Typical psychic muddying and bullshit.
Behind Hayes, stretched out on the wall, lay Morrigan, Madame’s ridiculously enormous Maine Coon cat—blacker than a winter’s night and a bona fide H-Town A-lister. LikeReggie, Morrigan was equal parts local celebrity and unapologetic tourist trap. Visitors stood in line for selfies with him like he was the eighth wonder of the world, while he lounged with the serene arrogance of a cult leader who expected nothing less than absolute and unflinching adoration.
She thought about stroking Morrigan to say hello, but he gave her atry it and dielook.
Hayes stood up, ambled over to her, and snatched his coffee from her hand. “Thanks, Bird,” he said, and turned to the stranger. He held out his hand. “You’re the new doc in town, right?”
He was a doctor? Had old Dr. Morris retired? The man shook his still damp head. “I’m a disaster-response surgeon—basically the guy with a scalpel running toward the mess. Dane Trafford.”
Whoa, impressive. But, yeah, she could see it. He radiated an everything-under-control vibe. Cool, reserved, unflappable. Which made her itch to see if she could rattle him…
Bad girl, Wren! You’re having a man-free summer, remember? What is wrong with you?
“Hayes Wellington,” Hayes replied. “I build custom bikes and restore vintage cars and bikes.” He slung his hand around Wren’s shoulder. “Have you met Wren? She’s a dancer and back in town for a couple of months this summer. Just like old times, right, Wren?”
Wren lifted her eyebrows, surprised at Hayes’s chattiness. He was usually a man of few words. He either instantly felt super comfortable with the doc, or he’d turned over a forest of new leaves. She sipped her coffee—perfect—and met Dane’s penetrating gaze. “I was an H-Town native,” she explained. “Hayes here used to tease me mercilessly.”
Hayes tugged on a curl. “And I always will.”
Dane smiled, and Wren felt her ovaries flip over. She started to play with her hair and froze. Hair-tugging? Seriously? How old was she, thirteen? Then he gestured to Hayes’s 1950s truck, an appreciative expression on his face. “That yours?” he asked Hayes.
“Mmm. You like cars?”
“Ilovecars.”
“Come by my shop sometime,” Hayes said, and Wren’s eyebrows flew up. Hayes never invited anybody into his sacred space. Ever. “Head up this street, at the stop sign, hook a right. Carry on straight for a bit, and I’m on the left.”
“I’ll do that,” Hot Doc—Dane—said. He darted a look through the bow window, and Wren followed his gaze. Earl and Marigold were still arguing.
“You do know that ghosts can literally communicate through Spotify shuffle, right?”
Wren, Dane, and Hayes all turned as three teenage girls—short shorts, bikini tops under baggy tank tops, ballcaps on back to front, sipping bubble tea—exited Spirited Grounds. They stopped a yard from them, oblivious to their presence. High on woo-woo energy by the sounds of it.
“Oh, this is premium-grade bullshit,” Hayes whispered. “I gotta hear this.”
“Ghosts can’t talk, obvs, so they hop on electricity and signals. Music apps are perfect—because of the algorithms andpatterns. So you ask a question, and they nudge the shuffle … and then comes the message.”
Hayes rolled his eyes and Wren grinned.
“Shutup. That’s insane.”
“No, but seriously—so a friend of a friend tried it, okay? She asked if her gran was, like, okay? And then she got three—three—songs in a row about hell. Tell me that’s not a sign. I mean … kinda tracks, though. Apparently, she was low-key a nightmare.”
Wren sucked hard on her straw to keep from sniggering, and when she looked at Dane, his eyebrows were raised, obviously amused.
“But the trick is, you have to do it at night. Full moon is like, elite, and you cannot skip songs, that’s like interrupting them mid-message. So rude, honestly.”
Dane rubbed his hand over his short, messy brown hair as they ambled away. He blinked and shook his head. “Apart from using my Spotify account to communicate with spirits, what else should I know about this place?”
“How do you explain H-Town to a stranger?” Hayes mused.
“Hell if I know,” Wren replied. “You live here full-time, you give it a shot.”
Hayes mock scowled at her. “Thanks, Bird.” He sipped his coffee and nodded to the mismatched couple. “Earl and Marigold are married, by the way.”
Wren grinned at the shock on Dane’s face. She knew what he was thinking: Earl and Marigold’s home had to be a battlefield. If it was, they were used to it, because they’d recently celebrated forty-five years together, with Earl often declaring that divorce wasn’t an option, but murder was.
“Maybe it would help if we gave you some history,” said Hayes. “So, over a decade ago, Wren’s godmother?—”
