My brain was telling me I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. That kids love spreading stories about a suicide house, and his sighting could’ve been some distortion of his own reflection.
But my gut was telling me Boswell was legit.
“When you think about it,” Boswell said, “it’s the perfect cover. Get yourself a rubber mask and set yourself up in a so-called haunted house. You couldn’t ask for a better place to launch your surveillance.”
And then he’d go and say something like that. “Who’d be surveilling you at that age?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I think you know.”
“The FPMP didn’t even exist yet,” I said.
And yet, someonehadmoved childhood-me to a new foster home when my own ghost sightings got a little too heated.
Was Boswell a medium? Likely. Was he paranoid? Probably. But hewasunder surveillance, after all. And who’s to say a splinter is just a splinter? According to his files, though, his surveillance didn’t start until he made a stink online about his apartment being haunted.
Maybe it didn’t matter exactly when Boswell’s surveillance began, whether it was triggered by the suicide house or his review on ratemyapartment.com. Listening devices, cameras, even field operatives…those were all in the realm of possibility. But no one had the ability to track urine from municipal wastewater.
At least, I hoped not.
We turned onto George Street and scoped out a parking spot. “Here’s what I don’t get. If you’re thinking your gunshot guy was a fake, why do you think the woman in the bedroom was a real ghost?”
Boswell nodded sagely and tapped his temple. “Now you see how the government keeps you guessing.”
We trooped up to the apartment where Jacob and Evelyn were already waiting. “We’ll focus on the bedroom,” I said. “If I can verify the activity, we’ll take the next step.”
“Which is?” Boswell asked.
“That all depends on you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IF BOSWELL TRULY was a medium—and he was willing to play nice—he could score himself training, counseling, and a regular paycheck. But no one was gonna force it down his throat.
Between the repeater at the bus stop and history I was now privy to, I was inclined to recommend F-Pimp make the offer. But even if Boswell decided to get with the program, it would be a rough ride for everyone involved. And I wanted to be absolutely sure.
We trooped into the bedroom and looked around. Same as last time. White walls, hardwood floor, creaky ceiling fan, and a closet door that didn’t quite match the other woodwork.
I pulled down white light and scanned. Nothing. Jacob and Evelyn stayed in the background. And Boswell rocked anxiously on his feet. It was a long, uncomfortable silence…until a loud creak from a nearby apartment made us both flinch. If he was eager to make himself look psychic, it would’ve been the perfect time to do it. But Boswell didn’t rise to the bait.
“It’s unnatural living in such close proximity to other people,” he said. “People above, below, to either side. You’re always hearing their noise, smelling their smells, all of it constantly reminding you that you’re trapped among all theserandom strangers you’d never choose to associate with if the choice was yours.”
Yeah. Imagine how his neighbors felt.
“Whoever lived here before me was a real piece of work,” he said.
“Wait…you were spying on them before you moved in?”
He scoffed. “Unlikely. How on earth would I know this apartment would be available before it went up for rent?”
Well, you could drive out the previous tenant, for one—though the smug mailman hadn’t mentioned it—or you could be a precog instead of a medium. Wouldn’tthatbe nice? It would make Boswell someone else’s problem.
“It’s the junk mail,” Boswell said. “It doesn’t forward. You can tell a lot about a person by the catalogs they receive.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Someone, somewhere down the line had convinced themselves that Jacob and I went in for kitchen gadgets—even though we had maybe two feet of counter space, on a good day. We’d never once ordered anything. But advertisements for the latest espresso-juicer-bread machine-tofu maker were shoved through our mail slot at least once a week.
“Like Mr. Z Sledge,” Boswell went on. “If that even is his real name. I could forgive the questionable clothing catalogs where all the models are leaning on cars like jerks and peering over their sunglasses. That’s just how marketing companies trick you into buying fast fashion. No, it’s the supplements that tell the story.”
In the doorway behind Boswell, Jacob and Evelyn looked on, not bothering to hide the “this guy is clearly a kook” looks on their faces. Evelyn blanched and shook her head as if to tell me I was headed for a whole lot of nonsense.
