Page 31 of Ghosted (The Ravenwood #1)

TWENTY-FIVE

I slowly come to with the early morning light streaming in through my curtains. I pull my comforter over my shoulders, snuggling deeper into my bed, not wanting to face the day quite yet.

“I miss sleep,” Dean murmurs from behind me.

I yawn and roll over to find him lounging with his back against the headboard, long legs crossed at the ankles. He’s in comfy-looking plaid pajama pants and a black V-neck t-shirt. “How long have you been watching me sleep?”

“I’ve only been here an hour or so, I think. It’s peaceful. You snore like a little mouse. Adorable.”

I reach out and smack him on the thigh, earning myself a static-like shock to the palm. “For someone who’s never seen Twilight, this is very Edward Cullen of you,” I grumble.

“At least I’m not hundreds of years old and you’re not a teenager,” he retorts, sounding suspiciously like someone who has seen Twilight .

I tilt my head in acknowledgement, another yawn cracking my jaw. I scrounge around for my phone and light up the screen to see it’s just after seven.

I groan, knowing I need to get out of bed and get going.

I was planning on looking at our profits today to see how we’re doing compared to previous years at this time.

It’s mid-October, so I know profits are higher than any other point during the year, but I’m curious if the last few weeks of medium-ing is making enough of a difference to stop us from coming up short.

I should be able to compare this last month with the same time last year to see how much it’s helping.

I also have to do inventory, order more supplies, and finalize the donations for our Night Before All Hallows Eve Ball auction.

I slump out of bed and shuffle with my eyes half closed to my kitchen to prepare my French press for my morning vat of coffee. Dean appears next to me and leans against the counter, taking up way too much real estate in my small kitchen. “Why are you getting up? It’s 7 A.M. on a Sunday.”

“I have work to do,” I say around yet another yawn.

“You know what working on a Sunday got me?” he asks, tilting his head. I give him a flat look, unamused by where this is going. “Dead.”

Yep, saw that one coming.

“I’ve worked almost every day since I started at The Veil, Dean.” I pour my boiling water into my French press, the aroma of coffee instantly filling the air. I can almost feel my eyes cracking open an extra centimeter.

“Well, that’s just poor work-life balance, Alderwood,” he says, appalled.

I scowl at him, not in the mood for a lecture so early in the morning. “Pot, meet kettle,” I say, holding out my hand to shake.

He grabs it and pulls me in for a sweet kiss that immediately melts my grumpiness away. “Okay, fair point,” he says, tugging me in closer for a hug. I rest my cheek against his chest, and feel his arms wrap tighter around me.

“Sorry about last night,” he says into my hair. “I didn’t mean to leave like that. It was so overwhelming at the end, though. I couldn’t stop myself from vanishing.”

“So you did finish. That’s good to hear.”

A surprised laugh makes his chest stutter against my cheek.

“Yes, but it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced before.

I don’t even know if I can describe it to you.

It was like every atom—or whatever I’m made of—burst apart and then reformed.

It was like being high and having an out-of-body experience, despite the fact that I’m already literally out of body.

” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It was intense, but I didn’t want to leave before we were finished. ”

I quirk my mouth to the side and disentangle myself from him so I can push the plunger down in my French press. “I think we were both finished,” I say with a grin.

“I had so many more plans,” he replies mournfully.

I bounce my eyebrows at him. “Practice tends to make these things better. Look at how good you’re doing at staying here and touching stuff.” I pour nearly the entirety of my small French press into a tall mug decorated with swirling patterns that remind me of the Milky Way.

He looks at me suggestively. “So, are you offering yourself up for practice?”

“Well, obviously. My job is to help you in whatever ways you need,” I reply, stirring the cream and sugar into my coffee.

His eyes narrow. “Wait a minute. You’ve never helped another ghost like this, have you?”

I laugh before taking a sip of my coffee. “No. I didn’t even know I could touch you, remember?”

His expression clears and turns haughty. “That’s right. Only me,” he says, standing up straighter.

I shake my head and wander over to the couch.

“Speaking of my job to help you,” I say, trying to distract the both of us from what we did last night before he derails my whole day.

“We know you weren’t alone when you died.

