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The instant after my fingers brushed across his cold—but very solid—limb, Mr. Weaver lifted his cane.

“What are you—” he began, turning toward me. My gaze remained riveted to the stick even as he touched the tip back to the ground. I let go of his arm. My mind went blank as he moved. I couldn’t think or feel as my attention landed on his white-knuckled grip.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I couldn’t speak. Goosebumps had broken out over my skin, and the hair on my arms stood straight. I couldn’t look away.

Then I felt the rough deck underneath my elbows and butt. When had I fallen?

How silly—he wasn’t going to hit me after all.

“Calm yourself before you pass out—or something worse.” Mr. Weaver set his cane to the side—vaguely making me wonder if it was even necessary—and, with surprising strength for such an elderly man, wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me up to sit beside him on the top step of his back patio.

I breathed in, slowly regaining my bearings. For the umpteenth time, I wondered: Why couldn’t I be normal? And why did there have to be all this touching in normal day-to-day interaction?

“Here.” Mr. Weaver pushed my head between my knees. “Stop your fretting, and don’t die on my property. I really would hate to have the police hovering about. I loathe those meddlesome fools.”

My hysterical laugh escaped in a rush.

His awkward petting of my hair suddenly stopped, and he was frowning when I glanced at him. “Is there something wrong with you?” he asked.

“No!” Instantly, the numbness fled, and my hackles rose. That particular accusation affected me more than most.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “The longer I look, the more I’m convinced you’re not like everyone else. You clearly shouldn’t be left to your own devices.”

My temper swelled, and I narrowed my eyes at him.

But he was no longer looking at me. Instead, he glared at his clenched fist. “What kind of moronic family would allow—”

“Well, you’re dead.”

Mr. Weaver gave me a cynical look.

“That’s right!” I pointed at him accusingly—as if being dead was a condemnable offense. All my previous intentions of diplomacy were forgotten. He was too rude. “The police are wandering around your house right now. I saw them touching all your things.”

He still watched me in the same manner, but his bushy eyebrow slowly rose. Uncouth as my delivery was, I didn’t care .

But then I remembered why it was important to be nice, and my throat closed. I had doomed us all.

I might have a few more minutes. There could still be time to run inside and save Damen from being squished. Mr. Weaver obviously didn’t believe me.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He began to study his hands—only now noticing their almost-sheer state. “I’m dead. This is…”

Curse my lack of control. I’d allowed his grumpy feelings and my sensitivity to overcome me. Should I try to comfort him? Would it help? The poor man seemed to be in shock. When would the explosive anger start?

“This is…” he repeated, clearly dazed.

Any moment.

I should have run for it, but I almost felt bad for Mr. Weaver. Even so, living people came first.

I had to warn Damen.

“This is a rather unexpected development,” he said.

I’d already sprinted to the door before his words registered. The doorknob was in my hand, and I looked over my shoulder, confident I had misheard.

Out of all the possible reactions… Where was the anger, the crying? He didn’t appear remotely upset. Instead, he seemed intrigued, almost put out.

“Oh, this timing is terrible,” he pouted. “I hadn’t planned on kicking the bucket for another twenty years or so. Quite a few things still needed doing.”

He was still watching his hands in awe. “Still, it might be easier to do some in this state. This could be interesting.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I remained silent, watching as he discovered his floating abilities and began to sway in the wind.

He appeared to be genuinely fascinated .

“Oh well.” He shrugged. “I suppose there’s no helping these things. It does make sense. My only regret is that I didn’t finish my Rocky Road. One of those shithead cops better not have taken it.”

I dropped my hand to my side and turned to face him.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Why are you surprised? You killed yourself.”

“Are you simple?” Mr. Weaver wrinkled his nose, offended. “I wouldn’t harm a soul. And certainly not my own sweet self.”

I found that hard to believe. “You were about to shoot a cat.”

He sliced his hand through the air. “That thing doesn’t count. It’s not like it can feel pain.”

I barely held back my gasp. What a terrible man. “How can you—”

“I wonder what did me in? I have quite a few enemies, not discounting that beast,” Mr. Weaver mused.

What was his problem with cats?

“They think you killed yourself,” I reminded him. “Some girl named Michelle found you hanging from your loft.”

“Oh no. Not Michelle.” Mr. Weaver sighed sadly. “She’s so frail. I do hope she hasn’t been traumatized. Some women have such delicate sensibilities. You need to be gentle with them.”

