Chapter 20
Grant
The you beneath the suit.
I held the tie up to my chest, staring at the holiday flamingos in the vanity mirror. Trust Valerie to find the one thing ridiculous enough to make sense of me. How had she done it—found the perfect gift? The one I didn’t even know I needed.
Our game wasn’t a tie. Not by a long shot.
My gaze shifted over my shoulder to where she was curled up in bed, one arm flung over the pillow, hair tangled. Just the sight of her made my throat tight. In that way, you know you couldn’t possibly go back to a time from before. Where she wasn’t filling my cold, gray life with sunlight and heat.
And now I knew the truth—that I hadn't been the only one treating our made-up vows like the real thing. That simple confession replayed in my head, too real to ignore.
I turned off the overhead light, leaving the bedside lamp lit in case she woke and needed it. Then I eased onto the mattress, careful not to wake her.
The space between us lasted all of thirty seconds before she sighed and rolled into me, nestling against my shoulder as if she’d been doing it her whole life. A muffled sound escaped her, followed by a sleepy approval of my furnace-like qualities.
Delaneys were supposed to be stoic. Composed. Carved from the same ice that kept the agency running for generations. I was the first one who didn’t fit the mold, who joked too hard, took risks, and made mistakes.
Ever since Matt died, I’d been trying to sand down the rough edges and stifle the parts of me that didn’t belong. Maybe that’s why I used to hate those things in her—the noise, the brightness, the effortless perfection that I now realized wasn’t effortless at all.
Thanks to our bizarre fate, Valerie had become the second Delaney who didn’t fit.
This woman, who was controlled chaos, who loved too much, and lived life like glitter was the answer—was my wife. Even if it was an accident, and even if she’d taken this case to erase our disastrous beach wedding as if it never happened.
But what if that kiss, and the secret we'd let slip between us, hadn't been enough to convince her?
The thought knocked the breath out of me. Because if it wasn't, I realized I only had a week left to keep her.
A week wouldn’t be enough. A lifetime would just scratch the surface.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
She avoided my eyes the next morning, and even though I wanted to, I didn’t push. Whatever that kiss meant, naming it was scarier than the ghost. But every time she rambled to keep things light or used me as her personal foot warmer, it felt like trying to keep a spark from catching fire.
The next few days blurred into a strange rhythm, equal parts investigation and avoidance.
Both of us were dancing around our new dynamic.
We’d spent years as rivals, but now the grudges were stripped away, leaving only the raw truth underneath.
We weren’t enemies. And friends didn’t kiss like that.
So we did the only thing that felt safe—we focused on the ghost.
Edith stopped by to show us where the inn’s historical records were stored: the attic, packed from floor to ceiling with boxes of letters, guest ledgers, and decades of old decorations and furnishings.
It would take days to sort through it all, but if Valerie’s theory about Natalie was right, the answer we needed might be in one of these boxes.
Then the storm came, closing down the roads and burying the inn under a blanket of white.
We were snowed in—with a ghost. Which wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
Valerie had befriended our nameless poltergeist, claiming they had a bond, whatever that meant.
He didn’t talk, yet somehow they made surprisingly good charades partners during an after-dinner game.
That night, I was more aware than ever of time slipping away.
Christmas Eve was only days off, and I couldn’t tell if she wanted to kiss me again or pretend we were just two people trying not to stare.
That’s when we went back up to the attic—me, Valerie, and our silent spirit—to pick up where we’d left off.
Dust motes swirled in the weak light from a hanging bulb, the fine particles mimicking the storm outside.
Cedar and the peculiar scent of untouched things hung in the stale air.
The creaks and groans beneath our feet were man-made and not from the ghost hovering like a monolith by one of the dormer windows.
Valerie called him Mr. Snow.
I called him a third wheel in an overcoat.
“Okay, tell me again what we’re looking for,” I said, crouching to pry open a dusty box.
“Any photos or guest books from 1975 or earlier. The hauntings started around then, so I’m assuming that’s when Mr. Snow—” She cut herself off with a small grunt and tilted her head toward the ghost as if finishing her sentence might hurt his feelings.
Good. Maybe he’d take a hint and haunt the lobby.
“He knows he’s dead, Spells.”
Valerie shot me a glare over her shoulder. She looked ready for adoption; I just wanted five minutes without supervision. Which wasn’t happening anytime soon by the way he loomed, arms folded across his chest, glowing like the season’s most judgmental Christmas decoration.
So I did what any desperate man would do when the woman he cared about was slipping through his fingers. I asked a question that didn't belong in a haunted attic.
“Do you ever want kids?” I said, lobbing the question like a grenade.
“What?” She choked. Her elbow clipped a stack of boxes that wobbled dangerously until I caught them with one hand.
“Careful. You’ll end up with dissociative amnesia, and then I’ll have to pretend I’m your husband just to get you to cook for me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That is just a plot from a movie. And technically, you’re already my husband—and you cook for me.”
“What can I say? I’m a modern man.” I tossed a guestbook from the nineties back into the box, trying not to breathe in the dust. “Aren’t these the kinds of questions people ask before they get married?
” I counted them on my fingers. “Do you want kids? Which side of the bed do you prefer? Will I be killing all the spiders? You know, the basics.”
Valerie gave me a look that suggested I was the one with the metaphorical head injury. Mr. Snow nodded behind her like a creepy couples mediator.
I forced a shrug, but my pulse was doing double-time.
“Well?” I pushed, earning me the first hint of approval from the ghost. Or maybe it was just the poor lighting.
Valerie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers absently brushing her gold heart earring. A nervous tell—I’d take it.
