“Nothing more than my name so far.”
I snapped the notepad shut and took a good long look at him from head to toe. “Based on your face and body, I’d say you’re not out of your twenties. The clothes you died in are the clothes you’re wearing now, and that makes it a little harder to figure out what you did for a living.”
Michael wore a modest attire: a black button up shirt with the sleeves tucked back, dark blue jeans with a chain hanging off the back pocket, and black Timberland boots. The reason ghosts wore clothes was that their souls retained a self-image. Since human beings wore clothes at nearly all times, it was only natural that the way they saw themselves as spirits was represented that way as well. The fact that he had feet was what threw me off the most, which explained why I hadn’t recognized him as dead sooner. I made a note of his wristwatch and the silver chain with a small padlock around his neck before moving on.
“By the way, how did you know you were a poltergeist instead of just a ghost?”
Michael shrugged. “Well, think about it. The definition of ‘poltergeist’ is ‘noisy ghost.’ I figured that’s what made me different from a regular ghost since in most legends and stories, they can’t touch stuff.”
That actually sort of made sense. Hell, I’d only remembered what a poltergeist was because of the 1982 movie. Despite his somewhat immature behavior, the knowledge of the term suggested Michael may have been well-read when he was alive. It could come in handy later.
“Tomorrow, we’ll try to find the place where you woke up and see if anyone has discovered your body. With any luck, your memory will return and we can find out your soul’s final wish,” I said as I set the pad on the counter.
He nodded, raking a hand through his hair to push it out of his face. “How…how do you know all this stuff?”
I let a small, tired smile cross my lips. “That’s a long, complicated story. It’s late. I don’t want to get into it tonight so why don’t you go wander off and I’ll see you in the morning.”
I started to walk away but he jumped in front of me, seeming confused. “Wander off where? And what am I supposed to do all night?”
That made me pause. There was no reason why I should have trusted him enough to let him stay in my apartment overnight, but then again I couldn’t let him go around making trouble for other people. In the end, I just sighed and flourished a hand at the apartment.
“If you promise to behave yourself, you can just stay here. In the den. If you come in my room while I’m asleep, I’m going to start researching ways to get rid of you.” I ended this statement with a harsh glare.
He held his hands up in supplication. “I’ll be a good boy. Scout’s honor.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
With that, I sidled past him with great care not to bump into him. I wasn’t ready to feel that odd sensation again. I shuffled off to the bedroom and shut the door with a sigh, feeling much more tired now that everything slowed down enough for me to process it. I kicked off my shoes, peeled away the skirt, and unbuttoned the shirt most of the way before searching for my nightclothes. Once I redressed, I flopped down on the bed face-first, allowing a frustrated groan to tear from my throat.
“I cannot believe I’m having a sleepover with a dead guy.”
Chapter 3
I smelled coffee. Coffee and bacon. What the hell?
My body reacted before my mind could catch up—arm poised at the door, gun in hand. Then, I remembered I had a houseguest and I let my arm drop. A dead houseguest.
After scraping myself off the bed, I threw on a robe, some ratty blue slippers, and stopped to check myself in the mirror. I was halfway through fixing my mussed black locks when I realized I had been preening for a freaking dead guy. I shook my head at myself and walked out of the room.
“I got bored waiting for you, so I decided to make breakfast,” Michael told me, shaking the pan a little to get the bacon a nice even brown. He was a picture of nonchalance, as if it wasn’t unusual that he was a dead guy cooking breakfast for a girl he hadn’t known a day yet. It made my head hurt just thinking about it.
“Though I can’t believe you don’t have any eggs. Even poor people have eggs. That’s just depressing.”
“You’re dead. What do you care?” I yawned, grabbing my mug and the fresh pitcher of coffee.
“I’m merely remarking upon the fact that you’re pathetic.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Go rob a bank and get me some cash. Then you can have your damn eggs.”
He clucked his tongue at me, turning off the stove. “We’ve got to work on your people skills. Sleep well?”
“No, but that’s normal for me.” After adding cream and sugar, I sipped away at the delicious beverage while searching for a plate to put the bacon on.