“I can’t omit what wasn’t there in the first place.”
He took one hand off the steering wheel to rub between his eyes. “But he was there.”
“I didn’t know that until today.”
“What was different about today?”
“I told him to take a hike, and he stuck the meat clever into the wall.”
“You talk to imaginary folks a lot?”
“He wasn’t imaginary.”
“You didn’t know that when you talked to him.”
Now I rubbed my head. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth?”
I considered it, but only for a second. I knew better than to tell anyone about the ghosts. I hadn’t even told Jenn. I wasn’t going to start with Bobby Doucet.
“Why are you questioning me like I did something wrong? I was attacked in my own home by a man who already killed someone.”
“And if I could question him about it I would. You’re all I got.”
“I’m not going to be much help. I don’t know him. I have no idea why he tried to kill me.”
“Twice.”
“Twice,” I agreed. “Though his failing the first time probably explains the second.”
Bobby gave a half snort, half laugh. “You don’t seem very concerned.”
“Should I be?”
“Someone tried to kill you.”
“Twice. But he’s dead. I’m not. All done.” I frowned. “Isn’t it?”
“Depends on why he was doing it.”
“What difference does it make? He isn’t going to be able to try again from a grave.” Though he might come back and ghost-try it and wouldn’t that be swell?
I’d researched all types of hauntings. Considering my life, wouldn’t you?
In a residual haunting great trauma caused negative energy to be blasted into the aura, air, atmosphere—whatever—and the event imprinted itself on that location, then was reenacted over and over. In those cases the specters are not aware the event is being reenacted, and they have no interaction with the living. Think of it like a short video that plays over and over and over.
Residuals are considered harmless hauntings. Though having that huge, scary guy become a ghost and try to kill me again and again would be as creepy as he was. Even knowing that he couldn’t hurt me, that the loop would never change, that the result—me safe, him dead—would only repeat itself wasn’t as soothing as it should be.
There was always the chance that the maniac would become an interactive haunting, which meant he would be able to speak with me, perhaps even touch me like the lady on Avenue B. I wasn’t in the mood. Therefore I needed to discover why the man had tried to cleave my head, if only to be able to put him to rest if he wasn’t.
“I suppose he can’t kill you from the grave,” Bobby said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “How far is this place?”
“Not much farther. You think he will try it again from the grave?”
Did Bobby Doucet believe in ghosts? He was from New Orleans, which I’d heard tell was the most haunted city in America. One of the reasons I’d never visited. What kind of vacation would a place like that be for a woman like me?
“What?” He glanced at me. “No. The dead don’t come back.”
I managed not to snort. But he was a detective. He heard it anyway. Though he peered through the windshield, it felt as though he were peering at me.
We’d turned onto a two-lane highway, which had once been asphalt but due to too many years, too many winters, and too many trucks was now closer to gravel. His rental wasn’t built for it and fishtailed if he went too fast. Which meant anything over forty-five.
“You’re sure there’s a restaurant down this road?”
“Why else would we be on it?”
His lips quirked, and my cheeks heated. The curse of being fair skinned. I had long envied those with darker complexions—not that there were any in New Bergin—but we did have television. Women with lovely olive skin did not go red and blotchy over a smirk and the hint of a make-out session at the end of a deserted forest path. Luckily it was dark, and I doubted he could see my blush.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.
“I keep an open mind.”
Very open. The ghosts waltzed in and out and back in again.
His face hardened. He looked almost angry, his reaction completely out of line with the subject. “The dead don’t come back,” he repeated. “Anyone who says so is a liar. Probably a thief and a charlatan too.”
“Thief and charlatan?” I repeated. “I don’t follow.”
“Preying on the grief of the living, taking money for it. Telling people that their departed loved ones have a message for them.” His fingers tightened on the wheel. “Charlatans, thieves, and liars.”
I’d read about those who used their gift for gain. Some were charlatans, but others weren’t. As I couldn’t admit to what I heard, what I knew, who I was, that made me a charlatan of sorts too.