“Yes, and that’s why I need your help. I’ve been successful so far, but one day I’m gonna encounter someone who isn’t put off by a little haunting and my luck’ll run out. No matter what I do, Charlie comes up with boring, alive-person explanations for it. Oh, it’s the wind, it’s old wiring, it’s poor insulation, a lack of sleep. I tell you, the man’s ability to rationalize is almost irrational. Only a matter of time until he finds a buyer who’s the same way and Charlie leaves, heading straight for death and, well...” He stands from where he was float-sitting and gestures to his body and its cloudlike undercurrents. “This.Forever.”
Gretchen folds her arms and gives it one last shot. One last-ditch effort to convince herself she doesn’t need to involve herself in this. “Is it really so bad? Aren’t there some upsides to being a ghost?”
A seriousness comes over Everett’s features, made startlingly more effective by its contrast with his previous demeanor. “I wouldn’t wish it on my own worst enemy, much less a good guy like Charlie.”
A sigh falls from her mouth. She won’t be requesting another ride for a while (if she’ll even be able to find another one once Sulayman is out of the area), so she tucks her phone into her backpack’s front pocket. “How do you expect me to help you? I’m the last person in the world Charlie Waybill is going to believe about anything, much lessthis.”
Everett shrugs. “You’ll make him.”
“What?”
“You’ll make him believe you,” he repeats. “I’m sure you canfigure it out. You said before you were only pretending to talk to the dead? That it was a con. So I assume you’re some kind of fakeloo artist? A flimflam lady? And such a lovely one at that. I bet you’ve got some tricks up your sleeves.”
Gretchen’s instinct is to lament,Why me, though?But the more she turns it over in her mind, she starts to think maybe saving Charlie from death and eternal unrest is the perfect opportunity to test out her Rule—the ultimate way to prove that she can use her natural talents without doing more harm than good in this world. Then her father can say whatever he wants and she’ll know, deep inside, finally and without a doubt, that he’swrongabout her. Besides, this could be the challenge she needs to reboot her system, to get back the excitement that used to come with pulling off a job.
Really, the possibility of her gotcha euphoria returning might be worth it alone. That, and the ten thousand dollars she could definitely keep with a clear conscience.
“True,” she admits, smiling at the thought. Charlie is certainly a tough customer, but Gretchen has confidence in her skills. She’ll make it happen. Whatever it takes. Why her? Because she’s great at what she does, that’s why.
“Attagirl.” Everett grins back at her. For a second, it feels like Gretchen’s a kid again, her daddy humoring her by letting her take the lead on planning a simple job. Her heart twinges at the mix of memories—so many highs and so many lows intertwined with them. Maybe if she pulls this off, she could open that letter waiting for her back in DC. Maybe she could even throw it away.
With a shake of her head, she clears the unwanted thoughts of her father and walks back toward the house, examining the property and idly searching for inspiration as she goes. Everettfollows like a seagull trailing someone eating french fries. “If this has any chance of working, I need to find a way to get Charlie talking to me again,” she says. “Our last interaction ended... not so great.” She should stop and google to see if this Charles Waybill has any social media. Then again, perhaps she has a much more valuable resource right here. “What do you know about him?” she asks.
“What do I know about Charlie? Whatdon’tI know about Charlie! I’ve been around since he was a baby visiting his grandparents here. I watched him grow into the strapping young man he is today. It all started when his father was born, back in January of ’63. There’d been a snowstorm, and—”
“Can we speed this up?” she asks. “I know time is meaningless to you, but some of us still have, you know, lives to live.”
His smile droops, and a stab of remorse prompts her to hold up a hand. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. I would really appreciate it if you could tell me a bit about Charlie, what he’s like when he isn’t threatening to call the cops on people.”
Everett looks to the sky, contemplating how to answer the question. “Hm. Well, the first thing you need to know about Charlie Waybill is that he’s a genuine good egg. And his yolk’s real runny.”
Gretchen grimaces. “What’s that mean? It sounds gross.”
“It means he’s got the softest heart.”
“Oh. I see.”
“He can’t help himself from helping people, no matter how big of an inconvenience for him or how much they don’t deserve it. He’d give his worst enemy the shirt off his back. And if he loves a person, well... pretty sure he’d give them anything in the world. His grandmother, Ellen—she was the same way. Compassion always won out over everything else.”
“Interesting,” she says. “So you think he’d help me if I needed it, even though he doesn’t like me?”
“Oh, Gretchen, sweetheart, I’m counting on it.” He grins. “Sorry in advance.”
“Huh? What are you—”
Then she’s jerked forward, and the cold overtakes her before she hits the ground with asplash.
6
This must be what it feels like to do those Polar Plunge events where people run into bodies of water in the middle of the winter. Except instead of the ocean or a lake, Gretchen’s face down in one of the largest muddy puddles bordering the driveway. Which is kind of warm thanks to the midday sun, so it must just be her blood that’s frozen.
With her head elevated enough that she won’t swallow dirty water if she opens her mouth, she shouts, “Did you just fuckingpushme?”
Everett doesn’t respond, the coward.
Her attempts at getting up are almost Sisyphean, her hands and boots unable to find traction in the slippery mud. It’s reminiscent of quicksand, the way she sinks deeper into it the more she struggles. Plus, her clothes are now thoroughly saturated. Eventually, exhausted and certain the damage is already done, Gretchen gives up and rolls over like a rotisserie chicken until she’s sprawled out in a dry spot of grass. She stares up at the cloudlesssky, its blue antagonistically similar to that damn ghost’s eyes, and wonders again if this might be a dream after all—no, a nightmare. And also if it’s possible to strangle someone who’s already dead.
The thin, wet fabric of Gretchen’s dress clings to the tops of her thighs. Her knees are thoroughly caked in mud and slivers of dead grass. And her hair feels as if a large snake/rodent hybrid drowned and its corpse was laid to rest upon her forehead. She’s going to need to do some research to figure out if her pleather jacket is salvageable. No googling necessary to determine that the suede of her boots will never fully recover. At least she has a few changes of clothes—Ah, shit!Her backpack still rests in the deepest part of the puddle. She scrambles to her knees and grabs it, but the canvas is as muddy and soaked through as she is. Her wallet, phone, and phone charger have thankfully escaped undamaged in their external pocket, but even at first glance she can tell that almost everything inside the main compartment of the bag is contaminated with puddle gunk.
