“Z Sledge was into all kinds of herbal ‘stacks’ with dubious promises and zero medical merit. You can always spot this type of thing by the claims they make. Natural. Plant-based. Clean. Weasel words that let the seller fly under the radar of the FDA. Which is also in the pocket of Big Sugar, but be that as it may—”
“Let’s not worry about Sledge—” I cut in, but Boswell was on a roll.
“—there was a pattern to all the marketing. On the surface, it might look like nothing but a few herbs laced with caffeine. But things like adaptogens and green tea extract and ginseng, combined with the ad copy about strength and virility and getting ripped? Herbal testosterone. So either he was overcompensating for something—or he was a prime example of toxic masculinity.”
Okay. Never mind that I’d had the same impression about the guy after talking to him for two minutes.
“Zachary Sledge isn’t the subject of my case, Boswell. You are.”
“And then there’s Sergei Kostic. Elderly, judging by the amount of support stockings and jar openers they try to sell him. He was big on the supplements, too. Again with the claims of energy and vitality, the type of mealy-mouthed promises big companies make to shill their useless products on people too ignorant to know any better. This guy would be better off just going outside. We manufacture our own vitamin D from sunlight, but someone got the bright idea to put it in a pill, andthe gullible public can’t get enough. What other vitamins are completely unnecessary? Society is brainwashed! Give us a pill and we’ll line up to swallow it down.”
I dry-swallowed around the phantom necklace my own personal habit demon had left behind. I didn’t jones for Seconal anymore. But my throat still remembered how good it felt to scratch that itch.
Boswell’s ranting didn’t unsettle me because it was paranoid. I found myself agreeing with it. And that was even worse.
“And that’s how the government tracks you,” he concluded.
Hopefully not. And given that he accused the splinter of being a tracking device, I was ninety-nine percent sure he was delusional.
The remaining one percent…I’d have to ignore.
“Forget about the catalogs,” I said. “This is the spot you claimed was haunted. Why?”
“I suppose you’ll want me to say I heard voices—everyone always accuses me of hearing voices.”
Given his proclivities, it wasn’t a stretch.
“Or maybe that I felt a cold spot. But it was nothing like that. It was more like a feeling of aversion. But that feeling wasn’t even mine. And when you think about the proximity of the high-tension wires down the block, it’s no wonder—”
As Boswell rambled, I pulled down white light. It wasn’t adrenaline-fueled urgency driving me, not like the corner store where I’d stumbled upon a truly scary ghost. More of a curiosity. And the desire to figure out if Boswell’s case belonged with the FPMP, or a good social worker.
I didn’t look at the spot where I might or might not have seen a flicker. I couldn’t bias Boswell. Not if I wanted to find out for sure if the haunted room was just another one of his conspiracy theories that hit too close to home.
“And never mind that cable TV runs both ways,” he was saying. “It’s not only marketing agencies that keep a dossier on everyone—”
Before I could be a big fat liar and deny having seen his permanent record, a flash of darkness streaked between us. It was just a flash, not even a heartbeat. But time lurched in a peculiar way, like a snapshot from a high-speed camera, as my gut registered a sickening spike of wrongness.
There was a suggestion of a face in the dark blur. A woman’s face, with its mouth open in a silent scream.
I staggered back, and Boswell did too, both of us propelling away from the shadowy streak. Boswell’s wild eyes locked onto me. “You saw that!” he crowed, jabbing a finger at the empty space between us. “Don’t deny it. I saw you flinch!”
“We both saw something,” I admitted. “But we’ll need to dig deeper and find out exactly what.”
“What difference does it make? Haunted is haunted. So there’s no reason to keep raking me over the coals over a completely accurate review.”
I blinked. “You’re worried about vindication?”
“I’m worried about my security deposit!” He flung his hands up. “The FPMP has legal resources! If you’re verifying my claim, that means the haunting isreal, which makes the landlord’s ‘normal wear and tear’ clause apply—”
Jacob’s notepad tapped against his thigh—an obvious prop, since he hadn’t taken even a single note. “Let’s debrief.” His tone was pure bureaucratic calm, but I caught the tightness around his eyes. “For the report. Mr. Boswell, describe the entity. Vic, corroborate. Evelyn—?”
Her expression was neutral, but she’d definitely gone pale. “We’re all upset.” A shaky inhale. “Let’s take a breath. And maybe… adjourn to the living room?” She edged toward the door like the walls might bite.
Boswell huffed. “Fine. But if we’re documenting the apartment, the rust on the mini blinds absolutely counts as a biohazard.”
Right. Becausethatwas the pressing concern here.
We backed into the hallway to put Boswell and me out of harm’s way. Whatever was haunting this place, it was fast. And I didn’t want to find out what would happen if it slammed into one of us and figured out how possession worked.
