“Hmmm?”
He was beginning to look uninterested. “Roan made a good point. Why can’t you track my dad yourself?”
The spirit shrugged. “Let’s just say because I can’t.”
Bull crap. He was hiding something. “No deal. Unless you tell me everything that’s going on, I’m not going to do any searching for you.”
“But this is an easy case for you.” His mouth wound into a devilish smile. “What father wouldn’t want to come back to earth and find his daughter? I know that Vince will seek you out. All you have to do is hold him when he appears. I’m not asking you to trek all over the planet searching for him. Oh, Vince Breneaux will show up. I’m sure of it.”
“If it’s that easy, why don’t you hang around and catch him yourself?”
“Ah, ah, don’t try to turn this around on me.”
Okay, so Mr. Lucky Strike wasn’t going to be easy to work with. No surprise there. Time to pivot this conversation in my direction.
“No go, Lucky.”
His eyes widened. Was that fear? Yes, I could practically smell the angst wafting off him. “What do you mean?” he asked.
I hiked a shoulder to my ear. “It’s just what I said—I’m not helping you. I’m not interested. You can’t even tell me what he owes you, and yet you expect me to traipse around looking for my dad and catch him for you. How do I know this story isn’t the other way around? That you owe him? You could be trying to trick me, and Lucky, I’m not interested in games or tricks.”
He cursed and threw down his cigarette, grinding his booted toe into the burning tip.
“Fine. Have it your way. Your father and I had it out upstairs. I accused him of using me when I was on earth, and he admitted what he’d done, apologizing. I thought we’d made up.” Lucky sniggered. “Was I wrong. One morning I woke up—”
“You sleep in heaven?” Roan asked.
“Among other things.” His gaze shot to Susan and she blushed.
Okay, that was the TMI moment of the day. “Keep on track,” I growled.
“Fine. When I woke up, I felt that something was missing, that I was lighter somehow.”
“He steal your smokes?” Susan asked.
“No,” he spat. “Vince Breneaux stole the most important thing I’ve got.”
Your hair?Seriously, most men would kill to have hair like Lucky’s. He had a lot of it, even if it was white.
“He stole”—Lucky took a deep breath— “my soul. Vince Breneaux somehow got ahold of my soul and stole it out from under my nose.”
I stared at him skeptically. “Your soul? You’re talking about it as if it’s an actual thing that’s inside you.”
“I’ll show you.”
Then Lucky Strike unbuttoned the black-and-white vest beneath his jacket and opened it.
That was when Ruth and Alice charged into the kitchen.
“Where did everybody go?” Alice asked. “I was just about to get the millionaire shortbread out of my purse. Oh no!”
“Alice, I told you toixnayon theortbread-shay. No one’s going to want shortbread that’s been in a napkin inside your purse that’s full of crumbs. Oh, my eyes!”
Ruth took the words right out of my mouth. Both women walked in and started talking before their gazes landed on the gaping black hole that should have been Lucky Strike’s chest.
Where I would have expected to see ghostly ribs, all that existed was literally a dark pit.
“That’s where my soul is supposed to be,” Lucky said. He sneered. “Didn’t think I’d have an audience for it, though.”
