Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
When her phone buzzes the next morning, Frannie’s already staring at the ceiling. She can hear Jonathan or Gretchen bumbling around in the kitchen. They’re just two more in a long line of rotating roommates. Frannie usually likes it that way. No muss, no fuss, each to their own.
But on a day like today, it might be nice to have someone she could tell about the little ghost girl before she goes back to work. Not that anyone would believe her. She’s not even sure she believes herself. It was probably just exhaustion. A daydream gone wildly wrong.
Frannie pushes thoughts of little ghost girls and hauntings away and thumbs her phone open to a text from Henry: New pages are ready.
It’s not even nine AM. The man doesn’t sleep.
Frannie groans, but at least jumping out of bed to go transcribe Henry’s pages isn’t obsessing over whether she’s lost her mind. Henry’s traveling for two whole months starting this afternoon. She’ll have plenty of time to wonder about her sanity then.
She pulls on jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt, with a cardigan she’ll dither about all day in the “Perfect New York September Weather” her mother constantly reminds her to enjoy.
She heads into the kitchen, spotting Jonathan pacing in the living room, his breath steamer held to his face.
His dark curly hair is sticking up every which way, and every few seconds he hums into his phone.
Must be time for the weekly check-in. Apparently, his doctor parents in Minneapolis aren’t that thrilled to have their son pursuing an acting career. His brother is also a doctor, and already married with a baby on the way.
Something hits Frannie’s nose and she tries not to wince.
Her other roommate likes to banish her bad days with sage and petty breakroom theft.
Predictably, Frannie spots a battered bakery box Gretchen must have secreted out of her newsroom on her way home at some ungodly hour.
Frannie could do without the pungent smoke, but she’ll happily take stolen baked goods.
She reaches for a crunchy glazed donut and leans back against the aggressively golden oak cabinets. Combined with the black granite countertop and black tiled floor, the kitchen looks like something out of a bad suburban showroom. But at least there’s a dishwasher.
“S’there coffee?”
She looks up and finds Gretchen leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, swimming in a massive tie-dye hoodie over her leggings. Her shoulder-length brown hair is still mussed from sleep, the circles under her eyes dark, cheeks a little ashen.
“How late were you at work?” Frannie asks, nodding toward the pot of coffee Jonathan must have made earlier.
“Three,” Gretchen mumbles, shuffling into the kitchen to pour herself a cup. Which she drinks black, knocking it back like a shot.
“Is it a little fun, at least?” Frannie wonders.
Gretchen slides into the booth on the far side of the kitchen with a second cup.
“I got a line on the tickertape about changes to Santa Con planning,” she says with a shrug, followed by a massive yawn.
“And they’re going to start letting me into pitch meetings for the morning and late-night shows, to pitch the ‘Gen Z perspective.’ ”
Gretchen’s work at News 18 has mostly been fluff or scut so far. It’s good they’re giving her more to do, even if it might be grudgingly.
“Cool,” Frannie says, then racks her brain for another topic of conversation. But all she’s got is, Oh, hey, met a ghost child yesterday. And that’s a nonstarter.
“There’s a flea market on Eighth Avenue a couple weeks from now, if you wanna go?” Gretchen asks, a little fast.
Frannie startles, surprised. “Sure?”
It’s not that they don’t talk, but they rarely hang out.
“My therapist says I need to start treating New York like a place I live, not just a place I sleep and work,” Gretchen says. “She wants me to plan things to look forward to with … friends.” She glances at Frannie before looking down into her coffee.
It’s awkward, and uncomfortable, but Frannie’s secretly glad Gretchen asked. Bridging the “we’re roommates, but not friends,” barrier is tough, and she’d all but given up on it multiple roommates ago.
“My mom says the same thing,” Frannie admits, which makes Gretchen smile.
“Is it pathetic they’re trying to set us up on playdates?” Gretchen asks.
“A little,” Frannie says honestly. They both laugh.
Gretchen glances up at the microwave clock. “I should shower. Just enough time to stare into the abyss before my eleven o’clock pitch meeting.”
She gets up and ambles back toward her room, leaving Frannie to finish packing her bag and get back to her … supremely haunted workplace. She waves to Jonathan on the way out, receiving a grimacing smile and a muffled, “Yes, Mom, I know,” in reply.
The subway from the 145th Street station down to 72nd is crowded, but the walk from Broadway to 72nd and Central Park West is easily the worst part of her commute.
