Page 17 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)

“That’s me.” He pushed off the wall, taking a swig from the soda can in his hand.

Sunlight glinted off metallic gold, and even from this distance the can looked familiar.

Miller High Life. Not soda, then. His grandfather used to drink that beer; Tristan didn’t even know they still made that shit.

“We need to have a talk.” He didn’t sound drunk, despite the whole having-a-beer-at-sunrise thing.

“Uh-oh,” Tristan said through a grin. He was shooting for nonchalant, but he was still tired from his run, and while his heart had slowed, the endorphins draining from his body made him long for a bench nearby he could sag onto. “What can I do for you?”

Jimmy squinted at him. “You’re the one doing that new ghost tour, right? All dressed up in a fancy suit and shit?”

“That’s me,” he said as pleasantly as possible. “Fancy suit and shit.”

“I heard you the other night…” He took another swig of beer, glancing out toward the water. “You were telling a story about ghost manatees, or some bullshit like that, right? Eating kayakers?”

Tristan was surprised into a laugh. “Yeah, that’s the one!

It’s funny, right? I came up with the idea the day I got here.

I saw the kayaks you’ve got there and wanted to…

” He trailed off as he caught sight of Jimmy’s face.

He didn’t look amused. Not in the least. Shit. “It isn’t funny?” he asked sheepishly.

“No, it isn’t funny! You telling tourists crap like that, you think they’re gonna come running to rent a kayak from me the next morning?” He threw an arm out, gesturing to the kayaks leaning against the side of the shack.

“But…” Tristan looked from Jimmy to the kayaks and back again. He hadn’t even thought of that. “But it’s not real,” he said. “Manatees don’t attack people, do they?” The idea was ridiculous. It would be like being attacked by a lava lamp.

Jimmy snorted. “Of course they don’t, dumbass.

But listen here…” Another swig from his can, which had to be close to lukewarm by now, but Tristan swallowed hard anyway, because his water had run out a mile or so ago.

And while he really didn’t want a beer at this time of the day, just about any kind of liquid looked good right now.

Jimmy belched gently before crumpling the can.

“Something you need to know about tourists. They’ll believe any old thing you tell ’em.

Especially if they’re on vacation. Especially if it’s here in Florida.

” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I think it’s the heat.

Does something to the brainpan.” He swirled his index finger next to his head.

“Okay.” Tristan nodded slowly. “I see where you’re going with this.” He put his hands on his hips and looked over his shoulder, out toward the water, his brain working. “Let me see what I can do, okay? I never meant to cause any harm to your business.”

Jimmy gave him a dismissive wave, even though he’d been about to come for Tristan’s throat earlier.

“You’re fine. The real tourist season hasn’t kicked in yet; you haven’t cost me nothing yet.

” He moved back to the fishing shack, where he took another gold can out of a battered blue-plastic cooler by the door.

He offered the can to Tristan, and for a second he was tempted.

He was really tempted to drink the beer that his granddad had loved with the old guy in the Vietnam Veterans baseball cap, Hawaiian shirt, and no shoes while the sun started its daily climb in the sky.

But cooler, more sober heads prevailed, and Tristan turned the beer down with a smile. “I’m more of a coffee-in-the-morning kind of guy.”

“Eh.” Jimmy cracked the pop-top on the can. “Everyone’s got their thing.”

It wasn’t hard to change the tour, as it turned out. Tristan spent a few days brainstorming an alternate story that could take place at the pier, but ultimately decided that simplest was best.

“You’ll want to be careful kayaking in the Gulf, especially if you’re heading toward Cemetery Island.” He adjusted the top hat on his head as he led the group from the edge of the fishing pier back toward the street. “You never know when those ghostly manatees are going to hit.”

He timed the story just right, waiting till he’d led the group in sight of Jimmy’s bait shack before continuing.

“There’s a workaround, though, that only the locals know.

So if you’d like to rent a kayak but you don’t want to get eaten by a manatee, I’ll share with you something I learned from Jimmy himself.

