Karen Leigh sat next to Richard on the couch, holding the poster, staring intently at the photo. “And you’re sure it’s her?”
Richard nodded. “It’s her. I’m certain of it. That face is unmistakable. And it’s the same name: Christina Long.”
She shook her head in astonishment, and then a grin slowly formed. “This is amazing. This is absolutely amazing. Do you understand how incredible all this is? This is…”
“I know. I can’t believe it either. I actually, one hundred percent, have a real ghost in my house. I mean, I always knew it was true, but a part of me still thought that there must be a logical explanation. Hell, I even thought I could be losing it at one stage. But this, well, this is unreal.”
“Have you told Nicky about this?”
“What—about the poster?” He shook his head. “No chance. It’s not worth it. I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to convince her, but she just won’t have it. You know how stubborn she is.”
“Well, I think she’s going to struggle trying to rationalize this.”
He was unconvinced. “I don’t know—we’ve had so many arguments about this, I don’t think I can take anymore.”
“It’s up to you, but let me tell you, as much as I believe that spirits exist, this is probably the most blatant case I have ever come across. Seriously. People come to me with stories about ghosts and all sorts, and most, like Nicky says, have logical explanations—but yours…”
He took the poster from her and looked at the image again. “So what do we do now?”
“You have to get in touch with this person.” She leaned over and glanced at the writing on the poster. “Carl Jones. I’m guessing he’s the boyfriend or brother.”
“Or husband.”
“Doubtful—different surname. You have to tell him what you know.”
Richard shook his head in protest. “No bloody way. He’ll think I’m nuts. And I’m not the right guy to go and tell someone that their girlfriend, or wife, or whatever, is dead. I don’t have it in me.”
“So what do you want to do, then?” she asked, firmly.
He shrugged. “I don’t know—send him a text message, or maybe an e-mail. I don’t know. I really don’t. How the hell do I explain to a grieving guy that the woman who he believes is just missing is now a ghost that haunts my house? He’ll probably call the police—probably get me sent to the nuthouse.”
“You’ll just have to force the evidence on him. And don’t stop ’til you get through—no matter how hard it gets. You have to at least try, Rich. This is what she wants you to do. This is why she’s still here. This is the only way to get rid of her forever. I’m sure of it.”
He listened stubbornly, but knew she spoke the truth. And the idea of coming home and not being scared witless was a very tempting proposal. He rubbed his face, worn-out from all the tension, all the excitement. Even someone with impeccable blood pressure would have struggled to cope with everything he had gone through over the past week. And now he was about to push his stress levels even further. But Richard knew he had to do it, knew that he had to speak to this man. With or without a clean bill of health. No one else was going to do it for him. He couldn’t exactly ask Karen to step up; she had already done so much for him. And it was his mess after all, his problem, his ghost. “All right,” he said, defeated. “I’ll do it. I’ll talk to the guy.”
She smiled proudly. “That’s great. It’ll be fine, I’m positive. Have a little faith.”
Frowning, he shook his head at the prospect of actually going through with it. “But if I get arrested, or sent to the nuthouse, you can explain everything to Nicky, all right?”