But at least she was here. For whatever good that did her.
Restlessly, she stood. He had a great CD collection, and an appreciation for music that went beyond eclectic and on to boundless. He had the classics, from Pavarotti to Wagner, country, soul, rhythm and blues, rock, even some trance. She put in a Buddy Holly CD and tried to relax.
No good. She was too restless.
He’d told her to make herself at home. Since she wasn’t hungry or thirsty, the kitchen held no great allure, so she decided to explore the basement.
It had been finished, and now it was perfect for intimate entertaining. That made her think about the way Joe thought about her. He had a dual vision of her.
Little rich girl.
And damaged goods.
What could she do to change that?
Perhaps it couldn’t be changed. Perhaps…
Perhaps he simply didn’t find her attractive, she told herself.
Here she was, thinking about Joe, about being damaged, about the past, wondering why he wasn’t making a move on her, when he was upstairs doing exactly what she had asked of him: working on the case.
And then something very strange happened.
She didn’t close her eyes, but it was as if she were seeing something else besides this room. Almost as if she herself was someone else.
She was walking down the street, anxious and excited. She was going to meet someone, and that someone was going to change her life. It was all very hush-hush, because it was so important. Someone was going to take a chance.
On her.
For her.
This was her chance to be rich and famous. Well, he was going to pay her well, so rich, anyway.
And if things went the way they should…
She was almost at the place where they’d planned to meet, and she hoped he wouldn’t be late. That he would be there waiting for her.
She knew she hadn’t been followed.
That no one knew where she was.
She was about to see a man about a horse….
Genevieve blinked. She was in Joe’s basement again, staring at the pool table. For a moment, her hands shook. What the hell had that been? She couldn’t believe she was seeing things.
Oh, great. Damaged goods to begin with, and now she was going crazy. No. She was not going to allow herself to crack.
She ran up the stairs. Joe was still in his office. He hadn’t heard her; he obviously didn’t know anything was wrong.
Because nothing was wrong.
She turned up Buddy Holly, then headed back to the basement, determined not to worry about her love life—or complete lack thereof—anymore.
Joe sighed, rose and stretched, surprised at how long he’d been at his desk. He walked out to the living room.
Buddy Holly was playing on the stereo, but Genevieve was nowhere to be seen.
He noticed that the door to the basement stairway was open. Then he heard a series of clicking sounds and realized she was downstairs, playing pool.
He walked down to join her, and on the way he noticed the brick wall and remembered how Leslie had told him that he would find music there if he tore it out. She hadn’t felt ready to admit that she talked to ghosts then, so she had just told him that she did a lot of research in the course of her work and had happened to stumble across some information about his building.
Yeah, right. Accidental research, right where he happened to live.
He remembered their conversations, too. How he had thought she simply needed time to get over Matt, because it had seemed clear that she was drawn to him. Well, she was with Matt now. Whether there was an afterlife or only a dark void, they were together.
“You all right?” Genevieve asked. She was standing by the pool table, her cue in hand, staring at him, and he realized that he must have been standing there, lost in thought.
“Yeah, sure, fine.”
“Find out anything?” she asked.
“No.” Eager to take his mind off his thoughts of a moment ago, he picked up a cue stick himself. “I’ll rack ’em,” he said.
She watched while he gathered and set the balls. “Break?” he asked her.
“Sure.”
She was an exceptional player. She almost cleaned the table with her break.
“I didn’t know rich kids got to be such sharks,” he told her teasingly.
He was surprised when she paused, smoothing back a stray lock of her glorious auburn hair, and said, “I really wish you would quit that,” she said.
“What?”
“Staring at me as if I grew up on another planet,” she said.
“Sorry.”
He stared at the brick wall, picturing the day Leslie had been there. She had talked to dead people. And he had talked to a dead man on the FDR. No. The medics must have been wrong. The guy had somehow survived long enough to save his niece.
But what about the morgue?
He’d been tired. Mind playing tricks.
“Joe?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
She set her cue stick down. “I’d like to go home now, if you don’t mind.”
“We’re in the middle of a game.”
“No. You’re in the middle of your memories. And that’s all right. But I’d just like to go home.”