Chapter 9
God, she hated the corporate gigs. She understood the need for them—hotels and convention centers and renovated office buildings had ghosts, too—but working with soulless corporations was deeply unpleasant because there was no humanity there.
It was signed forms and corporate contracts and absolutely no interest in why the spirit or spirits in question were still haunting the building.
Just get rid of it, and then they’d send a paycheck.
At least they sent the paychecks.
I sighed, wiggling the fingers of the hand I’d just used to unthinkingly grab the door handle of the fridge. At least I’d left my mug sitting on the counter so I hadn’t dropped it when I’d been plunged into Beck’s thoughts.
I was getting more used to being inside the heads of the people I worked with. I was also getting better at pulling myself out less abruptly and more quickly than I used to be able to. But I wasn’t really doing better at blocking them.
Not wanting to drop into her thoughts again, I reached out and tore off a sheet of paper towel, opened the door, and grabbed my creamer to pour it in the mug, holding the door open with my foot so I could put it right back.
Then, since I had it, I used the paper towel to add coffee to the mug before tossing the paper towel, taking my coffee, and heading back to my desk.
It was pouring, rain running down the big windows which were occasionally shaken by the roll of thunder.
I actually liked the rain, especially when it came with thunderstorms. There was something about the darkness and chaos of storms that was exciting—especially if I wasn’t caught outside in it.
I didn’t mind getting wet as long as it wasn’t cold, so I actually enjoyed going for walks in summer thunderstorms, but there was something particularly satisfying about being inside while the weather raged outside.
I settled in at my desk, setting down the coffee so I could pull on the cardigan draped over my chair because the rain had dropped the temperature and the thermostat hadn’t quite caught up yet from the moment I’d flipped the heat back on a little before nine.
Ward and Mason were going to be late coming in because Jackson had some sort of concert or something for parents and guardians at school.
Beck had been in—leaving her thoughts on the fridge—and had left again about twenty minutes ago for the airport to be flown to St. Petersburg in Florida to handle some renovated manor house that had become some sort of corporate retreat and conference center.
That meant it was just me, the rain, and the rich scent of coffee.
I pulled up a music app on my computer to turn on some classical music—I liked having music playing in the background, although I usually didn’t actually turn it on at work because I didn’t know if other people would mind.
I always made sure it was instrumental or classical so that I didn’t ever inadvertently offend someone with whatever lyrics the music happened to have.
Personally, I like pretty much all music, whether there are words or not, whether they’re in a language I understand or not.
I like the rhythm of it, the shifts and swoops of notes and melodies, the way I can hear emotions in the sounds, regardless of the words that make them.
I did the few things I needed to for Beyond the Veil, entering a couple receipts, checking the inventory numbers, and then turned to my homework for Arcane History. I’d done well on the last paper, and I was now supposed to come up with a topic for the final paper.
I do pretty well when I’m assigned topics. I have a hard time deciding what to do when I’m given open options, though. My mind just went blank. I could make myself focus on something if it was presented to me, but I didn’t know how to choose the thing to focus on.
The first time that had happened, I’d asked Mason how to pick something. His eye had twitched a little, and then he’d told me that I had to care about something enough to want to write about it, and I hadn’t bothered asking him again.
What’s bothering you, sunshine? Sylvia asked me, floating into the lobby.
Not bothering, I answered her. Just trying to decide what to write on for my Arcane History paper.
Why not choose psychic abilities? she asked.
I blinked. Psychic abilities?
It’s something that might benefit you outside of the class, she pointed out. And I don’t think even Mason knows much about its history.
I thought about it for a second. It’s a good idea, I acknowledged. But where would I start?
Sylvia snorted. Come now, sunshine, she said. Think about that for a few seconds.
I was about to argue with her, but then realized how stupid that would sound. Fiona.
She smiled. Almost as though a librarian can help you research things…
I rolled my eyes. Thanks, Sylvia.
You’re welcome, sunshine.
The storm had passed by mid-afternoon, although it was still raining, the precipitation slow and steady and the sky still heavy and dark.