There’s no opportunity to enjoy the changing leaves or crisp fall air with the whipping wind that gusts up the wide avenue from the park, sharp and painful in the early morning. A good hair day is next to impossible.
Ducking into the alley driveway alongside the massive Dakota Building is a relief. She’s almost glad to take the staff entrance, just to skip the extra half block to the main gate.
Frannie nods to Jose in the security booth on her way in.
“Four letters, little fight?” he asks, glancing at her over the edge of his morning paper.
“Spat?” Frannie hazards.
“That’s it. Thanks, Frannie,” he says, brown eyes twinkling between the paper and the lip of his blue doorman’s cap.
He buzzes her in and Frannie smiles, pushing through the second massive dark wood security door. The walk down to the staff elevator is quiet, the ride up uneventful.
She drops her backpack by the desk in her “office” and peers around, looking for any ghostly visitors. As far as she can tell, she’s alone: just her, the stuffy air, and Henry’s pages, already waiting for her on the corner of her desk.
In the absence of being visibly haunted, her frustration rises fast. She’s supposed to be succeeding under Henry’s tutelage.
The first year as his assistant was all grunt work, but the second two—she should be a client of his literary agent by now.
She should have a book deal. A short story in an anthology.
Something. But he keeps insisting on approving anything she wants to send out, and he never does.
Maybe she should just quit and get a real-person job to pay the bills, like Jonathan has, working reception at a yoga studio.
But then she spends the next two hours typing up Henry’s pages, and dammit, she wants to know how this book turns out. She’s still quietly awestruck that she gets to read Henry’s work before anyone else. Before even Maribel sees it. Frannie’s the first.
If only she could divine his secrets to write something of her own that’s this good.
“Do you think John will be disinherited?”
Frannie jolts in her chair. Slowly, she swivels to look into the other half of the closet, and finds Bridgette standing there in her yellow dress, looking almost entirely solid, but for the barely perceptible halo around her little body.
So much for pretending ghosts aren’t real. It would be terrifying, if Bridgette wasn’t so cute and nonthreatening. Though maybe that’s just Bridgette luring her in?
“Who’s going to be what?” Frannie asks, attempting to appear unruffled.
“The protagonist,” Bridgette insists, pointing to Henry’s pages. “Do you think his grandfather’s going to disinherit him for pursuing the article?”
Frannie just stares at the little ghost girl. “How much of the book have you read?”
“Everything so far. He’s writing this one much faster than the last one. I can’t even bring the pages back to Michael and Mom.”
“Michael and who?” Frannie asks, but Bridgette’s not really listening, walking closer to look at the transcription.
Her little shoulder brushes against Frannie’s. It barely feels like anything, except for a faint tingling, like a small static shock.
“Your typing’s getting faster too,” Bridgette observes.
Frannie fights a shiver. “How often do you watch me type?”
Has this little ghost girl been spying on her the whole time she’s worked for Henry? And why? It’s not like she’s interesting. Surely ghosts have better things to do?
“Mostly when you play your writing playlist. I like the Noah Kahan guy,” Bridgette says.
Frannie can’t help but laugh, her shoulders relaxing. “I like him too.”
“You wanna see something cool?” Bridgette asks.
This is the beat in a horror movie where the ingenue should make the smart choice. Should say no. Should refuse to engage with the ghostly apparition and pretend life is normal.
But what’s the point of working in a haunted building if Frannie doesn’t follow the ghosts?
“Um, sure,” Frannie says, going to push her chair back.
Bridgette grabs the back of the chair to help, and Frannie slides almost across the room. Bridgette giggles and the lights flicker.
“How is it I’ve never seen you in here before?” Frannie wonders, tucking “poltergeist powers?” into her brain to ponder later.
Bridgette places her hand on Frannie’s laptop, which promptly disappears. Frannie gasps and Bridgette grins over at her.
“It’s easy,” she says, then lifts her hand off the laptop, which immediately pops back into visible reality. She skips to the door. “Now come on.”
“Yeah, easy,” Frannie mumbles. It’s not like Bridgette’s entire existence upends Frannie’s understanding of the world or anything.
Frannie steels herself, staring at her laptop. Curiosity killed the cat. But satisfaction brought it back. If she goes with Bridgette, who knows what could happen.
No matter what, it’s got to be better than staying in the storage closet typing up Henry’s book.
“Are you coming, or what?”
Frannie looks out at Bridgette, fidgeting in the hallway. “I’m coming.”