I wanted to point out the hypocrisy of his words—he’d been rather hostile with me. But arguing seemed more trouble than it was worth.

It might be best to get this ghost business sorted.

Yet, I wasn’t sure what to do. The words had come to me unbidden when I’d held Rosalie. Weren’t ghosts supposed to travel toward a light or something?

“All right.” I rubbed my temples, trying to ignore the pounding that had begun to radiate from the base of my skull. “Mr. Weaver, I’m still new at this, so please work with me. Do you think you can move on now? ”

“No, I don’t want to,” Mr. Weaver replied, not missing a beat. “You see, I have unfinished business. I—”

“I’ll eat your ice cream for you. It is a sacrifice that I am willing to endure.” My eyes were still closed. I needed a coffee. Caffeine migraines were the worst. “Don’t worry. Your dairy will not go to waste.”

“This isn’t about the ice cream, you daft girl,” Mr. Weaver snapped. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble you can’t handle.”

Alarmed at his hostility, I jerked my gaze back to him.

“Stop doing that right this instant.” Mr. Weaver began to distance us more as he watched me suspiciously. “I’m staying regardless of what you say.”

Stop what? “What are you—”

“You need to either do it correctly or don’t do it at all. But I won’t have some untrained novice ruining my afterlife.” He pointed toward the door. “You have a job. A certain thing that only you can do. To start, you need to go back into the kitchen.”

Well!

I touched my chest, barely noting that the pounding in my head quieted into a more tolerable state. I was too offended to focus on much else. “Hey now—”

“I was so hungry, I couldn’t wait. But some of the pulled pork might still be left.” Mr. Weaver ignored my protest. “I was experimenting with a different flavor combination and marinade. Honey mustard instead of my usual barbecue. It was the strangest thing. Nothing tasted right.”

“Did you forget to turn off your oven?” I asked, unsure where he was going with this. He seemed absent-minded.

“No, you idiot. And you don’t bake pulled pork in the oven anyway. Where did you learn to cook?” Mr. Weaver rolled his eyes .

“Um…” I knew how to cook very well, thank you.

“I’m telling you, it had to be in the honey mustard.” He appeared to be deep in thought. “I was wondering what kind of dunderhead would prefer this to barbecue. And then, nothing.”

I frowned at him, suddenly hungry. “That’s not very nice. I like honey mustard.”

Besides, what was he saying—that the honey mustard was poisoned?

He glanced at me, and responded drily, “My point stands.”

Why in the world did he dislike me so much?

“What happened after that?” I asked. “It couldn’t have been poisoned; it would have taken some time to work. You wouldn’t have just died right there at the dinner table.”

Plus, how would his body have been moved to the loft? He wasn’t a small man.

“What do you know?” he snapped. “You don’t even know how to make pulled pork.”

My head hurt again.

Would it be ethical to let him stew out here by himself? The thought was tempting. Maybe Damen had some insight on the topic.

This conversation was extremely frustrating. And it didn’t help that it was difficult to differentiate between my feelings and Mr. Weaver’s—as sometimes happened when dealing with an especially emotional spirit. “Why—”

“What are you up to, baby girl?” Damen materialized behind me. He looped his arms around my neck and rested his chin on my head. “Are you having a problem with Mr. Weaver?”

I blinked, stunned by his sudden appearance and his awareness of what was happening. Wasn’t he supposed to be inside doing investigative work?

Was he stalking me again ?

“An officer told me you were talking to someone,” Damen said, speaking directly in my ear.

I bit my lip, ignoring the warmth radiating from his chest. How did he know what I was thinking? I hoped he couldn’t read minds. Considering the thoughts I’d been having lately, that would be embarrassing.

“And no, I cannot read your mind. Your every thought shows on your face. It’s adorable and endearing.” Now, he sounded amused, and his chest shook in silent laughter. “You must be terrible at poker.”

That… jerk! How dare he use his psychological magic to do things. He’d never know if I was good at poker because I’d never play with him in this lifetime.

I stepped away from his warm embrace and turned to face him. “How would you know what my face looked like anyway? You weren’t even facing me,” I said.

“Your body language is also very expressive. Did you know that even the most minuscule twitch of your muscles can tell a story?” Damen smirked, stepping closer to me.

His finger touched my cheek. “And I have every intention of becoming fluent in how you speak. I’ve been working on it already.

I believe I’ve been doing rather well, actually. ”