” He gestured toward the shack. “Tip your friendly neighborhood kayak rental guy. Tip him really, really well.” A few chuckles rumbled through the crowd, and he found himself smiling.

As they started back down the other side of Beachside Drive, he tossed one more comment over his shoulder.

“And maybe try and remember that manatees don’t attack humans.

” Now the chuckles became full-blown laughs, and past the crowd of people behind him Tristan saw that the door of the bait shack was open.

There was a figure in the doorway that he could barely see, but when he raised one arm, moonlight glinted off a gold aluminum can.

Tristan’s grin widened as he tipped his hat in answer to the toast, a warm feeling spreading in his chest.

That warm feeling persisted through the end of the tour and all the way home. Intellectually, he shouldn’t care. He wasn’t sticking around long-term; by the beginning of October he’d be gone.

But there it was. He liked this town. And maybe this town was starting to like him back.

Some of the town, anyway.

On the walk home, his steps slowed in front of Mystic Crystals.

Never one to back down from a challenge, he hadn’t altered his tour since that first night the green glow had appeared in the upper window.

It felt too much like chickening out. Since then, it hadn’t happened every time.

Some nights the house just looked like a house, closed up tight, windows dark.

Then, just as Tristan started to relax, let his guard down, it would happen again.

A ghostly figure, a green glow in the upper window.

A skeletal hand pointing right at him, which felt like a dart to the heart every time, making his blood run cold.

But it wasn’t real. Because ghosts weren’t real. The green glow, the skeletal hand, it was all make-believe. Someone messing with him.

Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk behind him, and his heart sped up as he turned. What fresh hell…?

It only took a moment to recognize those brown curls, those big glasses.

That same face he saw in his mind’s eye more often than he’d like to admit.

He knew that he was the last person Sophie wanted to see, and he wished he could do something to change that.

Because despite everything, she was the first person around here he wanted to see.

He at least could try and be polite. “Hi.” He offered her a smile.

She didn’t return it. “What are you doing here?” She glanced up at the crystal shop, then back at him. “Shop’s closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“That’s okay. I’m already stocked up on crystals.” But he had to ask. He just had to. “So tell me, girl with all the accurate stories, what’s the deal with this place?”

“Deal?” Her eyebrows went up. “Like what?”

“Like…” He couldn’t tell her, could he? About the green glow? The shadowy figure? He was going to sound like some kind of conspiracy theorist. “Any hauntings take place here?” He was half joking. Well, maybe less than half. Tristan wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

“Why do you ask?” Sophie’s eyes cut to him, and he saw unexpected eagerness in their depths. “Did you see something?”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Should I have seen something?”

“Maybe.” Her shrug gave nothing away. “It’s been my experience that if someone isn’t happy with the stories you’re telling, they find a way to let you know.”

That skeletal hand, pointing right at him. Tristan fought back a shiver at the memory; he wasn’t going to show weakness. Not in front of his competition.

“Are you telling me that you’ve never seen anything here?”

“The ghosts here in town don’t have a problem with me.” Her tone firmly ended the conversation. If she was playing him, she wasn’t going to admit it. Fair enough.

He tried changing the subject. “You want to get a drink?” He nodded in the direction of The Haunt. He’d been planning to go straight home, but he wouldn’t mind a beer. “We could…”

“No.” The word slammed between them like a nail in a coffin. “I’m on my way to see my friend Libby.” She pointed down the street in the opposite direction. “Besides,” she continued. “I think it’s best that we don’t…” She took a deep breath. “We’re not friends.”

“We’re not?” Tristan kept his tone light, but her words made his chest hurt.

She shook her head, curls bouncing, mouth set in a determined line. “We can’t be. Not now.”

“Oh.” Was it his imagination, or did she sound sad as she said it?

She was right, though, wasn’t she? Even though he kept finding himself pulled to her like she was his personal North Star, he was in too deep. All Sophie could be to him now was business competition waiting to be crushed.

His father would be thrilled at the notion. But as Tristan watched Sophie head down the street, her dark hair shining under the streetlight, he realized that right now, winning felt a whole lot like losing.