The Hidden

And then he joined her.

He was grateful for the feel of her.

For the sound of her heartbeat, of her breathing.

And the brush of her lips on his naked flesh.

*

Diego had gone into superprotective mode.

He woke up first. Scarlet felt him rise, heard him walk through the upstairs, undoubtedly checking for anything suspicious, and then head down to the museum. She took a quick shower, feeling completely safe.

She wasn’t sure what the Krewe had planned for the day, but she knew what she would like to do for part of it if time allowed, and that was head for a shooting range. She was capable with a gun, but Diego had been right: she’d never liked them. Too many people who were far too irresponsible owned them, which was a shame for those who were responsible. She’d understood why Ben kept his shotgun ready; they were on a mountaintop, and there were animals in the woods that could kill a person.

And now...

Now she had no intention of being vulnerable, a victim. She intended to be prepared, and if that meant becoming not just competent but adept with a gun, so be it.

After ascertaining that the museum was empty, Diego came upstairs to find her showered, dressed and ready for the day. He looked as her with an odd smile for a moment—as if regretting that she hadn’t spent a little longer in the shower so the night, too, could last a little longer—but then he told her that everything was fine, so he was hopping in the shower himself.

She told him she would get some coffee going.

“Lara is coming in today—Brett’s fiancée,” he told her. “You and she have something in common. The ghosts in the zombie case picked her to talk to just like Daniel picked you.”

“Why Lara? Why me?” she asked him. “I was never law enforcement, I never believed in ghosts. I never even played with Ouija boards when I was a kid. Why am I suddenly ghost central?”

He grinned. “Daniel just likes you and wants you to be safe.” His smile faded, and he set his hands on her shoulders. “That’s basically it, Scarlet. The dead need our help. And we can certainly use theirs.”

He left her to shower and dress, so she walked into the kitchen and started the coffee. Suddenly she became aware that something—someone—was in the room with her.

She steeled herself before turning to look at the kitchen doorway.

She knew the young woman who stood there, though she wouldn’t have remembered her name if she hadn’t been all over the TV.

It was Cassandra Wells, and Scarlet did remember how bright and friendly and full of questions she’d been when she’d come to take the museum tour.

Scarlet was grateful that Cassandra didn’t look the way she had the night before, a body soaked in blood with an exploded face.

Instead she was in jeans and a sweater, hair held back from her face by a headband, features pale, almost fully substantial, though Scarlet could just see through to the hallway behind her.

Scarlet was proud that she didn’t feel the slightest inclination to scream, to fall apart.

Cassandra had chosen her, just as Daniel had, and she found herself feeling glad of that and hoping desperately that she could help.

“Hello,” Scarlet said.

Cassandra let out a little sigh of relief. “You can see me?”

Her voice was weak, as if she was speaking from miles away.

“Yes,” Scarlet said.

“You know me?” the young woman asked.

Scarlet nodded. “I remember when you came to the museum. You asked the best questions, and I could tell how interested you were in everything.”

“I was,” Cassandra said, ghostly tears misting her eyes. “You know what happened to me, don’t you?”

“We do, and we want to help,” Scarlet assured her.

And then Daniel appeared out of nowhere, standing right by the kitchen table. He met Cassandra’s eyes and said, “I’m Daniel.”

“You’re dead, too, aren’t you?” Cassandra asked softly.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Did we ever meet?” Cassandra asked him.