Page 14 of His to Haunt

I turn to walk away.

“Yes, he is.” Her voice is as certain as it is annoying.

I puff out air, stopping in the door frame and facing her with my finger on the light switch.

“Okay, why do you say that?” I sigh.

“I can see him,” she says with an attitude to match mine.

“Huh?”

She’s looking behind me, and I quickly turn around, my heart thudding as chills hit my arms.

“I don’t think so,” I say reflexively, motioning into the dark hall. I slide my hand along the paneling until I find the switch, flicking it upward. No light. Downward. Light comes on. Another landlord’s special.

Confirming that there’s nobody, I shake my head, laughing at myself. I’ve fallen victim to one of her delusions.

“See?” I say, palms in the air. I’m trying to convince her as much as myself.

I locked the doors downstairs, but part of me wonders if Zand still has access, as entitled as he seems. Then I remind myself that Stacy said all outside door locks were changed once the will was enacted.

“He’ll be back,” she mutters, putting the necklace on the nightstand before settling into her pillow, which is covered with one of her tee shirts. The dusty looking, crumpled yellow pillowcase is tossed on the floor.

“Guess we better do laundry tomorrow,” I mutter.

I don’t want to tell her that it’s just her condition playing tricks on her. But she practically came here expecting to see ghosts—Rachel’s fault, at least in part.

Mom kept in touch with Rachel over the years, exchanging gifts, cards, and emails. Rachel would promise to visit but then never would. Said she had trouble getting away from work. This house. This funeral home was her work. Mom planned a few visits to stay with her here in Chicago, but Rachel alwayscanceled on her. But still, they would write to each other, and Mom had mentioned once that Rachel said she was bothered by a ghost. Said she was having trouble sleeping.

Poor, poor Rachel.

Maybe living in this place got the best of her in multiple ways. My stomach pits. The psychologist in me tries to push away the sinking feeling that I’ve boarded the same water-bloated ship, like I will never escape my sister’s shadow as if twins in doom.

Dark Beauty

Zand

Code one-eighty-seven.

Violent crimes are most likely to happen at night. Murder occurs about every thirty seconds, peaking at midnight. Knowing this is one reason I don’t sleep well. I go to bed well after the witching hour but worry I’m missing out.

I always have one ear on the HAM radio, jolting out of bed when triggering codes like 804 (homicide), 3 (shooting or stabbing), and 859 (fugitive) ring out like a dark melody cutting through the eerie silence of the night.

It’s a matter of getting to the location quickly enough. When a scene is far out, and speed is of the essence, I take the Camaro.

When local, I take the van. The van is less conspicuous and looks more professional, mimicking the official camera crews that eventually show up if the incident qualifies as newsworthy in a preferably safe location rather than gangland turf.

Evidently, tonight’s crime scene doesn’t meet the standard because the van that shows up after me at 2 a.m. is a stringer. No labels printed across it, just a plain white van. Not Tim’s plates.

My Camaro got here first, but I am taking more risks with this one.

It’s further from the last accident, but coincidentally, it’s spitting distance to Rocco’s. If he shows up again, it might get dangerously awkward. He might decide I’ve finally seen too much. Maybe he’s itching to use his illegal bullets. Silver with a wooden core is all the rave these days.

My gums itch, thinking about what I’d like to do to him after he pulls his revolver on me. Then again, tearing into him won’t do me any favors. He’s got more enemies than allies, but I don’t want attention from him either. I loathe their kind of petty politics.

I pull out my camera just as another van pulls up, a blue and white label scrolling across the side—some small-time news agency.

Now comes the race. But where the hell is the body?

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