Page 15 of Ghostridden
She cocked an eyebrow. “You’d rather believe you slept throughlivingpeople slinging books around the house and tromping up and down stairs while you snored through the whole thing?”
I shivered. “Don’t. I hate that idea, but I’m not sure having a ghost perp is any better. Maybe worse.” I sighed. “I shouldn’t complain, because”—I spread my hands, my tea sloshing a little in the cup—“I’ve got a freakinghouse.” I slanted a glance at her. “I don’t suppose Uncle Oren left me any actual cash for its upkeep? Or my upkeep, for that matter?”
She grimaced. “That’s one of the things that’s still in contention, although it dates back to Avi’s estate rather than Oren’s specifically. Avi was a writer.”
I nodded. “Ricky told me.”
“There’s a lawsuit outstanding involving one of his books, and until it’s settled, his royalties are frozen.”
“Any idea how soon that could happen?”
She waggled her hand until Gil batted at it to get her to return to her most important duty—petting him. “Hard to tell. It’s complicated.”
“In that case, I need to find some work.”
“What do you do?”
I squinted at her. “Don’t laugh.”
“You know the best way to get somebody to laugh? Tell them not to.”
“Fine.” I huffed out a breath. “I’m a ghostwriter.”
She wanted to laugh. I could tell by the way her eyes crinkled when she pressed her lips together. But she managed to control herself. “Any particular genre?”
I shrugged. “Nothing too technical. I’m not your guy if you’re writing a treatise on nuclear physics. But fiction, memoir, self-help, anything that relies on narrative clarity and basic research rather than in-depth scientific knowledge. I can match anyone’s voice. Or give them one if they can’t locate their own with a microscope.”
“Hmmm.” She set her cup on the stairs and pulled her phone out of her blazer pocket, despite Gil being draped across her legslike a hairy ginger throw rug. She swiped an app and thumbed something faster than I could touch-type on my laptop. “There.”
“There what?”
“I posted your profile on Ghostline.”
“Ghostline?”
“Town chat room. If anyone has a job, or knows someone who has a job, or knows someone whoknowssomeone who has a job, they’ll get in touch.” She bumped her shoulder with mine. “We might be a small town, but we can network like nobody’s business, and the internet is everywhere.”
“Thanks, but I might not be able to wait for the word to spread. If I don’t get something soon, I’ll—”
Her phone beeped. She smirked at me and held it up. “Three responses already. That soon enough for you?”
I had to laugh. “Thanks. It’s still not a done deal, though. I’ll need to talk to them about the projects, see if I’m right for them. I’ve got one possibility in the pipeline, but I really don’t want to accept it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a terrible book. This guy is convinced that his memoir will be a best seller, but he’s one of the most boring people I’ve ever met. Not even I can make his life sound interesting. And when the book tanks—and it will—I’ll get the blame and my professional rep will take another hit.”
“Then don’t take it.”
I pointed at her phone. “Despite your efforts, things take time and I must keep Gil in the style to which he’s become accustomed. Oh, and I might need to eat too.”
She screwed up her face. “Hmmm.” Then she looked at the two people in the library. “Hey, Dad?”
Saul looked up. “Yes, dear?”
“Weren’t you planning to write up Thaddeus’s story for the museum?”
“Yes, but I haven’t found the time.”
