“Yes.”
“And can you give me legal cover so I don’t get hauled in when I report alarming stuff?”
“Yes, we can do that, too.”
Boswell did some mental calculus. “Then you can get rid of the jerk that’s been following me around ever since I can remember.”
Ghosts are usually tied to the spot where they croak…but sometimes, they’re not. The Criss Cross Killer followed Jacob home from his own freaking execution. So, as crazy as it might sound, a ghost could very well have been trailing Boswell this whole time.
“I’ll look into it just as soon as we’re done here.”
“Oh no. Either we handle it now, or I’m out of here.” Did he realize I was the one doing him a favor, and not the other way around? “I’m not giving you a chance to cook up some theatrical seance scenario to convince me. I want the real deal.”
And I wanted to make him someone else’s responsibility. In my peripheral vision, a flicker of a terrified woman streaked past. “Let’s do it in the living room. I haven’t staged any convenient psychic interventions there. Promise.”
Boswell considered my request, then said, “Kitchen.”
I quelled an eye-roll. “Fine.”
We trooped down the hall. The kitchen window was half open—the one that had been meticulously stripped of thirty years of landlord white enamel. Ignoring that, I braced myself to do a ghost check. My gut was still on a rollercoaster from the SPECs and my head was throbbing. But if Boswell did have a spectral stalker, I couldn’t risk it latching onto me.
I was about to try to call back the sound of burning molar plastic, but then I realized that particular brainwave had attuned me to the empathy body, not the etheric. And so I mentallyswitched my extrasensory channel to the one I used most—the only one I could tune in without a special antenna.
Running on white light is taxing at the best of times. Now, after my joyride with the SPECs, it was downright nauseating. Luckily, I’d already emptied my gullet. I swallowed down my queasiness and called down the light.
There’s a filtration device on our kitchen tap that keeps the undertone of rust out of our morning coffee. One time I screwed in the filter wrong, and instead of filling the carafe, I ended up spritzing my crotch. That’s how it felt to wrangle the mojo. Though luckily, I was only drenched on the inside. To Evelyn and Boswell, I’d just be standing there looking irritated…which is pretty much how I always look.
Eventually, though, the white light settled in—we’re used to our routine, my talent and me—and I carefully scanned the room.
Nothing.
“If something’s tailing you, it’s not here at the moment.”
“Of course it is,” Boswell said with utter conviction.
“So, you sense it?”
“It wouldn’t be a very effective surveillance if it made its presence known, now—would it?”
Most ghosts are pretty shocked when they find out someone can actually see them. But if Boswell did have a follower, they’d probably have figured out he was onto them. Cripes, now I was even thinking like the guy. But he’d proven his ability, and when it comes to ghosts, you can never be too careful.
“Stand over by that blank wall and let me get a better look.”
Boswell obligingly posed like he was in a lineup. Big, paunchy, annoying. Wardrobe—khakis, checked shirt, windbreaker, high tops.He looks so normal.Though that’s what everyone says when someone goes off the weird end and does something utterly nutso. I queasily drew on the white light and shifted my focus.
“Nothing.”
“Agent?” Evelyn tugged at my sleeve. “A word?”
She took me aside. I expected her to haul out the SPECs and encourage another go-around, but instead she said, “I know you want to help him, but you don’t help anyone by forcing your talent when you’re running on fumes. Set a boundary. One more pass, and if it’s inconclusive, bring him in. You don’t do anyone any favors if you burn yourself out.”
If Jacob were here, he’d tell me the same.
We headed back into the kitchen. Boswell was still right where we’d left him, and maybe I’d been hoping he might fly the coop so he wasn’t my problem anymore. But, no. He had a chance at vindication. And he was grabbing for that golden ring.
“One more sweep,” I told him.
He tipped up his chin. “Sweep away.”
