“You do? What?”
He moaned, then groaned in frustration. He pantomimed something square, then began wildly pointing around my living room. After a moment, he stopped and stared at me, beseeching me with his eyes to understand.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
He floated over to my antique desk and reached for a pencil only to find that he couldn’t pick it up.
Slumping, he looked like a deflated helium balloon before he suddenly perked up. He waved me toward the front door.
“You’ll show me?”
Yes.
“Out there?”
He nodded again.
I sat on the arm of the couch again. “No way.”
With eyes bugging, he held up his arms. A gesture for Why?
“There might be more ghosts out there.” Sure, it was only ten o’ clock, but I didn’t know for certain why I could see him, and I couldn’t take any chances that the ghosts had arrived early. “One is quite enough for me to handle.”
Pressing his lips together stubbornly, he waved again, beckoning.
He was so insistent that I could feel myself weakening. I suppose I could understand why he was being so adamant. If he had something to show me that would reveal why he’d been killed it could expose his murderer. With that knowledge, his soul would be at peace, and bing, bang, boom, he’d be able to cross over.
Which meant that he wouldn’t be hanging around me.
“To where?” I asked, still cautious. Sure, by going with him I could possibly get rid of this ghost, but the potential of picking up others while out there was very real. “The Ezekiel mansion?”
Absently, I wondered if the paramedics had taken Haywood’s body to the hospital. Or if they’d vetoed that when they arrived and called the coroner to the scene instead. If it was the latter option, Haywood’s body could very well still be lying on the third-floor landing. It wasn’t something I really wanted to revisit.
Haywood’s haunting eyes brightened, but then his eyebrows furrowed, and he shook his head.
I took another guess. “Your house?”
Yes. He waved me toward the front door.
His place was on Azalea Lane, only three blocks away. If I wore my sunglasses and drove my Jeep instead of riding my bike or walking . . .
Tipping my head side to side, I weighed the risks. “Okay, fine,” I said.
Yes.
As I hunted for my sunglasses, my phone rang, the sudden sound in the silent house nearly scaring me out of my skin. I checked the ID screen.
It wasn’t a number I recognized. Again, I weighed risks. After all, there was the chance it was my mama calling. She wasn’t going to be pleased with my disappearing act tonight.
But . . . it could be Dylan. He would be worried about why I’d run out and didn’t return.
I didn’t want him to worry.
Wincing, I picked up the phone midring.
“You’re there,” Dylan said right off the bat, letting out a deep breath.
“I’m here,” I confirmed unnecessarily, breathing a sigh of relief as I rubbed an imaginary spot on the high arc of my bronze kitchen faucet. “I’m fine.”
“What happened? I was worried when you ran out.” He paused a beat. “Why’d you run out?”
“Sorry about that.” I glanced at Haywood, who was tapping his foot impatiently by the front door. “But I saw someone who freaked me the hell out.”
“Who?” Dylan asked.
“Haywood.”
“I’m still in shock myself. And my m—”
“No,” I said, interrupting. “I saw Haywood. His ghost. I made a run for it, but he followed me home.”
There was a long stretch of silence before Dylan said, “You’re joking.”
“Hey, Haywood, say hi to Dylan.” I held out the phone.
Haywood opened his mouth. “Mmmmhhhhnnnnn.”
Other—normal—people might not be able to see him, but they could certainly hear him. It was why so many people reported hearing moaning when describing a ghostly experience.
“You’ll have to excuse his lack of vowels,” I said. “He hisses quite well, however.”
Haywood smiled ever so slightly, apparently pleased I’d noticed.
“Sweet Jesus,” Dylan whispered.
I let the shock of it all settle a little bit before I said, “Where are you? At the Ezekiel house?” Crime scenes took notoriously long to process plus there were dozens of people to interview.
“Yeah,” he said sullenly. “So far no one saw anything relating to Haywood’s death. The sheriff is threatening to pull me off the case, and he took my mother to the station for questioning even though she says she didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Haywood. I understand why he had to do it, but she was not pleased with being taken away to say the least.”
“Did I miss her throwing a hissy?” If so, I’d never forgive myself for bolting before witnessing it.
“Not quite. Just lots of icy glares and vicious barbs.”
I knew all about those.
“Any suspects turning up?” I purposely left off the other than your mother portion of that question.