several years ago.”
“You mean like a psychic?”
“No, she got really upset if you called her that. She billed herself as a trance medium, whatever the hell that means. And yes, she’s even weirder than it sounds.”
“Did she help?”
“I don’t know. She seemed to think so, although the case was never solved. I might call her.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re desperate.” He slugged back a big swallow of coffee. “You know, if this were a haunted house movie—”
“It’s not.”
“But if it were, our job would be to find out what happened in this house.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how some tragic event always precipitates a haunting? Like a murder?”
“I can’t quite believe we’re having this conversation. Those are film tropes, Grant. What’s happening to us is real.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
She stared at him, frustrated. Shook her head finally, said, “I don’t know.”
“Then let’s at least do something. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn’t. At least we’ll be trying. Isn’t that the whole point of your video?”
“Fine.”
“So what do you know about this house?”
“Nothing. I moved in two months ago.”
“Well, we need to find out everything we can.”
“You mean like if the prior resident was an insane caretaker who murdered his entire family?”
“Yes, that kind of thing. We’re sort of stranded here, but I have a friend I can call.”
“Who?”
“He’s a private investigator.”
“Grant, I know we need a little outside help, but this isn’t going to come back to bite me in the ass, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t have people digging into my private life.”
“Paige, this guy’s a friend.”
“Still.”
“And more importantly, the last guy in the world to cast a stone.”
“Okay. I trust you.”
“Then let’s make some calls.”
Grant picked up the battery to his phone, reassembled everything, and powered it up.
“I thought they could track you with that.”
“I just need to get those numbers for the PI and the freakshow.”
As he scrolled through contacts, the phone began to vibrate in his hand.
“Damn,” he said.
“Who is it?”
He set the phone on the tile, Sophie’s name burning across the screen.
Paige said, “You got the numbers. Turn it off.”
He shook his head.
“I’m thinking that’s not the right play. Sophie isn’t going to stop. It’s not in her programming.”
“So what are you going to do?”
He picked up the phone.
“I’m going to talk to her.”
Chapter 19
Sophie walked through the entrance gate and up the paved walkway into the garden. She’d made it a habit last summer of coming here on pretty Sundays, but despite the patches of blue sky above, in its present state, the garden felt a far cry from the lushness of July. Winter had muted its color to shades of grey and evergreen, and something inside of her hated seeing it this way—like staring down at her mother in the casket—there but not.
A groundskeeper stood under a leafless Japanese maple, a bulging trash bag at his feet. Sophie opened her wallet as she approached, but the man didn’t bother to examine her credentials.
“Detective Sophie Benington,” she said. “I understand you discovered Mr. Seymour this morning?”
The groundskeeper leaned against the handle of his rake, sweat stains reaching from his armpits down the sides of his uniform.
A tall, skinny kid with ropey dreads and gentle eyes.
“He was sitting on the bench by the pond when I got here.”
“And you’ve never seen him in the garden before?”
“No, we keep this part of the arboretum closed in the winter. We occasionally have to chase out a few homeless and freegans, but mostly this place stays dead.”
Sophie moved on past the groundskeeper toward Officer Silver. He stood fifty yards up the path in his dark blue uniform, and as the sound of Sophie’s Frye boots clicking against the pavement pulled within range, he
“You mean like a psychic?”
“No, she got really upset if you called her that. She billed herself as a trance medium, whatever the hell that means. And yes, she’s even weirder than it sounds.”
“Did she help?”
“I don’t know. She seemed to think so, although the case was never solved. I might call her.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re desperate.” He slugged back a big swallow of coffee. “You know, if this were a haunted house movie—”
“It’s not.”
“But if it were, our job would be to find out what happened in this house.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how some tragic event always precipitates a haunting? Like a murder?”
“I can’t quite believe we’re having this conversation. Those are film tropes, Grant. What’s happening to us is real.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
She stared at him, frustrated. Shook her head finally, said, “I don’t know.”
“Then let’s at least do something. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn’t. At least we’ll be trying. Isn’t that the whole point of your video?”
“Fine.”
“So what do you know about this house?”
“Nothing. I moved in two months ago.”
“Well, we need to find out everything we can.”
“You mean like if the prior resident was an insane caretaker who murdered his entire family?”
“Yes, that kind of thing. We’re sort of stranded here, but I have a friend I can call.”
“Who?”
“He’s a private investigator.”
“Grant, I know we need a little outside help, but this isn’t going to come back to bite me in the ass, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t have people digging into my private life.”
“Paige, this guy’s a friend.”
“Still.”
“And more importantly, the last guy in the world to cast a stone.”
“Okay. I trust you.”
“Then let’s make some calls.”
Grant picked up the battery to his phone, reassembled everything, and powered it up.
“I thought they could track you with that.”
“I just need to get those numbers for the PI and the freakshow.”
As he scrolled through contacts, the phone began to vibrate in his hand.
“Damn,” he said.
“Who is it?”
He set the phone on the tile, Sophie’s name burning across the screen.
Paige said, “You got the numbers. Turn it off.”
He shook his head.
“I’m thinking that’s not the right play. Sophie isn’t going to stop. It’s not in her programming.”
“So what are you going to do?”
He picked up the phone.
“I’m going to talk to her.”
Chapter 19
Sophie walked through the entrance gate and up the paved walkway into the garden. She’d made it a habit last summer of coming here on pretty Sundays, but despite the patches of blue sky above, in its present state, the garden felt a far cry from the lushness of July. Winter had muted its color to shades of grey and evergreen, and something inside of her hated seeing it this way—like staring down at her mother in the casket—there but not.
A groundskeeper stood under a leafless Japanese maple, a bulging trash bag at his feet. Sophie opened her wallet as she approached, but the man didn’t bother to examine her credentials.
“Detective Sophie Benington,” she said. “I understand you discovered Mr. Seymour this morning?”
The groundskeeper leaned against the handle of his rake, sweat stains reaching from his armpits down the sides of his uniform.
A tall, skinny kid with ropey dreads and gentle eyes.
“He was sitting on the bench by the pond when I got here.”
“And you’ve never seen him in the garden before?”
“No, we keep this part of the arboretum closed in the winter. We occasionally have to chase out a few homeless and freegans, but mostly this place stays dead.”
Sophie moved on past the groundskeeper toward Officer Silver. He stood fifty yards up the path in his dark blue uniform, and as the sound of Sophie’s Frye boots clicking against the pavement pulled within range, he
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