“He’s got the woman in white up there in the house, you know. That’s what they call her, the mayor’s wife. The mother who killed her kids and then comes looking for them. He told me he’d seen her, heard her crying.” Pete narrowed his eyes at Erielle. “You seen ‘em?”
She shook her head. “I’ve only been here a few days. I haven’t seen anything.” And she hoped to keep it that way.
What was she talking about? Of course she’d keep it that way, because ghosts didn’t exist.
She was pretty sure.
“Starts that way, is what he told me. They move stuff around on you. Make you think you’re losing your mind.” Pete tapped his temple.
Guilt swamped Erielle, making her heart ache. She should have come to check on her grandfather more often. Clearly that was the beginning of his dementia. No wonder her mother had moved him into the senior care facility. Erielle should have taken time off to consult with her mother, make sure he was happy, settled. Instead, she’d told herself she didn’t want to remember him that way, and she’d stayed away.
She’d had enough ghost talk. She took Pete’s empty glass and walked over to the sink to wash it out. She wasn’t going to let their talk scare her—or make her sad.
She was absolutely wiped when she got home. The work wasn’t hard, but she was alert all the time. The bar hadn’t even been that busy, but she had just felt like she needed to pay extra attention in a way she hadn’t had to do when she worked in restaurants. No one had been threatening, or scary. Just guys who wanted to unwind after a long day with a beer or two or four.
She’d chased Samson off around midnight, even though she wished now she hadn’t. She kind of liked that he was looking out for her, but she couldn’t let herself depend on him. She’d walked home from restaurants in New York City, Detroit, Los Angeles. She could handle a short drive home down a quiet street in a small town.
She mounted the steps to the Victorian wearily, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up when she unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
She was just extra wary after the conversation with Pete earlier. He got her imagination running away with itself.
She stepped into the hallway, where she’d left the light on the entryway table burning.
And saw the picture she’d left on the front porch was hanging back in its place.
Six
I don’t believein ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts, Erielle told herself over and over, but it didn’t help her sleep, and she tossed again on the floppy air mattress.
She wanted to call Deputy Thibodeaux out again, but didn’t want to be labeled a hysterical female. Which she wasn’t.
Honestly, she would rather the culprit were ghosts than someone repeatedly breaking into her house.
She thought about sleeping in her car, but that didn’t feel any safer. From ghosts, maybe, but not from humans.
So she didn’t sleep that night.
She waited for a reasonable time before she called around to find a dumpster company that could deliver by next week. She didn’t even care how much she was adding to her credit card at this point because damn. She had to start doing something. Just thinking about the attic and all that junk filled her with anxiety.
And then she headed into town to meet Daisy, her grandfather’s lawyer.
They’d arranged to meet at the diner, Erielle’s first time inside since she’d been back. She walked up to the place, with its plate-glass windows painted with the specials in wide red letters with curvy, playful swirls.
She stepped inside and did her best not to wince at the scent of grease that hung in the air. She didn’t really remember if the place had smelled like this when she was younger, but this grease smelled years old.
The dark-skinned woman behind the counter was as curvy as the font, but not nearly as playful. In fact, her brows slammed together as the bell over the door rang, like Erielle was intruding. Erielle glanced around to see two men at the counter, and no one in any of the booths. She motioned in question toward one of the booths, and the woman’s scowl deepened, but she snatched up a menu and marched around the counter to meet Erielle at the booth closest to the walkway.
Okay, then. Erielle forced a friendly smile that probably just looked sad as she took the seat facing the door, and accepted the one-sheet menu inside a foggy plastic cover. Erielle had to wonder if the lack of care in the business was the reason the customers seemed to stay away.
Or it could be the friendliness of the staff.
“I’m Erielle Benoit,” she began.
“I know who you are,” the woman, who didn’t have a name tag, so everyone must know who she was, cut her off. “The old man’s daughter here to mess up all our lives. What you want to drink?”
Mess up—? But Erielle couldn’t wrap her head around that, so she ordered water in a to-go cup.
The woman rolled her eyes. “No, you gotta order something costs money to get a to-go cup.”