“Yes,” she said warily. “Two kids, but not for a while. Left side of the bed. And your last question isn’t inclusive enough. You’ll be taking care of all the bugs.” She lowered her gaze, inspecting her cuticles, when she was really watching me beneath her lashes. “What about you?”
I pretended to think. “Kids are great, but I’m happy either way. The right, because someone already claimed the left. And good call, I wasn’t bug-inclusive enough. But I draw the line at anything bigger than my hand. You scream, I run, and we sell the house.”
Her grin made the attic brighter.
The ghost just examined his translucent hand, then gave me a wide-eyed look that translated as Yup. Size matters.
I dragged another box closer. This one was heavier than the last, packed with brittle ledgers and stacks of old photographs, all yellowing with age.
Valerie settled onto the floor, legs crossed, and cocked her head like a game show host. “All right, serious question: what are your feelings on fruitcake? Underrated holiday dessert or torture in a loaf pan?”
“Wow, straight to the controversial topics. Underrated for sure. It’s the mincemeat pies you have to worry about.”
She made a face. “Good point. Real tree or fake?” she asked, going for the lightning round.
I leaned over the box, voice dropping with mock seriousness. “Don’t tell anyone, but at the annual Delaney Christmas… we put up a fake tree.”
“No,” she whisper-shouted, doing her best to hold a straight face. “Isn’t that a crime against Christmas?”
“It’s true. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Only family knows the depths of our seasonal transgressions.”
“Your family sounds like the Santa mafia.”
I winked. “Don’t ask my grandmother where the bodies are buried. She’ll hand you a tumbler of cocoa and a shovel.”
Valerie laughed, the sound like an instant jolt to my chest. I could see her there, holding her ground against every frosty Delaney smile with one of her own high-wattage sunbeams until they all thawed or surrendered.
Then I’d trade the shovel for an axe and cut us a real tree, starting a new tradition. One of our own.
The light above our heads flickered, and I looked at the ghost, staring me down like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He either wanted to toss me in the frozen lake or give me a fist-bump. His expression didn’t give much away, but the twitch at his mouth made me think it was the latter.
Valerie stood, stretching onto her toes to reach a box overhead. Her fingers brushed the edge. The thing tilted, and I was up, a cold sweat breaking across my skin.
“Let me get that one.”
“You’re very helpful for a fake husband.”
“Accidental,” I corrected, sliding in behind her. “There’s a difference.”
She went still, the back of her sweater brushing my chest, the closeness wrecking what was left of my resolve.
“Oh, yeah?” she said, her voice thin. “What’s the difference then?”
“Fake implies none of it’s real.”
Her head dropped back. A shallow breath slid between her teeth. I bent closer, letting my words graze the curve of her neck.
“Careful, Spells. You’re blushing, and the ghost is watching.”
She startled, straightened, then ducked under my arm to crouch beside a wooden trunk, suddenly fascinated by a rusted lamp.
I let her retreat and pulled the box from the top of the stack, forcing my hands to stay busy.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were the whisper of paper and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
Valerie sorted through the trunk’s contents while I dusted off another ledger—its spine stamped 1975.
Finally. The leather cracked as I opened it, each page a graveyard of names and faded ink. Room numbers. Dates. Signatures.
My finger trailed down the list for December, finding Natalie Gray—Room 11, checked in from December 1st through the 26th. Beneath her name, written smaller in the margin, was another: Daniel Keene, marked as a guest for two nights at the start of her stay.
A faint draft stirred the page, catching it in a phantom wind as if urging me to look beyond it.
When I peered back into the box, I found a small stack of photographs—faded color prints, their edges curled and yellowed with time.
Guests in velvet and wool posed in the banquet hall before an immense stone fireplace.
The ten-foot tree glittered nearby, mistletoe hanging above the mantel's gilt mirror.
One photograph stopped me cold.
I recognized Natalie Gray from the article Valerie had printed at the library. She stood beneath the mirror, a man's arm looped around her waist, his face unmistakably the ghost’s. Across the back, in scrawled ink, it read: December 3rd, 1975.
I looked up.
The ghost met my gaze and gave the smallest nod.
Mr. Snow had a name.
The photo reminded me of the one Valerie and I had taken at the luau, our heads bent close together, looking like a couple instead of two people pretending to be civil. It was a shame that was the only photo of us. Something that had started as a game had somehow ended up feeling real.
Real, like the couple in this photo.
A faint shimmer caught my eye. I looked down as the signet ring on my finger—Delaney crest and all—flared with a muted glow. The ghost’s gaze dropped to it, then back to me, his expression steady but weighted, as if he’d just handed me the answer without saying a word.
A ring. Maybe that’s why he was still here.
Before I could call Valerie over, she thumped the trunk lid shut, a puzzled look on her face. A cream-colored envelope dangled from her fingers.
“Grant,” she said, “this was in the trunk. It’s from the resort. I think it’s the last couples challenge card.”
Something heavy dropped in my stomach. “They do have a knack for appearing in strange places. Why not a trunk in an attic?”
If I told her about the ghost now, she’d be too distracted to focus on whatever was in the card. She might even decide not to do the challenge—and I wanted to. The first one had broken down a wall between us. Maybe this one could build a bridge.
I glanced at the ghost. His gaze traveled from me to the ledger before he slowly mimed zipping his lips.
A coconspirator emerges.
I snapped the ledger closed as he faded into the shadows. Whatever truth he wanted me to find could wait until tomorrow.
“All right,” I said, turning to her. “I think we’re done searching for the night. What’s the exercise this time?”