“Because darling, from what I understand, those two are lying to you.” She nodded toward Tart and Owen. “They’re not your parents. They’re only pretending to be.”
TWENTY-TWO
My heart raced all kinds of crazy. I inhaled deeply, knowing I needed to calm down. I fiddled with my shoelace for another moment, trying to buy some time.
“Are you sure?”
“Check their wallets.”
I rolled my eyes. “How easy that seems. Hi, can I have your wallet? That’s ridiculous.”
Francine leaned against the mantle, placing her lower half in the flames. “They’re not your parents. They’re lying to you.”
“Why?”
“So that you’ll work for them. Both of them. They belong to a rival agency.”
I shot her a dark look. “And you’re sure?”
“I’ve listened to them.”
“What about Roan?”
She shrugged. “What about him?”
“His gift,” I said through gritted teeth. “Is it true we can’t be together?”
She hiked a shoulder. “I don’t know. Ask them. All I know is that they’re preying on you.” Francine leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Don’t trust them.”
Tears stung my eyes. I’d been so naive. So foolish. I wanted a family so badly I was ready to jump into the arms of whoever presented herself as my mother. It was horrible that I had become so susceptible.
I rethought that.
No. My reaction wasn’t horrible. It was normal. What they were doing was horrible—preying on my trust and vulnerability while at the same time separating me from the man I loved because by doing that they would gain all the control.
But at the same time, was I right to trust Francine? She wanted into the cemetery. What would she do to get that? I wanted to scream. Who was I supposed to trust?
I finished tying my shoe and shoved my phone in my back pocket. I blinked the tears away and strode over to the table.
“Sorry about that.” I sat across from them. “I have a spirit working on a case for me. She had intel I had to hear.”
They would’ve seen Francine, so there was no point not mentioning her.
“It’s fine.” Tart beamed. “We understand.” She extended her hands, and it took everything I had to let her squeeze my arm. “How’re you?”
“I’m fine. I’m apparently all over the paper.”
Owen placed a copy on the table and slid it over to me. “It’s not good to make waves like this.”
“Why not?”
He tapped my picture. “The wrong spirits can see it. Target you.”
I shrugged. “Oh that? I have some immunity.”
Tart and Owen exchanged a look. “You do?” Tart said.
I nodded. “Yeah. I have a mark on my hand—a ghost gift that means it’s okay for ornery ghosts to communicate with me.”
