“Hello, Allie.” A woman’s voice this time. I searched my memory and came up with nothing-see how annoying that is? “I’m sorry to call so early, but I’ve left a few messages on your cell phone and thought I’d try to catch you before you went out for the day.”
I flipped my book open again. Who had been leaving me messages? Just my dad’s accountant, Mr. Katz. I glanced at my cell phone-no light at all. The battery was dead, blown. I’d had it only a couple days, and it was currently plugged in to the charger.
I’d had zero luck with cell phones lately. Any electronics that worked through a line, like my computer, seemed to hold up okay, but anything wireless self-destructed when it saw me coming.
“Allie?” the woman said.
“Yes,” I said, still trying to place her voice. “My cell isn’t working. You might want to leave messages here on my home phone.”
“Do you want me to have Mr. Katz set you up with a new phone?”
And that was when I knew who it was. Violet. My dad’s latest wife. She had a young voice, and from the newspaper articles Nola had shown me, I knew she was about my age. I think I had met her, but that memory was toast too.
“No, that’s fine. It’s still under warranty. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. Why are you calling?”
She hesitated, just a pause, an inhalation, but it made every instinct in my body rise up.
“Are you in trouble?” I asked.
She exhaled with a sort of laugh. “I’m fine, just fine. I was hoping you might want to get together for lunch today. I haven’t heard from you since before the coma. You didn’t contact me when you came back into town. I know we’ve only met once, but… well, since you weren’t able to come to the funeral… and there’s still so much unfinished business with Beckstrom Enterprises and your role in managing the company… I just thought… I don’t know. I thought we might want to get to know each other a little better. Talk about some things.”
My dad had been married six times. Years ago I’d stopped trying to make nice with the women who attached themselves to and were discarded by my father. Which is why I surprised myself by saying, “Sure. Let’s do dinner instead, if that’s okay. I have a lot of things to get to today.”
Violet sounded just as surprised. “Oh. Good. Dinner’s fine.”
We settled the time and restaurant-not one of the exclusive swanky spots in town, but Slide Long’s, known for its seafood-and then we said our good-byes.
I stared at the phone for a minute, trying to sort out how I felt about getting to know her.
I guess I was a little curious but mostly just lonely. My best friend lived three hundred miles away. The man I was supposed to love was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t even know any of my neighbors.
And my dad was dead.
I wondered when I’d stopped liking being alone. Maybe somewhere in the days I couldn’t remember, I’d given up on the solitary woman bit and had actually let people into my life. And maybe I had really liked it.
Or maybe I just wasn’t in my right mind. Which might also explain the whole ghost-in-the-bathroom bit.
Well, whatever. Right now I had to get down to the police department and tell them what I knew about the day my dad died. After that I’d scout around town and see if there were any Hounding possibilities.
I picked up my journal and quickly wrote that I was giving a statement and had dinner plans with Violet. I paused, wondering if I should write that I’d seen a ghost. Common sense won out, and I simply wrote:
Chapter Two
I blew out all the candles and checked to make sure my windows were locked and my heater wasn’t turned up too high. My apartment looked like it always did: sort of half-decorated, a few boxes still out from my move a week ago, laundry piled on one corner of the couch waiting to be folded, and empty coffee cups perched here and there amidst a half dozen paperbacks I was reading.
The place was coming together. Pillows on the couch and a couple pieces of artwork I’d bought at the Saturday Market did some good to add color to the off-white walls and tan rug.
And best of all, not a ghost in sight. If I managed to stay here long enough, it might even feel like home someday.
I gathered all the empty cups and took them to the kitchen sink. I was procrastinating, and if I waited any longer I was going to miss the bus and miss my appointment with Love and Payne. Then they’d be on my doorstep, wearing their not-at-all-amused faces.
Going in to see the police before coffee wasn’t my idea of fun.
I took a nice deep breath and put the last cup in the sink. I could do this. Go downtown, give my statement, and then head over to Get Mugged-my favorite coffee shop in the whole town-and get me a decent cup of joe and something for breakfast.
All the normal stuff normal people do. Normal people who use magic only occasionally because they don’t want to pay the physical price of pain. Normal people who use magic only to make themselves look thinner at their high school reunions or to keep their cars shiny in the summer. Normal people who use magic only to get high on Friday nights.
Normal people who don’t see ghosts.
So what if I wasn’t good at normal? Didn’t mean I couldn’t have some fun.
I turned out the kitchen light and walked around the half wall, snatching up my knit hat on the way. I tugged the hat over my head, thankful my hair was short enough I didn’t have to tuck it up. I headed to the living room and pulled my coat and scarf off the back of my couch and put them on. I put my journal and dead cell phone in one pocket and then checked for my gloves (black leather driving gloves that were actually warm and stylish, wonder of wonders) in the other pocket.
The gloves served two purposes. One, they kept my fingers from freezing-it had been cold the last week or so. I was amazed the rain hadn’t turned to snow yet. And two, the gloves hid the marks magic had left on my hands. Which meant I didn’t have to put up with the stares and questions.
Yes, I get tired of making up excuses for something most people wouldn’t believe. That magic, magic in my bones, painted me, marked me, scarred me. Most days I liked how it looked but some days I didn’t want the attention.
With my keys and wallet tucked in my pockets, I went out the door, locking it behind me. The delicious spice of cinnamon and yeast caught at the back of my throat and made my empty stomach cramp in protest. I inhaled deeply and sighed. Sweet torture, someone was baking cinnamon rolls. I put one hand over my stomach and picked up the pace a bit. I hadn’t eaten since my peanut butter sandwich for dinner yesterday, and I was suddenly very hungry.
I marched down the hall and noted the last apartment door was propped open. The tenants had moved out about a week after I moved in, and it looked like someone had rented it already. I passed in front of the door and inhaled deeply again, this time picking up on the more subtle scent of almond and deeper spices-a man’s cologne, the slightest tang of sweat and something sweet like licorice-as I passed by the door. I didn’t hear anyone moving around in there, but clearly, moving was going on.
There were no elevators in the Forecastle, which was one of the reasons I practically begged the landlord to let me rent. I had a serious thing about small spaces. I seriously hated them.
Elevators, changing rooms, even small cars set me off in a panic. I’d rather walk a million stairs than push a single elevator button. The other thing the Forecastle had going for it was it didn’t reek of old magic every time the weather got bad. And in Portland, the weather got bad a lot.
I headed down the central staircase, my boot heels silent on the carpeting. The lobby was cold and quiet and dark except for the ceiling lights. There were windows next to the doors that led to the street, but dawn hadn’t knocked the night out of the sky yet.
I pulled my hat closer over my head and tucked my chin in my scarf before opening the door.
Rain fell in huge heavy drops, cold as ice melt on the gusty winds. I pushed my hands into my pockets and
