Page 4 of Spooked
“No, I’m not interested in her.” Ghost replies. “Not the way you’re thinking.” He leans against a bookshelf. "She's not what I expected."
"What do you mean?"
He shrugs. "Just an observation."
I narrow my eyes at him. Ghost doesn't make casual observations. "Explain."
"Most journalists who come here are looking for the monster angle. The ones who want to make their careers off 'exposing' the freak show." His expression doesn't change, but his voice hardens slightly. "She looks at this place...differently. Like she sees what you built, not what you're hiding."
“You learned that just from showing her to the blue room? That’s a reach,” I mutter, turning back to the window. Rain streaks down the glass like tears.
He shrugs.
I hate when he pulls that I-secretly-know-things bullshit.
He knows the phantom mask I wear isn't just for show—it's my armor against the world. The left side of my face tells a story I don't want strangers reading. Five surgeries later, and I still look like I went ten rounds with a flamethrower. The scars continue down my neck, across my shoulder, and along my left arm. It’s a road map of the day I dove on top of an IED to shield my unit.
They call me a hero. I call it survival.
"Wolfe, the magazine spread will be good for business," Dev reminds me, ever the pragmatist. The desk creaks as they shift their weight. "Their readership is exactly our demographic."
"I know." I do know. It's the only reason I agreed to this. Marsden Manor isn't just my home, it's my livelihood and the livelihood of everyone who works here. "But I set boundaries for a reason."
"Which we'll enforce," Ghost assures me. "But she's still stuck here tonight."
"Fine." I straighten my shoulders. "I'll lay low until tomorrow."
Dev and Ghost exchange a look I choose to ignore. A portrait of my grandfather frowns down at me from above the mantelpiece.
"What?" I demand.
"Dinner," Dev says. "Howie says we’re having venison stew. Unless you want to hide in your room like a sulking teenager?"
I glare at them both. "I'm not hiding. I'm avoiding an unwanted guest."
"Same difference," Ghost murmurs.
"Whatever, let’s eat at seven," I concede reluctantly. "And tell Howie to behave himself. I don't need him telling her all of our secrets because she bats her eyelashes at him."
Dev snorts. "Howie would sell all our secrets for a new fog machine, no eyelash-batting required."
Despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch toward a smile.
My crew is more family than staff. They’re the only people I trust completely. After my injury, when I couldn't bear the pitying looks from my former friends, these four misfits found me. Or I found them. Either way, we built something here that matters.
"I should check on the west wing," I say, moving toward the door.
"Already done," Ghost says. "Lee's handling it."
Of course he is. Lee Novak has been taking care of this property since before I was born. He worked for my grandfather, and now me. The man probably knows the mansion better than it knows itself.
"Okay, then." I drum my fingers against my thigh, restless energy building. The carved wooden moldings around the door seem to shift in the firelight, the faces hidden in the design watching me in my discomfort. "I'll be in the workshop."
"Wolfe," Dev's voice stops me at the door. "She's just doing her job. Try not to terrify her too much before the photoshoot."
"I don't terrify people," I growl.
Ghost actually laughs at that—a rare sound that echoes off the high ceiling. "Tell that to the college kid who nearly went catatonic in the Hall of Shadows last Halloween."
