannie flushes and shakes her head. “It’s exciting. But not what we’re here to talk about, right?”
Henry nods, and Gretchen throws a look at her, but Frannie just shrugs. If they stall for much longer, Bridgette and Michael might get impatient. She’s definitely feeling someone tickling her back.
“Right,” Brad says, adjusting the collar of his blue polo. It clashes with every hallway. “Ready?” he asks Gretchen.
“Ready and rolling,” she says, pointing to him while holding the camera rig steady.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Dakota Building Ghost Crawl, courtesy of my and Gretchen’s good friend, Frannie Goldstein.”
Gretchen swings around, putting the camera right in Frannie’s face. “Uh, hi,” she manages. “And really it’s all thanks to Henry L. Olsen.”
Henry elbows her but smiles for the camera. “I’ve always wanted a guided ghost tour of this place, so it’s my pleasure. Though, Frannie’s really our resident ghost girl.”
Frannie frowns at him, but drops it when Gretchen points the camera back at her.
“Are you a ghost enthusiast, Frannie?” Brad asks behind Gretchen.
“I’m … a skeptic turned believer. I’ve seen enough things move to think we’re definitely not alone.”
I’ve had hot, passionate, ridiculous sex with a ghost, and let me tell you, it TINGLES.
Something pokes her back and Frannie jumps a little. There’s a much more audible giggle and she has to tamp down her responding smile. Fine, score one for Bridgette.
“You told me you hadn’t seen any ghosts while working here for Henry, but have you seen anything else?” Brad asks.
Frannie hesitates as Bridgette’s fingers trip up her back. “Little things. But I bet Henry’s seen more.”
Gretchen turns the camera on Henry, and Frannie swipes behind her, biting back a laugh when she feels Bridgette bat at her arm.
“Oh, you know, stuff goes missing every so often. I think they hang out, sometimes, when I’m not home,” Henry says with total nonchalance.
Bridgette goes still behind her and Frannie stares at Henry, surprised.
“You haven’t noticed stuff being in a different place overnight?” Henry asks, confused. “I figured that was part of the origin for your book.”
Frannie raises her hands helplessly and Henry looks back at Gretchen.
“Well, it’s certainly started giving me ideas. Maybe I’ll write my own ghost book.”
Frannie thinks she hears a muttered, sarcastic, “Why not?” from somewhere to her left.
Bridgette wraps her arms around Frannie’s waist before she can look for Elsa, and Frannie stays still, ignoring Bridgette’s silent giggles into the small of her back.
“Does it frighten you?” Gretchen asks Henry.
“Well, it’s not like they’re doing anything nefarious,” Henry says with a shrug. “Maybe if they were—”
And then Gretchen jumps about a foot in the air. “What was that?” she all but shouts.
“What? What?” Brad asks.
“It felt like something grabbed my arm!” Gretchen says, breathless, eyes wide, head swinging around.
Bridgette’s arms release Frannie’s waist and Frannie stands there for a moment, waiting. She has the forethought to get her phone out and thumb on her camera before all hell breaks loose.
Through the camera, they’re no more than hazy blobs, but Frannie can see them. Michael zips this way and that, poking Brad in the stomach. Bridgette keeps flicking Gretchen’s hair, no matter how many times she shrieks and jumps away.
When Frannie turns to look at Henry, she has to clench her jaw to keep from laughing. Because Elsa’s standing three inches from his back, tapping him on the shoulder on alternating sides. He keeps snapping his neck to look back toward her, groaning.
“This is insane!” Brad calls. “Are you getting any of this?”
Gretchen’s jerking far too much to be getting any of it on camera, but Frannie is. She gives him a thumbs-up and then jolts as Elsa’s fingers wind into her hair, tugging.
It sends a shiver down her spine, but she doesn’t make a sound, turning her head instead to meet her eyes. She’s smirking, almost daring Frannie to say something. Frannie opens her mouth, and a door to their left jerks open.
“What the hell is going on here?” demands an old man with fantastically thick lenses on his Coke-bottle glasses. He’s got a shock of white hair in a ring around the bald top of his head and a beard that puts Santa Claus’s to shame.
Frannie can’t help it. She bursts out laughing. The old man glares at her, and she feels Elsa’s hand press between her shoulder blades.
“Sorry, Mr. Wurch,” Henry says, rolling his eyes at Frannie before stepping between her and Gretchen to smooth things over. “This is the ghost-hunting expedition I told the board about. We were just, ah …” He pauses and glances at Brad.
“Getting some B-roll,” Brad says quickly.