“Not funny.”
Her tendency to crack wise, even in times of discomfort, sometimes went beyond couth. This was one of them. “Sorry. No fire-side songs. Okay, so here’s the thing—we’ve been here for two hours and nothing. I’m all about moving forward, and that’s what we need to do here. You torched this place, there’s not a lot left but a shell. I doubt we’re going to find anything that helps us in this blackened Cajun-style mess. So let’s go, okay?” She held out her hand to him, hoping to offer some comfort. His eyes held a million emotions behind his glasses, and he made no effort to hide them. “I say we go talk to the one lone neighbor you have over there in the north forty and see what he knows. He has to know something. An explosion this big had to have caught his attention. Now, c’mon,” she coaxed when Clyde made no move to step over the heap he was almost knee-deep in.
“Hypotenuse.”
“What?” She gave him a bewildered stare, twisting a strand of her hair in her fingers.
“My cat. He was in the house with me, probably upstairs in his cat condo sound asleep. I know it’s ridiculous three and a half months later, but I hoped to . . .”
Her heart clenched into a tight fist even in the bone-numbing cold of North Dakota. “Find him.”
“Yep.”
“Maybe he was outside when it happened and he wandered off.” One could hope. Delaney knew it was futile, but she offered the words of comfort anyway. She was all about realism for the most part, and facing the truth—well, except when it came to Clyde’s theory that she wasn’t living her life to the fullest because she was afraid of rejection—but now just wasn’t the time for harsh realisms.
His lips thinned in apparent disagreement, the rustle of his hair against the collar of his thrift store down coat clear. “Hypotenuse was an indoor cat. He wouldn’t know how to survive if he got out of this anyway—especially when it’s this cold out. If I even opened the door to suggest that he indulge in outdoor sport, he gave me the look and headed straight for the comfort of my bed.”
Shit. She blew warmth into her cupped hands. “I’m sorry, Clyde. Believe me, I understand how you feel.” And she did. She loved her furbabies, probably more than what some would term normal. But she loved them, and when they shipped off to the other side, it still hurt.
“I know you do.”
She tugged at his sleeve with a gentle yank. “C’mon. Let’s go see the neighbor and then go back to the hotel. I bet there’s a 7-Eleven on the way. I’ll buy you a banana Slurpee. My treat. Whaddya say?”
Clyde’s smile was vague when he finally focused on her again. “Now I know you feel bad if you’re willing to spend your hard-earned money for all that sugar just for me. You wear sympathetic and sensitive well, ghost lady.” He took her hand and led her out of what used to be his basement.
Once outside, the cold air filled her lungs, almost stealing her breath away. It was buttfuck cold in North Dakota, yet the sweet, unsullied air cleansed her mind, leaving behind the scene of Clyde’s death added to that calm. She slid behind the wheel of their rented car while a distracted Clyde handed her the keys and took the passenger side.
After checking in with Kellen to ensure he was still safe, Delaney drove the half mile or so to Clyde’s neighbor’s in thoughtful silence. Not having found anything in that mess he’d once called home left her desolate for him. If they didn’t figure this out soon, his pass from Hell would expire. They’d come for him when he didn’t show up with her death on his hands.
Bad shit would go down.
She refused to let any more bad shit happen to him.
Pulling to a stop in his neighbor’s long driveway, she was grateful for some scattered landscaping lights. It wasn’t just buttfuck cold here—it was buttfuck dark, too. Turning to Clyde, still brood ingly silent, she said, “You stay here. Don’t move. Don’t even think about getting out of this car. If someone saw you, they’d shit a whole chicken coop. Got that?”
His laughter caught her off guard. It was filled with bitter regret. “They probably wouldn’t know me if they saw me. Like I said, I didn’t make an effort much.”
The hand that reached out to comfort him had a will of its own, curling around his shoulder with sympathy. “I know, but we can’t take a chance. You stay here—I’ll be right back.”
“What’re you going to say to them?”
Delaney shoved open the door of the rental car, looking over her shoulder at him. “It’ll go like this. Heeeey, I’m Delaney Markham—Clyde Atwell’s spirit guide. You know, the guy who splattered himself all over parts near and far here in your fine state of North Dakota? I need your help . . .”