He either didn’t hear me or pretended not to. “I’ll give you a quick tour.”
As he led me through the house, I cataloged every red flag. The kitchen was updated but too clean, like it hadn’t seen a meal since the Clinton administration. The appliances gleamed, the backsplash sparkled, and the only thing in the fridge was a single bottle of sparkling water. Good thing I’d brought some basics.
“Very… cozy,” I said, then continued under my breath. “I’ve always hoped that if I ever get murdered, it would happen in a room with subway tile.”
Mr. West blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Love the aesthetic.”
We moved on. The living room had high ceilings, mismatched furniture, and one too many portraits of unsmiling people. Their painted gazes followed me as I walked.
“Several rooms are under renovation,” Mr. West said as we passed a narrow hallway lined with drop cloths. “Please ignore the east wing. Foundation issues.”
“Right, of course,” I said. “Wouldn’t want to fall through the floor and meet Mr. D’Archeval personally.”
He didn’t laugh. I made a mental note: zero sense of humor.
We reached the second floor. The staircase curved in a slow, elegant sweep, and halfway up, the air changed. It was subtle at first—a little cooler, a little quieter. Thinner. The light coming from the tall windows looked… off. Too dim.
I rubbed my arms. “Does the power flicker a lot?”
He looked at me with that too-bright smile. “This house was built in 1714. You’ll find the light behaves differently in such old structures.”
“Sure. That’s totally comforting.”
He chuckled, though none of that mirth entered his eyes. “Ah, you have a sense of humor. That’s good. Not everyone can handle D’Archeval House.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning.
He stopped at a heavy wooden door with an ornate brass lock. “This is my bedroom. It will remain locked at all times. Please don’t attempt to enter it.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” I said. “I’m more of a boundaries kind of tenant.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Excellent.”
The door gave off major do-not-open-or-die energy. I made a mental note todefinitelynever open it and to text Lena about it immediately after Mr. West left.
As we looped back toward the stairs, he launched into the house’s backstory, voice steady and practiced. “The house was built by Cassian D’Archeval, a prominent merchant in early Boston. He traded in textiles, spices, and other”—he paused, as if selecting a less alarming word—“colorful dealings.”
“Colorful like smuggling or colorful like murder?” I asked.
His smile didn’t move. “History can be subjective.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said under my breath.
He led me back toward the front of the house. “The home is a registered historical landmark. That explains the zoning restrictions and some of the occasional power inconsistencies.”
“Right. Ghosts hate consistent voltage,” I said.
Again, nothing.
We stopped in the foyer, and he clasped his hands again, eyes darting toward the windows as if he was in a hurry to leave. “I can’t thank you enough for taking the job, Ms. Yates. The place needs a steady presence to take care of it.”
“Sure thing,” I said. “As long as that presence doesn’t start getting furniture thrown at it by a poltergeist.”
He chuckled politely, but his fingers twitched on the keys.
“I hope you don’t mind if I crochet ghost bunnies and hang them in the living room. It’s sort of my thing,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
