Just as she had clearly seen a ghost?
Mike stepped out and Jackson paused by her. “You’re going to be okay?”
She nodded.
Jackson left. Mike returned with a pillow and blanket. She thanked him and adjusted them on the sofa, then lay down.
“Try to rest,” Thor said.
He sat behind the desk. She realized that he was studying something on the computer—studying it so intently that he might have forgotten that she was there.
She readjusted; she didn’t want to interrupt him, but she was unnerved and didn’t feel much like sleeping.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry. Just restless.”
“You should try to get some sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
He looked up from the computer. “Yeah, I know the feeling,” he said.
“Have you always—seen the dead?” she asked him.
He hesitated, lowered his head and seemed to be smiling again. She noted that he really was exceptional.
Stripper. Great.
But she could imagine him with a Viking helmet and sword—and a bunch of furs!
“Always,” he murmured, and shrugged. “I don’t really know. I had one Norse grandmother I spent time with and she loved to believe that there were different places where the soul lingered once the body was gone or used up. She was Catholic—she didn’t believe in ancient Gods or myths. But, like most people, she had her own way of believing. Since I was a kid, I would have hunches or gut feelings, and I would see things in dreams—real ones and daydreams. Jackson and I worked well together because...because we didn’t ask each other a lot of questions. When one of us had a strong feeling, we went with it.”
“When one of you talked to the dead?” she whispered.
Once again, he was vague. “Speaking to the dead—seeing or feeling something that others didn’t. Whatever. It has worked for both of us. Jackson became part of the Krewe of Hunters... I’ve worked in my own way. Thing is, we’ve both always gone the way we felt we needed to go. Alaska was home. I believed I needed to be here. It’s kind of a like an often frozen Wild, Wild West. And Jackson felt strongly he needed to move in another direction. It’s good to see him again, good to be with him again. Especially now.”
“Now—because of this?” Clara asked.
He hesitated. There was something more, and it was obvious, but he wasn’t going to say. Clara wasn’t sure why, but in that moment, she decided he wasn’t such a jerk.
“This is pretty bad,” he said quietly. “You should try to get some rest.”
He was dismissing her; he wanted quiet. Fine. She laid her head down.
Then she bolted back up.
“Footage! Film footage! Everything at the Mansion was being filmed. Maybe if you get that film footage, you’ll find the killer on it—find out if Amelia made it to the Mansion before she met up with the killer. You can see if—”
She broke off; her eyes locked with his.
She felt like a fool.
“You’ve already gone through all the footage, right?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“What’s on it?”
“The Wickedly Weird crew mugging in front of various cameras to check them out, and your friends—Ralph, Simon and Larry—arriving, freaking out, screaming and leaving. And then there’s footage of you. Silent—seeing the place—freezing and then leaving.”
“Yes, but I know that someone was upstairs. I heard footsteps!” Clara protested.
He hesitated. “Possibly.”
“What do you mean, possibly?” Maybe he was a jerk after all!
“The camera upstairs clicked off about two hours before you got to the house,” he said.
“Yes, but doesn’t that prove my point? Someone was there—someone who turned off the cameras!”
“We have tech people working on that possibility now.”
Screw resting; she was angry. “I told you that someone was in there. Do you really think that I made that up, that I’m a liar?” she demanded.
“No,” he told her impatiently. “It’s possible that you were completely unnerved and imagined that someone was in there. Whoever killed Amelia Carson didn’t do so at the Mansion. There’s no real reason to suspect that the killer was ever in there. He might have known what was going on and had no reason to go in.”
“So I just panicked and ran?” she demanded.
He sighed, trying to hide his impatience. “The main-floor cameras were working fine. You can’t get upstairs until you’ve been downstairs. Look, this is no insult to you. I’ve been with the Bureau for fifteen years—that scene at the Mansion was horrific and damned real.”
She knew that her eyes narrowed and her voice was strained and harsh. “I’m not an idiot who imagines things.” Except I’ve just seen a dead woman! she thought.
“That isn’t what I’m suggesting.”
“But it is!”