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“That’s brutal.”

“That’s Clawdia.” Miss Kitty catches herself and wrinkles her nose. “I mean, that was Clawdia. She didn’t just compete with people. She destroyed them.”

“Was Ghoulia angry at the festival because of this?”

Miss Kitty’s eyes widen. “Very angry. Like, scary angry. Did you see them together that night?”

I think about the woman I saw Clawdia shaking backstage, the one who looked furious and desperate. “I saw Clawdia shaking someone before the panel. Clawdia looked pretty aggressive. I was about to intervene.”

“That was Ghoulia!” Miss Kitty leans forward, fully animated now. “I saw it, too! Ghoulia was screaming at her. Something about ‘you’ll pay for this.’ It was pretty intense.”

It’s about time Ghoulia entered the limelight, she thinks to herself. I hope that cute detective finds his way to her too. Ghoulia didn’t deserve the things Clawdia did to her. But then that nasty street runs both ways.

I catch that thought, but I’m also genuinely interested in what she’s saying because everything adds up. Ghoulia had motive, she had means, and she was furious with Clawdia that night. It’s a perfect homicidal trifecta.

“And here’s the thing.” Miss Kitty winces at me. “I hate to say this, but it’s pretty obvious to just about everybody. Ghoulia knows her way around poisons. That’s her whole aesthetic. Victorian apothecary, arsenic, nightshade, belladonna, all of it. To say she’s studied up on the topic would be putting it mildly. She literally has a segment on her channel called ‘Poison of the Week.’”

“You’re kidding,” I say, blinking my surprise. “I know her show is called Screams from the Crypt. I guess I should do a deep dive on it.” I say that last part mostly to myself.

“I wish I was kidding. If anyone knew how to poison someone and make it look natural, it’s Ghoulia Grimm.”

I’m processing this, thinking about the backstage confrontation, about the poison that killed Clawdia, about the fact that Ghoulia’s entire brand is built around historical toxins.

Miss Kitty spots the deep look of concern on my face and adds, “Look, I’m not saying I didn’t have issues with Clawdia. We all did. She was... a lot. But Ghoulia? That was next level.” Her attention gets hijacked again in the direction of the mirrors, and a tiny smile plays on her lips. I wonder if Georgie would let me interview her for my show. That woman is CONTENT GOLD.

I almost smile at that random thought myself because it’s so completely off-topic, and yet so completely accurate, but I catch myself.

Behind us, there’s a loud crash, and we both turn around to find Georgie hanging from the chandelier, suspended at least twelve feet off the ground.

“Georgie,” I cry.

I stare at her for a solid three seconds trying to process how this happened, and I come up empty because there is no logical explanation for how an eighty-something-year-old woman in platform boots and a bat-wing cape ended up dangling from a crystal chandelier in a haunted castle.

“It grabbed me!” Georgie shouts at the top of her lungs. “The ghost grabbed me!”

Fish, Duchess, and Sherlock are all gathered below, and behind them is every other soul in the building as they all stare up at her in horror.

Her cape is tangled in the crystals, and she’s swinging slightly with her platform boots kicking in the air.

The lighting dims another notch then quivers as if it had converted to candlelight. Screams go off, followed by a round of gasps.

Then I see it.

A glowing figure is standing exactly where Georgie was a few minutes ago. So very blue. Translucent. And shaped like a man. A very attractive man, actually, with broad shoulders and what looks like period clothing from the 1800s. I can see every last inch of him as if he were real—with the exception that he’s merely the outline of a man, and I can see right through his body.

He takes a little bow directed at the ladies in the room before looking up and smiling at Georgie.

“Do you see that?” a woman whispers.

“The hot ghost?” another woman says. “Oh, honey, I not only see him, I want to take him home with me!”

“Forget taking him home,” another shouts. “I want to haunt his house!”

The room breaks out in laughter.

“Take a number, girls,” a fourth woman calls out. “I saw him first, and I’ve been a widow for twelve years. I’ve got needs and the universe owes me one tall drink of ectoplasm.”

More laughter ensues.