Someone was waiting to get the jump on you.

I think you were drugged, Dean. Nothing else explains the drowsiness you felt or that you didn’t fight back at all. ”

He sits next to me on the couch, throwing his arm along the back of it. “But how? I didn’t stop anywhere between home and work that I can remember.”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure, but I think we need to go to your office to see if we can get you to remember anything. Let’s go after I get some work done,” I suggest before taking another sip of coffee, steeling myself for a long day.

I turn off the ignition and lean forward, looking up at the large building that holds Dean’s office.

Crawford and Gaines Law Firm is at the top of five office pancakes stacked on top of each other in the behemoth building.

“Remember, I can’t talk to you when we walk through the lobby if people are here,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

“But I can talk to you. I wonder how many times I can make you blush in public?” he asks rhetorically, looking at me with a devilish gleam.

“You know we’re here for a very important reason, right? Ya know, to figure out who murdered you?”

“Exactly! How depressing. Why not spice up the murder mystery with a little dirty talk?” He rubs his hands together and waggles his eyebrows at me.

A lightbulb goes off in my brain. “You’re scared,” I state gently, reaching out to take his hand.

The taunting look he wore like a mask melts away, leaving a very vulnerable-looking Dean. “Of course I’m scared. Either some client was pissed enough to orchestrate my death, or even worse, someone I know did it. No matter what, figuring this out is going to suck.”

“Yeah, it is. But I’m going to be here with you every step of the way,” I say, squeezing his hand.

His lips quirk into a small smile, flashing his dimple. “Thank you,” he says before flitting outside. “Let’s get this over with,” he calls from outside my door.

I take a calming breath and get out of my car. We parked across the street from the office since it’s a Sunday and not very busy. Dean’s hoping that not many people will be here. He thinks it should be quiet since that big case finished a couple of weeks ago.

We swung by Dean’s house so I could get the keycard to the building.

I also sent off a text to Jack letting him know we’d be poking around.

He said he was in Boston watching a Patriots game with his other kids, otherwise he’d be here with us.

I wonder if he’s mentioned me to anyone else.

Although I guess that would be a weird thing to try to explain.

“Honey, I’m texting this woman who is thirty years younger than me, but it’s nothing weird, I swear. She’s just a medium trying to figure out who murdered our son and may or may not be involved in a romantic relationship with him from beyond the grave. Pass the butter, please.”

Okay, so maybe Jack should keep this whole thing to himself. At least for now.

I use a passkey to get into the lobby, and we take the sleek elevator up to the top floor of the building.

The door slides open on an empty hallway with large windows that look out on the street below.

At the end of the hall is a door that opens with the keycard.

The overhead lights flicker on automatically with the motion of the door opening.

I let out a breath at finding the law firm empty. We had come up with some story about my being Jack’s new assistant sent to clean out Dean’s office in case someone was there, but I’m a terrible liar and would rather slink around unnoticed.

“My office is right over there,” Dean says, pointing to a small, glass-walled office situated between a few other identical-looking ones. We bypass the secretary’s desk and walk past a few cubicles reserved for the paralegals. I use Dean’s keycard one last time to get into his actual office.

When I push the door open, he’s already sitting in his office chair, looking pensive. His decor is, you guessed it: a deep red color. He has a large, abstract painting on the right wall depicting black and white mountains against a burning red sky.

Comforting.

I doubt Jack allowed a cleaning person to come in here since Dean died. Everything is blanketed with a fine layer of dust, and there’s still some debris in the small trash can next to his desk.

I come around the desk and am relieved to find that, at least from here, his office is a little less stark.

He has multiple picture frames with his friends and family, including one digital one that scrolls through different, less-posed pictures.

“Are you here for legal advice, Miss Alderwood? Have you gotten yourself in trouble?” Dean says, looking up at me from his seat with a mischievous glint.

I smirk and say, “No, I’m a good girl through and through. No law troubles for me.”

“Are you sure? We have a special package for anyone who's been naughty.” He raises his brows at me and I swat his shoulder, earning myself a static shock.

“Come on, let’s sleuth away so we can get out of here. Large, empty buildings give me the heebie-jeebies.”