“It doesn’t go away,” I tell him carefully, though I’m not sure why I’m being honest with someone I don’t know. “That’s the truth. And that’s one reason out of many why we don’t do the show anymore. We wanted to leave that chapter behind, if we could help it. Now, I’m sorry, but—”
“My wife died,” he says softly, grabbing at his glasses with fumbling fingers and quickly wiping his eyes. He inhales sharply, slips the glasses back on. “She died. A year ago. I need you to talk to her. I know she’s still in the house.”
I swallow, now picking up on his sorrow. It’s overwhelming.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, trying to distance myself from his emotions, which ripple through the air. “How did she die?”
“She…drowned.”
“And she’s still in your house?”
“She’s in the house. Our old house. I don’t live there anymore. It’s boarded up.”
“Listen, I’m not a paranormal investigator. I never was. Maybe a paranormal shit-disturber, at best.”
“You can see things that others can’t.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m a medium.”
“Your wife is.”
I frown at him, tilting my head, a thread of defensiveness running through me whenever Perry is mentioned. “How would you know that?”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen the footage.”
“You’re making an awful load of assumptions from some grainy videos,” I tell him. “She’s not any of those things either. We’re just two people who went through some crazy fucking shit, who are trying to lead an ordinary life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go.”
I turn to leave but the man reaches out and grabs my forearm, hard.
A current of anger flows through me and I have to breathe in sharply to keep it at bay. I don’t appreciate being manhandled on the street by low-rent Danny Devito and his tiny baby hands.
“I’ll pay you,” he says. “I’ll pay you a lot of money. I just want you to come by, the both of you, go to the house, and talk to her. You don’t have to film it. I just want to know what my wife has to say. I have questions. I need answers.”
I rip my arm out of his grasp and take a step back. “How much money?”
The man looks around us, as if he’s finally getting the clue that he should have kept his voice down this whole time. He leans in to me. “A hundred grand.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah. A hundred grand. I’ll write you a check right now.”
He starts reaching into his coat and the movement snaps me out of my daze.
“Hold on, wait a minute,” I say, raising my hands, trying to think.
Is he fucking serious?
A hundred grand?
Just to attempt to talk to his dead wife?
I hate the way my heart is beating fast at the thought of a hundred thousand dollars and how many fucking problems that would solve for us.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says quickly. “That it’s a lot of money.”
“Fucking hell it’s a shitton of money. How would you even—”
“I have money,” he says quickly. “Don’t worry about that. It’s legitimate. It’s worth it to me.”
I shake my head, knowing there’s a catch.
“Let me get this straight, before my mind starts running away on me. You want to give me and my wife one hundred thousand dollars to go into your old house and talk to your dead wife? What if we can’t make contact? What if nothing happens?”
“Then you keep the money,” he says gravely. “It will be worth it just to see you try.”
Worth it? There’s no way I could keep the money if we were unsuccessful. I mean, I’m no saint, of course I would be tempted, but I’m pretty sure Perry would refuse. Hell, she might refuse this idea at any rate.
“I’m going to have to think about it,” I say after a moment.
“You think about it,” he says. “But it’s Halloween in a couple of days and I’ve been doing my research. I think that’s when you should do it. That’s when it’s easier to communicate with spirits, where the Veil is thin. The witches call it Samhain.”
“Uh huh,” I say carefully, running my hand over the stubble on my chin. I’m not exactly how true that is since the two of us have tussled with the dead and undead on ordinary Tuesdays. Plus, we already have plans on Halloween. “I’ll see what Perry says.”
“Please do,” he says. He reaches into his pocket and hands me his business card.
Harry Cox.
Accountant.
“I knew it,” I mutter under my breath. The guy has numbers dweeb written all over him.
“Not for a band. Just an ordinary accountant, I’m afraid.”
“An ordinary accountant with a hundred grand to spare?” I raise my brow.
He gives me a curt nod, quickly ties his coat shut over his rotund belly, and then says, “I really hope I’ll be hearing from you, Mr. Foray.”
And then he turns around and disappears down Cedar Street past the 5 Point Café. I watch him for a moment, then almost head back to the apartment until I remember the pizza and the fact that Perry would kill me if I didn’t come back with our dinner. I don’t think any amount of money would suffice her hanger.
I grab the pizza from Zeek’s, and then head back down the street, walking alongside the monorail and back to our building
When I walk inside our apartment, Perry’s leaning against the island in the kitchen, her dark hair flowing around her face, blue eyes wild with hunger.
“What took you so long?” she asks, practically ripping the pizza box out of my hands.
“I ran into someone,” I tell her, grabbing the plates from the cupboard and placing them on the counter.
“Uh huh,” she says, shoving a pizza slice in her mouth. Her eyes fall close with pleasure as she chews, which makes me smile. She has a strained relationship with food sometimes, so to see her enjoy it so hedonistically is a relief.
Okay, it’s also a bit of a turn-on.
“Aren’t you curious who?” I ask, pulling a
