The Prophet

“Why?”

“They’re insidious,” he said with contempt. “Leeches preying on the living because they refuse to accept death. I’m not like that.”

“But isn’t that what you’re doing to me?”

“Only for as long as I need your help. I have to sustain myself until I can find a way to move on,” he said. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.”

“So, what do we do first?”

He moved, stirring the air, and I felt a faint chill creep up my spine. I had to remind myself yet again that, despite our strange arrangement, he was still a ghost and, therefore, dangerous to me.

“We follow the clues,” he said. “No matter where they lead us. Understood?”

“I…”

“Understood?”

I almost jumped. “Yes. Understood.”

He nodded and turned away. “Someone was in the cemetery after I was shot that night, someone besides the killer. We have to find that person or persons and get them to talk.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “Did you see someone?”

“No,” he said. “But I sensed a presence.”

A presence. “If you were that close to death, how can you be so sure you weren’t dreaming or hallucinating?”

“I felt someone going through my pockets. It was real, but if you don’t believe me, read the police report. My cell phone was missing when my body was recovered.”

“How am I supposed to get my hands on the police report?”

“You said you could be resourceful when the need arises. Find a way.”

I was starting to get frightened again. This was absolutely the strangest night of my life, and that was saying something for me.

Was I really being blackmailed by a ghost? Did he truly expect me to conduct a murder investigation all on my own? If I failed, if I couldn’t uncover his killer, would he haunt me for the rest of my life? Would he continue to devour my warmth and energy until I remained nothing more than a shell?

I tried to remain calm. “Assuming we somehow manage to find this…whoever it was, how do you propose we make them talk? I’m not a cop. I know nothing about interrogations. And frankly, what you’re proposing sounds incredibly risky. Not that you have to worry about it.”

“I’m not out to get you killed,” he said.

“That’s reassuring.”

“So long as you do as I say, you’ll be fine.”

And I was supposed to believe him?

Yet, even as I quivered in fear, an unexpected excitement coursed through me. All my life, I’d been sheltered and protected, not just from the ghosts, but from the world outside my cemetery gates. There was a time when I would have clung to that seclusion, to that safety, even to my loneliness, but the secrets I’d uncovered about myself in Asher Falls had made me reevaluate my ability and my very existence. I wanted to believe there was a purpose to my life, a reason why I saw ghosts. It wasn’t just a dangerous legacy. I had been given a gift.

And now here was a ghost who offered me a way to attain a higher purpose. A reason to embrace that dark gift rather than hide from it on hallowed ground.

If I could help the Prophet move on, perhaps I could do the same for Shani and Mariama. And then Devlin would be mine—

I was a little shocked by the direction of my thoughts, and I told myself I wouldn’t go there. It was too dangerous. Too foolish to even contemplate a time when Devlin and I might possibly be together. Besides, for all I knew he’d already moved on with the brunette. He might already have put our past behind him.

Then why had he sent a message on the day I’d left Asher Falls?

Why had his ghosts lured me into that woman’s garden tonight? Why did Mariama feel so threatened by me?

It wasn’t over with Devlin. A part of me knew that, no matter what happened, no matter the passage of time or the miles between us, it would never truly be over. Devlin was my destiny. The one man I wanted above all others was the one man I could never have.

Unless I could somehow find a way to close that door.

I tried to tamp down that sinister glimmer of hope as I glanced at the ghost. “If I help you, we’ll be even, right? My debt to you will be paid in full.”

Robert Fremont smiled. “Never bargain with the dead. We have nothing to lose.”

Chapter Four

Long after Fremont vanished, I sat there shivering in the falling twilight even though the evening was still quite warm. At some point, it occurred to me that Angus was barking in the backyard. Strangely, he’d been silent during the visitation, but now something had excited him. I called out, but my voice didn’t quiet him.

I grabbed my shopping bag and hurried through the side yard to the back gate, contemplating the impact of my meeting with Fremont. In the space of a few short minutes, my whole life had changed. I’d knowingly entered into a relationship with a ghost. Talk about acknowledging the dead. Talk about tempting fate. I could only imagine what Papa would say about such an association.

Which made me wonder…had he ever encountered an entity like Robert Fremont?

I thought about the ghost of the old white-haired man I’d seen in Rosehill Cemetery, the hallowed place of my childhood. He had been my first manifestation and I’d only glimpsed him one other time since that long-ago day. My father had told me that ever since the initial sighting, he’d been afraid the old man’s ghost had been sent to watch over me by something evil on the other side of the veil. But I had to wonder if Papa was still holding out on me. Despite everything he’d revealed about my birth and my heritage, I couldn’t shake the notion that he kept things from me still. That he had secrets I’d yet to uncover.

Opening the back gate, I slipped inside. There was still light in the garden though the moon hadn’t yet risen. Angus stood in the center of the yard, his gaze transfixed on the swing. It moved slowly back and forth.

Shani?

I didn’t say her name aloud. I didn’t think I needed to.

She didn’t answer. I heard no sound at all except for the faint tinkle of the wind chimes and the pounding of my heart in my ears.

But the swing continued to move in the breeze.

Something was there. I could feel a chill in the air, and as I stood riveted, a scent drifted to me. Not the exotic fragrance from earlier, but the familiar scent of jasmine that harkened Shani’s presence. Once again she had followed me home, but for some reason, she wouldn’t or couldn’t appear. Was she afraid of Mariama?

I didn’t want to contemplate what that might mean. A child—even a ghost child—frightened of her own mother.

I was certainly afraid of Mariama.

“Shani?” Her name slipped out on a whisper.

Silence.

I watched the swing move back and forth, imagining the sway of the little girl’s hair, the billow of her blue dress. The innocent peal of her sweet laughter.

How many times had Devlin remembered her that way? How many times had he roused from a dream, aching to hold his child in his arms only to recall his painful reality? He must have relived her death over and over in the two years since she’d been gone. A fresh despair every time he awakened.

My heart turned over. “I know you’re there,” I called softly.

I was playing with fire, and I could almost hear my father’s condemnation. What are you doing,