Marcus noted the confusion on the newcomers’ faces and sighed. “Harriet, why don’t you introduce yourself? Maybe explain your role in this project.”
Today she’d swapped her usual binoculars for an oversized canvas bag painted with Historical Energy Consultant in crooked lettering. Adjusting the strap, she strode forward with purpose.
Without her standard surveillance gear, she somehow looked more dangerous. Steel-toed boots splattered with garden mulch. A patchwork utility vest bristling with buttons ranging from I Brake for Ghosts to Don’t Tell Me to Smile, worn over a faded maxi dress that billowed like a haunted picnic blanket. Her long braid was threaded with reflective tape and battery-powered twinkle lights, and her thick glasses magnified her eyes to raccoon-level intensity.
Marcus took a slow sip from his thermos and reminded himself he’d survived boardrooms, backstabbingbillionaires, and a mob-connected childhood. He could survive Harriet and her haunted banister. What he hadn’t faced in those other battles were the taste of her still on his tongue and the sound of her breaking apart on his name.
Harriet reached the top step, gave the porch railing a wary glance, and faced the group.
“Harriet here,” she announced, all brisk authority. “My job is to assess the energetic integrity of the space and to make sure none of you tick off any residual spirits. Or active ones. Let’s not discriminate.”
One of the city crew cleared his throat, unsure if he wanted to object or ask for clarification.
Harriet slid her glasses down her nose and leveled him with a stare. “Laugh now, but if you go home with ghost hickeys and existential dread, don’t come crying to me.”
Marcus tried to focus on the words, but his mind betrayed him. Replacing ghost hickeys with the real ones he’d wanted to leave last night. The memory pressed against him like a bruise he couldn’t stop touching.
She pulled a copper dowsing rod from her bag, holding it like both explanation and warning. “I’ve got a system. I’ll be flagging emotionally unstable rooms, mapping high-vibe zones, and set boundaries between the living and the…less living. Steer clear of any doors marked with citrus-scented duct tape. That means haunted, cursed, or emotionally clingy.”
Then, she turned to Marcus and gave a curt nod. “The blueprints may show what’s structurally sound. I’m here for the soul of the place.”
Marcus almost smiled. If the soul of the place was anything like the one who’d spent last night in his guest room, tempting, unpredictable, and a little bit dangerous, they were in deep trouble.
Standing in the front of the group, Denny, one of the town’s retired volunteer firefighters and current self-appointed “ladder whisperer,” raised a hand.
“Yes?” Marcus pointed to him.
“I’m happy to pitch in,” Denny said. “I’ll hammer, haul, sweep, whatever you need. But I ain’t steppin’ foot in that room off the second floor. The one with the arched windows that overlook the back garden.”
A few heads turned. The out-of-towners glanced around like they were missing a key piece of folklore.
“That room’s haunted,” Denny said flatly. “Has been since before Gi Gi bought the place. Everyone in town knows it. Light in there flickers for no reason, even when the place is empty. It’s got bad energy. Real bad.”
Harriet let out a low, knowing hum.
Denny gestured toward her with a slight shudder. “If she’s gonna wave that stick of hers around, that’s where she oughta start. Just keep me off that detail, and we’ll get along fine.”
Marcus paused, pen midair.
Of course it was that room.
The one directly across from Frankie’s. Which meant he was now picturing her room instead. The one he’d made sure was finished yesterday. The one whose doorway he’d lingered outside last night, only steps from her bed, fighting the urge to go back in and finish what they’d started.
Had it been a ghost that killed the mood with a whispered reminder of her Mr. Uptight musings over dinner, or just his own damn conscience?
He cleared his throat. “Noted. I’ll assign that room to someone with a higher ghost tolerance.”
Harriet nodded solemnly. “I’ll investigate first. If my copper starts humming, I’ll flag it for containment.”
Containment?
Marcus opened his mouth to ask for clarification, then wisely chose peace and kept it shut.
“Starting tomorrow morning,” he said, “we’ll begin the workday at seven. I wanted to give my temporary houseguest a little time to settle in before you all start destroying her beauty sleep.” Hopefully, the cottage would be rewired and Frankie would move back within the next few days. He’d assigned three guys to work on it today.
The double doors creaked open, and George stepped in, cap pulled low, yellow raincoat misted with rain. An angry scratch angled down his cheek. He offered a quiet smile and arespectful nod.
“Dropped Miss Frankie at the bookstore,” he said in his usual soft, earnest tone. “She looked…nice this morning. Smelled good, too.”
