Then, before I even realize what I’m doing, I drag the cursor to the search bar and type in “unexplained cold areas/ghosts?” I don’t believe in ghosts, not for a second, but I need to see what turns up.
Those four words summon endless hits, links to stories about ghosts and signs of their presence. Some of these articles are even on reputable media sites likeU.S News & World Reportor those that cover the real estate market, obviously because most people want to avoid purchasing a haunted house.
According to the first few pieces I skim, cold spots are one of the most common signs of paranormal activity—because, according to one so-called expert, spirits draw energy and heat from a room in which they’re present. Other indicators include: a sense of being watched or of not being alone; strange noises; phantom smells; objects moved around; unexplained stains; or interference with the electromagnetic field, like a flickering light.
Or, I wonder, a burning light that you swore you turned off earlier?
I tell myself to close the browser window, that even though I don’t believe in ghosts, I’m going to upset myself if I continue down this rabbit hole. And though Clarissa’s explanation isn’t sitting any better with me, this experience is clearly some kind of strange outlier.
For the next couple of hours, I do my best to concentrate on work that’s piled up, responding to several prospective clients who’ve inquired about my rates and finally starting an article I was assigned days ago for a career website. The topic—how to conduct a job search without tipping off your current employer—is straightforward enough, but when I reread what I’ve written, it’s as dreary as one of the owner’s manuals in the kitchen drawer.
Shortly before seven, I make my way around the house, turning on lamps and opening a few more windows to let in the cooling evening air. I brush my hair and swipe on mascara, blush, and lip gloss, hoping to look less fatigued.
Sam arrives on time, and the mere sound of his car pulling up behind mine in the driveway makes my body tense. As I open the front door to his knock, my hand slips a little on the knob, and I realize it’s damp from perspiration.
He’s dressed in a weathered gray T-shirt and rumpled khakis, his hair is tucked messily behind his ears, and his dark scruff looks likeit’s been ignored for days. He seems even more like an absent-minded professor than usual, but I’m sure it has to do with Jamie’s death.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask. “Water, a glass of wine?”
“Wine,” he says, ambling past me into the room. His request surprises me. Maybe he’s really willing to sit and talk through what we need to do.
When I return a minute later with two glasses of wine, he’s scanning the room.
“I assume you’ve been here before,” I say.
“A couple of times,” he says bluntly, accepting his drink. “To watch Wimbledon one afternoon. Another time for a few beers. Mostly when Jamie and I hung out this summer, it was at the club—or a few times at my place.”
“I keep telling myself that he probably felt really comfortable in this little house. I’ve liked being here, too.”
“So, this was all a coincidence?” Sam says, with an edge to his voice. “You had no idea he’d been renting it?”
“None.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” he says.
“I don’t know, Sam, but I assure you that no one, including Jamie, told me where he was staying. I wasn’t having any luck finding a rental on Airbnb, and then suddenly, on Wednesday, this place popped up.”
He squints, studying me skeptically.
“And even if I’d known this had been Jamie’s,” I continue, “would it have been wrong of me to rent it? Are you worried I’m sullying his memory by being here?”
“Maybe.”
I shake my head as anger overrides how flustered I feel by Sam’s presence. “Why are you acting so hostile?”
“Why? Other than the fact that you dumped Jamie during breakfast one morning with some vague explanation about you not being right for him?”
I gulp a sip of wine, gathering my nerve. “Do you think it would have been better for me to marry him even though I didn’t feel what I should have felt?”
“Maybe it was only prewedding jitters,” he says with a disdainful shrug. “Something that would have sorted itself out over time.”
Oh, that’s funny—the never-married professor’s got some wisdom for the brides-to-be of the world. I feel my pulse start to race. “Not if you find yourself drawn to someone else.”
He frowns. “You had an affair?”
“No, quite the opposite. I felt something for someone else, but never acted on it.”
He takes a long drink of wine himself, sets the glass down on a small side table, and crosses his arms. “Who was it, then? This mystery man?”
