Page 23

I stayed out of the way.

Mostly.

But when they started having interior design ideas, any thoughts I had about being a gracious homeowner—or whatever the hell the dead version of one was—went straight out the window.

The wife stood in my kitchen running her hand across my cabinets. “These are too dark. Maybe Henrietta will let us have them painted.”

No, the fuck she won’t. You better take yo’ lil’ Pinterest dreams somewhere else.

Her husband looked toward the breakfast area. “I’d replace these fixtures too.”

Nigga, you ain’t replacing shit but your address.

Then there was the daughter who wanted to put wallpaper in one of the bedrooms.

The son stood in the upstairs den explaining how he wanted to rip out the custom built-ins along one wall so he could mount a huge television and turn the whole space into some elaborate gaming setup.

I was beside him so fast I almost forgot the little nigga couldn’t see me.

Over my dead body… literally.

He kept talking, completely unaware that the dead homeowner was standing inches away getting more irritated with every word.

Those built-ins weren’t some random shit I had added because the room needed filling. I had them designed specifically for Lakelyn. She used to complain that my house was too damn big and looked like somewhere a man lived alone, so when I started making space for her without telling her, that room had been one of the first things I changed.

The cabinetry stretched across the entire wall, with shelves for her books that she liked to read, closed storage underneath, and a wide window seat built into the center because she liked curling up somewhere comfortable after a long shift. Now this lil’ nigga had been in my house a few hours and was already talking demolition?

Yeah, your stay just got real short.

I tried knocking the pen off my desk. It rolled maybe half an inch, and that pissed me off even more.

I concentrated harder and managed to make one of the papers flutter at the corner before every bit of energy I had seemed to drain with it.

Fuck!

A soft laugh came from somewhere behind me.

I flinched so hard I damn near forgot I was a ghost myself.

I spun around, and for the first time in almost a year, somebody was standing in my house looking directly at me… not through me, but at me.

She was an older Black woman, maybe somewhere in her mid-sixties, if age even meant shit wherever she came from. She was dressed in a way that reminded me of one of those spiritual mediums people paid to tell them what their dead relatives were doing… only nothing about her that looked cheap or theatrical.

A long, dark dress fell loosely around her body, layered beneath a flowing shawl embroidered with symbols I didn’t recognize. Rings covered several of her fingers, bracelets rested against both wrists, and a collection of stones and small charms hung from chains around her neck.

But it was the glow around her that made it obvious she wasn’t some woman who had come through my front door like everybody else. It wasn’t bright enough to light the room or anything dramatic like that… just a soft haze clinging to her skin that let me know she belonged to something I didn’t understand yet.

Even her eyes threw me off. They were dark, but there was something in them I couldn’t quite place. They were too calm… too knowing, like she already had answers to questions I hadn’t even thought to ask yet.

After nearly a year of existing in that house with nobody answering me, another dead—or whatever-the-hell-she-was—person appearing behind me without warning was enough to throw me completely off.

“Who the fuck are you?”

One of her perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted. “Is that any way to greet someone who has come to help you?”

I studied her from head to toe. “Well, forgive me if being dead for a year, minding my own damn business, and then having some strange woman pop up behind me didn’t exactly bring out my manners.”

Her lips twitched before a quiet chuckle escaped her. “Oh, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”