Ward had come in just after lunch, with Mason having stayed home for the rest of the day with Jackson, who had the afternoon off school.
Fiona had almost immediately replied to my email asking if she had any recommendations about the history of psychics with a list of about twenty things, which is what I’d spent the rest of the morning and lunch hour collecting from online databases.
It was a good day.
And then a very wet, very cranky Detective Dan Maza came in through the front door.
He stood on the welcome mat inside the door, dripping.
I got up and grabbed a towel from the stack Mason had left on the coffee table in the lobby for precisely this purpose.
“Thanks,” Maza said when I handed him the towel, taking the thick terrycloth and wiping his face first. “Do you have somewhere I can put this coat?” he asked me. “So I don’t completely soak the floor?”
I nodded and pointed at the coat tree we’d tucked behind the door.
The entry area was tile—unlike the rest of the lobby, which was hardwood—and had just been finished in November.
We had added the coat tree, an umbrella stand, and a thick mat for people to wipe their shoes on, and it had made a huge difference in the mud and salt on the floors during winter.
“Great,” Maza said, then paused. “Hold this?” I took the towel and the strap of a very wet messenger bag while he stripped off the coat and hung it on the rack.
His generic blue button-down had damp spots around his neck, shoulders, and cuffs, suggesting that the old black jacket wasn’t really all that waterproof anymore.
He took the towel back and ran it over his dark hair, causing it to stick out.
“Do you need Ward or Mason?” I asked him when he handed the towel back to me and took the bag, holding it away from him a little.
“Ward,” he answered with a grimace.
I nodded, then went down the hall, stopping in Ward’s office doorway. “Detective Maza is here and needs to see you,” I told him when he looked up at me.
He nodded once, then pushed himself back from his desk. “Thanks.”
I could hear the low rumble of his wheels on the wood as he headed toward the lobby while I kept going back to put the towel in the little hamper we kept in the back for things like dishtowels that Mason would take home to wash once a week.
“…know what happened,” Maza was saying as I returned to my desk.
“I can do that,” Ward replied. “Let’s go back to the conference room.” Then he paused, just past my desk. “Can you join us, Rayn?” he asked.
I blinked, startled. I’d never been asked to join in a séance before. “Um. Okay.”
“Lock the front, would you?”
I nodded, getting up to lock the front door, flipping the sign over to indicate that we were unavailable. I’d put a QR code on it that linked to our booking site, so if someone came in person, they’d still be able to reach us.
That done, I walked back down the hall to the conference room with its spectacular new table, pausing in the doorway.
Ward looked up. “Have a seat, please, Detective,” he told Maza. “You, too, Rayn.”
Confused, I nudged one of the chairs with a hip so I didn’t have to touch it with my bare hands, then sat awkwardly on the edge. I still had no idea why Ward wanted me here.
“Sylvia, would you mind joining us in person?” he asked the room. It might have sounded like he was speaking casually to the air, but I knew he’d pushed magic behind the words, summoning the Victorian ghost.
She appeared, taking form so that Maza could see her, as well. He swallowed, clearly nervous, but didn’t gasp or act otherwise alarmed.
“How might I be of assistance?” she asked.
Ward let out a long breath. “Detective Maza has asked us to speak to a hit-and-run victim,” Ward said, glancing between me and Sylvia. “His name is Odell Jones.”
We both looked back at him.
“Rayn, I was hoping you would get a picture of the scene for us.”
“Me?” I squeaked.
“Hart may have suggested to Detective Maza that he bring something belonging to the victim for you to touch.” He didn’t sound happy about it.
I didn’t ask why, although I wondered what the point of me touching it would be, since the victim could just tell Ward what had happened to him.
And, sure, people could lie, living or dead, but Ward knew when the dead ones did and could force them to tell the truth.
I had no idea what I could contribute in this particular case.
To judge from Ward’s and Sylvia’s frowns, neither did they.
“Not from the victim,” Maza said softly, and then it made sense.
He wanted to know something about the killer.
Ward’s frown had deepened with confusion.
“You have something from the killer?” Sylvia was the one who figured it out first, and Ward blew out a breath.