Micah sniffled. He wasn’t sure how much faith to put into a… well, whatever Déjà called herself. The idea of a ghost haunting his studio was strange enough, and how a person would know what to do to get the spirit to leave was beyond him. But it was a problem with the promise of a solution, and that was at least something to focus on.
He supposed Déjà knowing how to banish ghosts wasn’t any different than knowing the particulars of his own profession. Muscle memory and years of practice meant he didn’t need head count theory to get the proportions of his figures right. Knowing where shadows would fall on a face – beneath the brow bone, at the join of the chin and lower lip, in the intertragal notch – was instinctive.
Exhaustion pulled him back down into the sheets. After sending a reply to Déjà, he shut his eyes and tried not to think about the idea of the ghost standing over him while he slept.
In the morning, when he was on his second cup of coffee, a knock came at the door. He forced his heart back into his chest and answered. Déjà was a curvy Latina woman in leopard-print pants and oversized sunglasses who looked like she stepped off the set ofCrybaby. She stood on the welcome mat in black platform pumps, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
Micah joined her on the step. He shielded his left eye from the light and held out his other hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
She shook it. “Likewise. The artist world here is so small, isn’t it? My ex lives in this complex.” Her smile sagged. “An old friend lived here too.”
“Oh really?” He thought of commenting that the artist world wastoosmall in that case, but the look on her face made him change his mind. “Are you an artist too?”
“Yeah. I paint ghosts.”
“Of course you do.”
Peeking through the gap in the open door, she said, “The music going on right now?”
“No. Thank god.” It had taken him a while to fall asleep, but once he did, it had been so deep and restful that he didn’t wake up until nearly ten. “I can’t believe this ghost doesn’t own anything other than Soft Cell. Do you think I should buy him some Dead or Alive?”
“Nah. This should be quick and painless, and with any luck, they won’t bother you anymore. Ready to get started? I need to grind some herbs if you’ve got a table or counter space I can use. Works best if they’re fresh.”
A bolt of anxiety shot through his chest, but he ignored it – he was okay. He pushed open the door and spread his arm. “Be my guest. I won’t be going in with you, though.”
A smile tugged at her lips, and she gave him a onceover. “You scared?”
“Not of ghosts.”
She looked him up and down again, then pushed up her sunglasses. “What is this? Some kind of prank Darryl coerced you into? Or somebody is waiting behind the door to rob me as soon as I walk in?”
“No! Not at all.”
Her gaze narrowed, emphasized by her sharply painted-on eyebrows. “Then you’d better explain because I don’t like being messed with.”
A knot formed in his chest, the words tangling in his mouth, but he had to say something or Déjà was going to leave. “I… was assaulted. And ever since then, I have to be alone in the studio. If someone is in there with me, I panic. Maybe not a family member – I don’t know, they live too far away – but acquaintances or strangers?” He shook his head. Everett had flown in to bring Micah back from the hospital, and he’d comeagain a month later and stayed for a week, but Micah had been so out of it that he barely remembered.
Déjà’s expression changed to the same damn one Ximena always wore – pity. “Sorry to hear that.” She pushed open the door and kicked off her pumps. The heels were clear and liquid-filled, and little faux goldfish swirled around inside. She sat on the rug and opened her backpack. “Well, this won’t take long. Don’t want you standing on the step all day.”
“It’s nice out right now,” he muttered. It was, but he would have said it even if there was a blizzard.
Déjà pulled out a small brass dish with a wire mesh top. She dropped in a black object that looked like a charcoal briquette and lit it with a lighter. It crackled, and a thread of smoke spiraled to the ceiling. Setting it aside, she took out a mortar and poured in herbs. She ground them with the pestle, and the scent of lavender floated through the doorway. “So, how do you know Darryl?”
“Oh. Uh.” Shit. What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t say he was a work friend or that their kids went to the same school. And he had no idea what kind of social life Darryl had. “Fender bender. I was backing out of a parking lot and ran right into him. We exchanged information and…” Micah shrugged.
She raised her eyebrows. “And you invited him to your old white man country club or what?”
“Nah. Phobophobes Anonymous.”
“A fear of fear? Is that a thing?” Her expression shifted, eyes crinkling in a knowing smile. “If Darryl’s Lexus got dented, you’d sooner be a stain on the pavement than friends with him. You got a crush on him, huh? Call him on his hotline? He’s got that smooth voice that makes everyone wanna spread their thighs.”
Heat flared in Micah’s cheeks. “It’s not like that. I’m not–”
“You don’t need to justify it to me. Darryl’s got back problems and needs a sit-down job that pays well enough for him to provide for his family.” Déjà added more herbs and ground them with the pestle. “Far as I’m concerned, you’re providing for his kids.”
“Would you use that same argument if I was an alcoholic and showed up every night to the bar he tended?”
“No. Because calling his hotline isn’t harming you, unless it’s a sex addiction and you’re using your last dollar to do it. Is that the case?”
