“Forensic science, I suppose. I’m a homicide detective.”
His gray eyes widen. “I can see why you’d be interested in ghosts.”
“I’m not here about a victim,” I assure him, and my mind jumps to my mother. Casting my eyes down, I twist the paper holder around my coffee cup.
“Why are you here?”
“Can ghosts touch you?” I raise my gaze back to his.
“Yes. I’ve felt them run fingers over me and even left locations with scratches.”
“I mean like really touch.” I shake my head, realizing how bad that sounds. “Like give you a hug or beat you up?”
He chuckles. “Those are two very different things, and while I’ve never come across it personally, I suppose so. I’ve found that in order for a spirit to manifest, it needs a great deal of electromagnetic energy. So in theory, if they were charged up—so to speak—then yes, I don’t see why they couldn’t hug you or throw in a punch or two.”
I nod, feeling relief instead of dread. Yeah, Miss Pink Dress can definitely do damage, but that also means the hug my mother gave me could have been real.
“Have you ever had a seance?” I ask.
“No, and I don’t intend to. Those can be dangerous.”
“I’ve been told,” I mumble. “Have you heard of anyone having one, contacting who they wanted to, and then having it turn out to be something different?”
He puts his hands on the table, leaning in. “By different, do you mean something bad?”
“Yes.”
His face pales just a little and he leans back against the booth again. “Yes. I’ve heard of it, never witnessed it firsthand, mind you. Why do you ask…has this happened to you?”
I don’t want to tell him the truth, but I don’t see the point in making up a story and having to stick with it. I’m getting some of the answers I desperately seek. “Yes. It looked like her, talked like her, knew things only she would know…”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“A few days ago.”
“And nothing bad has happened since?”
“Well…kind of. But not as bad as I’d think if a demon was posing as my mother, ya know?” I force a smile, feeling awkward.
“What kind of bad things?”
Fuck. I can’t get into this. He believes in ghosts, but I can’t tell him I’m a witch living with four half-man, half-gargoyles who were cursed by my great, great, great, great, great—whatever—grandfather.
“Nightmares.”
“About the person you thought you contacted?”
“No.”
“What makes you think this person might not be who you thought they were?”
“Honestly.” I bring my hands to my lap, pressing my sweaty palms on my legs. “Nothing. She seemed like her, down to the last detail. But…”
“It seemed too good to be true.”
“Yes.”
He takes in a breath and thinks for a minute. “There’s someone you should talk to. He’s…he’s in tune with things. He might be able to help.”
