Page 23 of The Accidental Ghost

Shamus sighed, yanking his cap off his head and running the palm of his hand over his thick silver hair. “But—and it’s a slim but—you remember everything else leading up to the moment you died. That’s uncommon in a traumatized ghost. They can’t remember a lot of anything. Mostly it’s their name, age, where they live, but recent specifics about their lives are harder to come by. That’s what I don’t get. You remember every detail of this store, right up until you died.”

Ralph wrinkled her nose. “I guess if I had to remember anything, it’s better I remember my store than who shot a hole clear through my chest, right?”

“That’s the biggest trauma of all. When someone you know is the culprit. At least that’s been my experience with ghosts who’ve been murdered.”

“That would suck donkey balls,” Nina confirmed.

Shamus gave a brisk nod. “It can get very ugly and sometimes very sad.”

Ralph’s chest went tight. His face spanned a range of emotions, one of which was deep sorrow. “Your gift must be so stressful. You must see so much grief and heartache. It takes a special person to do what you do.”

“It’s my job.”

She wondered why he called it his job. Did he get paid to do this, and if so, by whom?

“Do you have an employer?”

He grinned. “Nope. I don’t get paid to do this. I wouldn’t take money even if it was offered. Though, if a living family member asks me to help, I suggest a donation to their favorite charity, or mine. And before you ask, Nana Ramona left me money. She wanted me to use it to support myself while I helped ghosts. To carry on her legacy.”

Nina had wandered off to another part of the store while they talked, stepping over unpacked boxes as she went. Just as Ralph was about to ask Shamus what his favorite charity was, the vampire called out.

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing with this?” she asked, unrolling a painting of Elvis on velvet and holding up a children’s book.

Ralph blinked, floating toward the vampire. “Where did you get that?”

She frowned. “The box over there by the history section. It’s got a bunch of shit in it, including this damn painting that I’ve been looking for and one of Charlie’s old books. What I wanna know is, why do you have my shit?”

Ralph floated to the box and peered inside. “These were some boxes left by the former owner. She ran a vintage thrift store. Maybe it was a donation? I must have been unpacking them when?—”

“I’m gonna kill those two knuckleheads!” Nina roared, waving the painting in the air. “Goddamn them and their bullshit ‘let’s update Nina’s house and bring it out of the dark ages’ crap. By taking all my shit and donating it, that’s how they did it—and they damn well did know this store. That’s why it looked familiar. Wait until I get my hands on those shady bitches!”

Shamus rocked back on his heels. “Welp, guess that explains your connection to Nina’s castle. At least that mystery’s solved. I don’t know why your soul would latch onto it, but at least now we know it wasn’t a random landing.”

But Ralph wasn’t listening. Her attention was drawn out the window, to the street.

Something flew up in the air and landed with a yelp and a thud. There was the roar of an engine, and then Marty and Wanda’s voices in her ears, yelling something she couldn’t clearly make out.

Ralph zipped toward the window to get a closer look, only to see Marty and Wanda surrounding whatever it was.

A feeling she’d never experienced before, one deeply embedded in her core, burst forth, burning bright and hot. Ralph didn’t know what it was, but it was desperate and urgent to the point of almost causing pain, and the feeling said she was needed.

Needed.

There couldn’t be enough emphasis on that word.

She was needed.

Chapter

Eight

Ralph floated right through the wall of the store facing the street, directly through Marty and Wanda, who had knelt in the middle of the deserted road.

Her eyes widened when she saw what they were looking at.

There lay a dog, a fluffy tan and white furbaby no bigger than her two fists combined, eyes closed, its side bleeding profusely.

No, no, no! The poor thing had been hit.

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