Chapter 1 #2
“You don’t know the half of it,” I mumbled. The people in the line hugged plushies of mini Rae Jones. Some had temporary tattoos of cartoon versions of her face. Others clutched posters from a photoshoot where she appeared as a vampire slayer holding a bloody wooden stake.
I tilted my head, trying to get a better look at the poster, impressed by how incredible the skin-tight black-and-green ensemble looked against her deep brown skin.
“She’s stunning,” Esther said in a low voice. She must have flipped to the back of the book to look at the author’s photo.
“She’s a scam artist with an ego problem.” I tore my gaze away from the curve of Rae’s waist. Only the incredibly self-absorbed would encourage this brand of fanfare.
“How do you know that?”
“A sixth sense.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in that kind of thing? None of these kinds of things.”
“Figure of speech,” I promised.
“Is the footage on your camcorder also a figure of speech?”
I frowned and rubbed the heel of my hand in the middle of my forehead. “Esther…”
I had some working theories on why sometimes doors locked after one of us went into a room by ourselves. Or why we thought we kept seeing someone in the corner of our eyes when no one was around.
Mold poisoning was my top contender. It’d explain the hallucinations. Not so much the doors locking. That sounded more like a physics problem that Wilson should focus on.
But the recording disproved my theory in three minutes.
No amount of mold poisoning explained why something had moved around in my room while I slept.
Poisoning couldn’t explain away the shadows on the wall…
at least, not yet. Because as soon as I’d gotten enough rest to think straight, I’d examine the footage again and prove it was only the wind or the house shifting.
“Just wondering,” Esther muttered.
I peeked into my swag bag, spotting a Rae Jones yo-yo and a pack of her ghost hunter mints.
She had a mint line.
For budget reasons, I had to wait two weeks to get more tools for my stable renovation project. And she had a mint line.
Someone put me out of my misery.
“Try to compliment her when you’re pitching the ranch,” Esther suggested. “And make it sound real and not like…you know, you.”
“Me?” My forehead wrinkled. “What does that mean?”
“You hit the bull’s-eye every time, but sometimes you’ve got to dance around it.”
“Huh?”
“People don’t like playing with people who always hit the bull’s-eye. What’s the point?”
I didn’t have an answer because that did sound like the ultimate snooze fest. Esther hung up, leaving me to figure out how to uncorrect my aim.
I fidgeted with my swag bag as the line continued to move forward.
I’d practiced pitching myself to Rae Jones a million and one times.
But now that it was within reach, none of my words seemed adequate.
Hi, how are you, Ms. Jones? I’m Octavia Daniel.
Nice weather, right? I own a ranch and want to open stables to house boarding and retired horses.
I’m not your fan—no offense—because none of this is based in reality, but I couldn’t give my brother any other option on how to move forward, so here I am.
He believes my ranch is haunted. And that you’re a brilliant expert who could solve all our problems. Shall I list them for you?
Debt, shame, and utter failure that could leave us stuck in a small town in the middle of nowhere…
also, an eczema breakout, but I’m sure that’s where your expertise ends— oh, you’ve also started a dermatologist-approved skincare line?
Of course, you did. Sure, I’ll sign up for the newsletter. Does that count as dancing?
I sighed at the last bit. Maybe cut that out, but the rest of it could work.
I needed to communicate vitality and urgency without looking like a downright pathetic businessperson.
But I had made a terrible deal with the wrong realtor.
And now I was saddled with a beautifully creepy ranch, which my brother and I sank our life savings into with no sign of a return on investment.
So, technically, I was a downright pathetic businessperson.
Because I’d signed that deed on a feeling.
Even after Wilson had asked thrice over, was I sure?
Was I okay with one initial inspection? Was I okay with not sitting on it for a couple of days? Was I okay with moving to a town I’d visited as a child and had romanticized ever since?
Yes. Because the moment I stepped onto the property, it felt like home.
Elmwood wasn’t perfect, but something I could grow into and make my own.
The repairs it needed were opportunities to build.
I was finally in control of something. The word ‘home’ was finally taking space and settling its roots in some place other than my daydreams.
Go, go, go, because what else did I have?
By the time I got into the conference room, there weren’t any chairs left.
“Standing room only,” one volunteer warned as I passed the threshold. No worries there. Standing would make it easier to slip out before the end of the talk and be first in line at her signing table.
The room buzzed with chatter and warmth. Some people had notepads out and pens primed. Others sat on the edge of their seats, with their phone cameras open, trying to get a shot of the stage and its upcoming main attraction.
When the stage lights finally dimmed, a spotlight spilled over two plush red chairs. My eardrums vibrated from the applause.
Rae Jones walked onto the stage with a wide smile, her partially hooded eyes glittering.
She was a tall, Black woman with straightened hair that swayed past her shoulders.
Her tailored forest-green jumpsuit clung to her chest and hips, flaring at the ankles.
The top three buttons were open, revealing a necklace sparkling on the delicate curve of her collarbone.
The diamond pendant on the necklace rested just above her cleavage.
She looked as if she could be a pop star or a covert operative.
The black-and-white author’s photo on the back of her book communicated melancholy and angst. The bright smile she offered the crowd presented unabashed openness.
I preferred the melancholy. It had been my last hope of actually liking this woman.
“Welcome, welcome.” Rae’s voice was husky and deep. She sounded as if she had been born to give directions. Poised. Authoritarian.
I swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to ward off the small bit of warmth blooming in my stomach.
Remember, scam artists lose the right to be attractive.
“Thank you all for coming. I’m so honored you did,” Rae said. “Let’s get comfortable and chat.”
The crowd followed her order, plastic squeaking as they did their best to find nonexistent comfort in an oversold room.
Rae relaxed into her leather seat, kicking off one heel and pulling the leg underneath her thigh. Her posture was reminiscent of a newly placed fence post.
“I-it’s so incredible to have you here.” The moderator pressed a folded handkerchief to his shiny forehead. “We’re grateful for your time. You’ve just come from a job, right?”
“I did.” Rae nodded, offering the moderator a soft, patient smile. “It took a little longer than my team and I expected, hence our lateness. I apologize for any inconvenience.”
“No, no.” The moderator nearly fell out of his seat to absolve her. “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say, we’d wait forever.”
The crowd’s clap of agreement drowned out my heavy sigh. I checked the time. If this interview didn’t wrap up in the next forty minutes, the Q they need to face the monsters within.”
She paused for effect, those glossy, round lips parted in a small smile. Her fans offered a glowing response, clapping in reverence. Someone in front of me dabbed away tears.