I shrugged. “That even if there’s no ghost, this place is still a dump.”
Funny, how reluctant I’d been, back in the day, to leave my old place. Even I had to admit, dated plumbing aside, the cannery is an awfully darn cool place to live. Guess I’d just been accustomed to my life, and any change, even a good one, felt scary.
As for now, I would need to report the ghostlessness to Laura, which meant she might very well pull the plug on this whole Noah Boswell thing. But as much as his avoidance annoyed me, there was nothing more to see. “All clear,” I turned to Carl, “so I suppose we may as well—”
The air behind him bent as a shadow darted from the kitchen to the bedroom.
Well, shit.
CHAPTER FOUR
GIVEN THE WAY Boswell had been acting, I must’ve had myself convinced he was nothing more than a crackpot.
And evidently, I’d been wrong.
I paused in the bedroom doorway, suddenly aware that despite the white walls, white ceiling, and white woodwork, there were way too many shadows. With no one there to look askance at me but Carl, I planted my feet like I was on a yoga mat and focused on my crown chakra. The floodgates opened. Theoretically, I’ve been working on keeping the white light at more of a steady stream than a deluge. But in the presence of an actual ghost, my intentions go right out the window.
Carl and I stood so still I could make out the used car commercial playing in the apartment down the hall. But as for ghostly murmurs, nothing.
I sight-checked the room like I was looking for snipers and sidled my way in. Still no ghost.
But there was a closet door—a flimsy, hollow bifold thing that didn’t match the original wood panel doors in the rest of the place. I held up a finger for Carl to be ready—he was always ready—and grasped the chrome doorknob. Abnormally cold? Or was it just what you’d expect from any other cheap metal doorknob?
Muscles singing with tension and head buzzing with light, I gingerly pulled open the door.
And found nothing but a single, swaying wire hanger.
My lungs informed me that I’d been holding my breath, and I inhaled cautiously. Still no sign of the ghost.
Which meant I’d need to talk to it.
I sighed.
Carl and I had been a team for a while now, and intellectually, I knew he didn’t judge my awkward half of the conversation—and believe you me, his judgment is anything but subtle. We’ve seen some things together, the two of us. Or, more accurately, he’s seen me see some things, which is about as close as most people will ever get. And when I saidghost, he listened.
But when I had to chat up someone that even I couldn’t see, I still felt ridiculous.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“I just want to talk.”
Still nothing.
“We’re here to help.”
Even more nothing.
While most of the cues I go by are visual, the rest of my brain is involved in a sighting too. I flexed my awareness, hoping for a chill, a twinge, anything to clue me in as to the whereabouts of the shadowy presence. But the room was empty.
There’d been a flicker. Hadn’t there? Without Noah Boswell there to elaborate on what he’d seen, all I could do was look for myself. So Carl and I settled in to watch and wait. And wait.
And wait.
Eventually, my lower back was annoyed with me from standing still and my adrenaline spike had ebbed.
“You made note of the time of the sighting?” I asked Carl.
