Page 38 of Southernmost Murder

Nah.

I thought I was just experiencing… that thing before it becomesthe thing. You know? The feelings before the L-word. English totally sucked sometimes. What could I say about Jun at this stage? I was in “like” with him? A lot? So lame.

“Let me dig out my phone, and we can skedaddle.” I went to the couch and tugged the back cushions free to retrieve the cell, then checked the call I’d ignored.

Voicemail.

I tried to verify the number, but it came up as Blocked ID. I guess that happens—probably some “you’ve been preapproved for a credit card” company calling from a big corporate line or something. I chose the voicemail and brought the phone to my ear.

It buzzed and crackled on the other end for several seconds, like it was a bad connection. Then I made out a distorted, deep, creepy voice saying, “Aubrey. Don’t go back inside.”

Chapter Seven

“JUST LISTENto it,” I insisted, holding my phone up.

Jun was driving, and I was riding shotgun while being the most irritating passenger he’d likely ever had. “Whatever it is, it’s not a ghost,” he replied.

“Shh! Listen!” I barked. I put the phone on speaker and played the voicemail.

“Aubrey. Don’t go back inside,” the disturbing voice said.

“That could be anyone,” Jun pointed out.

“It’s a blocked number.”

“It’s easy to block a number on a smartphone when you make outgoing calls.”

He was being too calm and rational. Or I was being too loony. Maybe a bit of both?

“Logically,” I began, waving my hands as I spoke, “I know it’s not a ghost. Ghosts don’t make telephone calls. If they did, everyone and their brother would be getting rings from late Aunt Gertrude complaining that they weren’t feeding her beloved Mittens the right wet food.”

Jun snorted. “A reality like that would require Victor Bayne on speed dial.”

“Oh my God, you didn’t just say that.”

Jun glanced at me.

I smirked. “I have all the books.”

“So do I.”

“Anyway, somethingisgoing on that I can’t explain,” I continued after a beat.

Jun drove past the Smith Home and turned left toward the Custom House.

“Jun, Duval is the other way.”

He parked outside of Key Pirates Museum before turning off the car. “Come on.”

“Wait, what’re we—Jun?” I scrambled out after him.

He paid for a parking ticket at a nearby machine, returned to place it on the dash of the car, then met me on the passenger side. “I agree with you,” he stated.

“Agree with what exactly?”

“All of it. That something weird is going on and you’ve somehow gotten caught in the middle.”

A shiver crept along my spine, like an angry spirit had whispered secrets against my skin. I swallowed. “So what do we do?”