Page 13 of Ghostridden
She sat down across from me, folding her hands on the table. “I didn’t arrange a cleaning service.”
I just stared at her. “But the house was clean. Could someone else have arranged it? Carson? He did show up when I arrived. Maybe he has a key, or the code to the garage.” Although if he had, why hadn’t he told me so when he’d met me on the porch? “Since Avi was his cousin, maybe he’s been taking care of the place.”
She shook her head. “Yes, they were cousins, but they weren’t close. Carson resented Avi for… well, never mind why, but Avi would never have entrusted a key to Carson.”
“Ricky, then,” I said, a little wildly, because I didnotlike where this conversation was going. “He keeps the outside pristine. And he knows his way around a lock. He could have gotten inside…”
Except Ricky had been just as surprised at the state of the house as I’d been. Unless he was a really good actor. Plus, he said he knew how to change the garage door code.
But Taryn shook her head again. “He wouldn’t come inside, not without an invitation.”
“Then who? Damn it, Taryn, somebody came into my house while I was asleep and vandalized it. They could have vandalized me too, because I never heard them.Somebodydid it, because I certainly didn’t.”
She nodded slowly. “Maz, have you wondered why this town is called Ghost?”
I reared back in my chair, causing Gil to dig his claws through my jeans and into my leg. “No. No no no no no.” Jeez, I sounded like the mysterious typewriter message. “I amnotliving in a haunted house. I wasnotvandalized by a freakingghost!”
“Then how else can you explain it?”
“I don’t know.” My eyes were probably bugging out of my head by this time. “A conspiracy? Maybe everyone in town is in on it, trying to drive me away so the other heirs can take possession. I mean, the will was contested, right?”
“Both of them. There are still issues that have to be resolved, which we can go over at my office as soon as you’ve got your feet under you here, but those aren’t related to anyone who lives in Ghost.”
“I don’t care. This is reality. Reality is… concrete. It’s finite. It hasrules. And those rules don’t include freakingghostspopping out of the freakingbeyondto trash my freakinghouse!”
She reached across the table and laid her hand over mine, which was clutching the edge of the table as though I were Kate Winslet and it was the only thing keeping me from going down with theTitanic.
“Maz, it’s not that bad.”
“No?” I jerked my hand out from under hers and jabbed a finger toward her. “Then you’re saying this whole thing is an elaborate prank? Because I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve alwaysdespisedApril Fool’s Day, and besides, that was two weeks ago.”
“It’s not a prank or a practical joke.” Her smile was almost incandescent. “What it is, I think, is the thing that will save the town and put Ghost back on the map.”
I crumpled, dropping my forehead against the table.“No no no no no no no no no.” Yeah, the typewriter knew what it was talking about.
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to invite a couple of people over to meet you and see this.”
I rolled my head enough that I could glare at her out of one eye. “See what? Me having a nervous breakdown?”
“No. The library. The typewritten message. The house.” She ducked so she could meet my gaze. “I think it will help. I promise.”
What other option did I have? Move back to Portland for another round of couch surfing? Gil had hated that. Pretend like nothing was happening, and wait for the other shoe to drop and the destruction to escalate? I’d seenAmityville Horror. I knewthatwouldn’t end well.
But if I was thinking about horror movies, I’d probably crossed the threshold into provisional paranormal believer. Might as well lean into it.
“Who you gonna call?”
“One of my dads. Saul Pasternak. He’s the executive director of Richdale Manor, Ghost’s answer to the Winchester Mystery House.” She smiled wryly. “And Patrice DeHaven. It’s time to pull in the experts.”
Saul Pasternak was a tanned, rangy man with a shock of snowy hair, a beak of a nose, and the gentlest smile I’d ever seen. He looked just like Sam Waterston inGrace & Frankie, and since I’d always loved that actor, he set me at ease immediately.
Patrice DeHaven, on the other hand? Pale as a…well, ghost, with a wrist-thick salt-and-pepper braid hanging between her prominent shoulder blades? I’m not sure shecouldsmile. Not that she seemed angry or menacing or disapproving. Focused, that was the professor. Intense. But while she didn’t preciselyrelaxme like Saul did, I never got the feeling she was trying to snow me, either. She didn’t have an ounce of New Age woo-woo about her. Actually, she reminded me a little of Egon Spengler, Harold Ramis’s character fromGhostbusters.Serious about the work, you know?
Even if the work was something I still had major doubts about.
I sat on the front stairs, Gil on my lap, while Saul and Patrice surveyed the library. They’d photographed the whole placethoroughly first, then started picking through the book carnage, speaking to one another in low voices. Saul jotted things on a tablet as Patrice picked up each book and set it back on a shelf based on some criteria she didn’t share with me. She was also gathering the scattered pages ofBorderline, the destroyed Fields book, slotting them into page number order and stacking them neatly on the desk.
Taryn emerged from the kitchen and handed me a steaming cup. I sniffed at the steam. “What’s this?”
