Page 53 of The Accidental Ghost

Looking down at the book they were reading together, she shook her head. “No, sweet boy. I’m fine. Where were we?”

But he turned to look at her, shaking his head. “No…you…you’re not telling…truth. Tell Carl…truuuth,” he insisted. “Lies are bad.”

When she remained silent, he pressed. “You are good. Good-good. Not…” He swallowed. “Not your fault. He shoot you. Drug addict,” he whispered fiercely, pointing to her chest. “You defend.”

Yes, that was true. According to the report, the police had declared Michael’s death self-defense. They hadn’t made an official announcement, but that’s what the notes in the written file said.

Yet, she couldn’t remember any of it, so how could she possibly believe that was the truth? How could she believe that after a lifetime of fearing confrontation, she’d finally found her balls, as Nina had put it?

Nodding, she agreed as Carl yawned. “You’re right, and I think it’s time for bed. You look exhausted after a day of sledding.”

His nod was slow as he closed the book and began to rise, stretching his arms upward, the duct tape on his wrists gleaming in the fire’s glow.

He rubbed at his eyes with his forearm. “Tiii…red. Yes. You okay?”

“I’m fine, Carl. Same time tomorrow?”

His smile was happy. “Yes! Tooo…morrow, we find whodunit!”

They were on the last chapter of the book and he was excited for the big reveal. “Yep. Tomorrow we find out whodunnit. Sweet dreams, Carl.”

He pressed his fingers to his mouth and blew her a kiss. “Night-night, Ralph.”

As he sauntered out of the library in his flannel pajamas, his gait slow, Ralph’s heart melted. He was the dearest boy, and she couldn’t express how fortunate she felt to have met him. To have met all of them.

The women, Darnell and Arch, were all as supportive of her killing spree as Carl was.

In fact, Marty had sternly told her killing sprees meant plural killings, and as a teacher, she’d better quit calling it that because it was absolutely false. One man had died. One, she said, her eyes full of fire.

Nina, in all her love of violence and gore, had praised her for having the balls to stand up and not be a victim. “The guy was trying to GD well rob your floaty ass, Glow Stick—with a fucking gun. You were lookin’ out. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

Wanda had vehemently agreed. She’d said sometimes you didn’t choose violence, it chose you.

But it didn’t change the dynamic of the realization. She’d never even been in a fistfight and now she’d killed someone? Talk about zero to a million.

“Ralph?” Shamus called from the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Walk?”

They’d been doing that a lot this week. Walking (well, she’d been floating), talking, fruitlessly theorizing, getting to know each other as they explored Nina and Greg’s vast property.

Shamus hadn’t kissed her again, and between fretting about the night of her murder, she intermittently hadn’t stopped thinking about that kiss, wondering if he thought he’d made a mistake.

But oh, that kiss. She’d never been kissed so thoroughly, so completely.

So perfectly.

Ralph couldn’t shake that feeling of being home when she’d been in his arms—of finally being in the right place.

As she floated through the castle at night, occasionally checking on Charlie and Carl, she relived that kiss. It was all she could do not to float right through the guest bedroom door where Shamus slept and make him kiss her again.

But was now the time to find herself insanely attracted to the Ghost Talker? Now, when she didn’t know if she had a future?

No.

She didn’t want to spend an eternity mourning an opportunity.

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