Page 5 of Ghosted AF
Despite his bravado, fear and anxiety poured off him in concentrated waves, the scent stinging my nose and eyes. A visible tremble vibrated his small frame from the tips of his soggy hair to the soles of his bare feet, making me think his spatula waving had been purely reactionary.
Honestly, he looked like a drenched puppy—a little sad, kind of pathetic, but still pretty cute—and some of my previous irritation faded.
“Maybe we should start at the beginning,” I suggested, motioning toward the living room. “Why don’t we sit down, and you can tell me what happened?”
He considered me for a moment before bobbing his head. “Yeah, okay, but if things start flying around the room again—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Fine.” He led the way to the living room but paused next to the sagging sofa, seemingly confused about what to do next. “I’m wet.”
I had the most insane urge to laugh, but I bit back the impulse and gentled my tone. “You should probably change into some dry clothes before we talk.”
“That makes sense.” His tone suggested the idea hadn’t crossed his mind, and he still didn’t move.
“Rylee,” I said, letting a hint of authority seep into my voice. “Go change.”
Some people responded well to clear orders, while others bristled at being told what to do. Thankfully, Rylee seemed to fall into the former category. With a confused little jerk of his head, he turned and disappeared down the shadowed hallway without a word.
While I waited, I settled down in the middle of the sofa and observed the room. An odd assortment of trinkets littered the floor, having likely fallen from the shelves on either side of the television. A couple articles of clothing from a nearby hamper had been strewn about the room.
There was a red splatter on the far wall, tomato sauce from the uneaten lasagna on the coffee table if I had to guess. The tarnished fork on the carpet beneath the stain also supported that theory.
My eyes strayed to the new smoke detector next to the pasta, then flickered to the canvas tool bag on the floor. The name embroidered on the front matched the one Rylee had shouted at what he believed to be a ghost.
Some of the puzzle pieces started to click into place.
A few minutes later, Rylee shuffled back into the living room, dressed in a pair of royal blue basketball shorts and a faded gray tee. It appeared he had at least tried to run a towel over his hair, causing the strands to stick out in soft spikes all over his head.
When he came to join me on the sofa, I moved to the end to give him some space, but he plopped down in my vacated seat, so close his arm brushed against mine.
“Who is Mykal?” I asked, gesturing toward the tool bag.
“The maintenance guy.”
“You said his name earlier,” I prodded when he didn’t continue.
“Yes.”
I gritted my teeth and breathed through my impatience. “You think Mykal is the one causing the disturbance?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It makes sense, though.”
For the love of everything dark and unholy, trying to get anything out of the guy was like pulling teeth. “What makes you think that?”
In answer, he just dipped his head toward the bag on the floor as he waved a hand around in a sort of vague indication of the room.
I was going to throttle him.
“When did the disturbance start?”
“Not long after I got home. I was sitting down to eat, and the television just spazzed out for no reason.”
Okay, now we might be getting somewhere.
“Walk me through what happened after you got home.”
Brow furrowed, eyes unfocused, he chewed the corner of his bottom lip as he thought about it. “Well, there was a note on my door when I got home about the smoke detector, which I thought meant someone had already installed it.” He pointed to the device as he spoke. “When I came in, though, I found it sitting right there, and Mykal’s bag was on the floor.”
