“No,” my best friend, Alyssa, said as she lounged on my couch with a glass of wine in her hand. “No, no, and no. I cannot do Christmas music, Bailey. You know this about me.”

Stopping in hauling plastic bins out of my storage closet under the stairs to pull my hair back into a ponytail and secure it with a hair tie I chronically had on my wrist, I shrugged. “You know me. I love anything Christmas, including the glory of Mariah Carey belting out pop meets holiday in all her nineties splendor.”

“You’re a freak.”

No. Apparently Lauren was, but I couldn’t share that with Alyssa. The one time I had mentioned I saw Ryan’s ghost she had thought I was delusional. That it was a grief-inspired hallucination or something. I can create a lot and spin in my head around and around, but come on. I’m not that bonkers.

“You’re a Scrooge, Alyssa.”

“I am proudly a Scrooge.”

Yet for all Alyssa claimed to hate commercial holiday madness, she was also wearing a retro-inspired swing dress in red with gingerbread houses printed all over it. She had a sprig of mistletoe in her hair, perfectly done in forties-inspired victory rolls. “Yeah, I can tell by that outfit you’re a total hater.”

She sipped her wine. “What can I say? You say ‘party’ and I’m all over that shit. Every occasion deserves a perfect outfit.”

“I think it’s weird your work has their holiday party on a Sunday at five p.m.” She was hanging out with me for an hour until she was heading downtown to the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame, which her work had rented out for the party.

“It’s called holiday party on a budget. They wanted a super cool venue but were not about to pay Friday or Saturday night premium prices. It’s hella expensive.”

“I miss holiday parties. That is the downside of working for myself.” But honestly, one of the only ones, aside from having to pay the IRS quarterly taxes. Social interaction was a little limited, but I got to meet with clients, so I didn’t mind. But the big things, like company picnics in the summer and the holiday party, I did mourn.

“Are you crazy? It’s a shit show. It’s everyone either showing off or getting sloppy. Like, here’s my hot young wife, or my rich husband. Be envious, single ladies. Or it’s Bob in accounting getting loaded and puking in a planter then on Monday claiming he only had one drink instead of seven but it was a bad interaction with his blood pressure medication.”

I popped open the eight bins I had hauled out and sighed in pleasure. The scent of cinnamon greeted me. Perfection. Cinnamon is crack to Christmas junkies. Along with nutmeg and ginger, which were gateway drugs to the heavy stuff. Peppermint and evergreen.

“I take it the Bob thing really happened because that was far too specific a story for you to have made up.”

“It totally is. Bob can’t handle vodka.”

“I can’t either.” I started unwrapping my nutcracker collection. I knew exactly where every decoration I owned went and these guys marched along my fireplace mantle, after I draped the lit garland across it.

Alyssa set her drink on the coffee table and wandered over to my bins. “It’s like I fell into my grandmother’s attic with all this stuff. I take it all back. You’re amazing because this is an insane collection for a twenty-eight-year-old.”

“Thank you. Careful or I’ll make you drink eggnog.” Yes, I had bought myself eggnog to sip while putting out the decorations and trimming my tree.

“Gee, so tempting, but I have to buzz.” Alyssa held her arms out. “Give me a hug, you crazy kid.”

I gave her a goodbye hug then gestured to the mistletoe dangling from her hair. “Steer clear of Bob from accounting.”

She touched it with a grin. “This is for Josh from marketing.”

“I can’t keep up with your dating.”

“You say dating, I call it shattering the patriarchy.”

That made me laugh. “Right. Much more apt description.” I rolled my eyes and snapped the mouth on the red nutcracker I was holding.

Alyssa stuck her tongue out at the nutcracker. “Have a good night and don’t find any dead bodies. See ya!” She gave me a wave and left, slamming the front door behind her.

Jake texted me.

We be drunk.

Good to know. But not unusual for a football game. I asked my phone the score of the game to try to be a good girlfriend and Cleveland native. The Browns were losing. But win or lose the drinking wasn’t a shocker when you cracked open a beer at 10 a.m. and kept going all day. I glanced at the time on my phone screen. It was after four.

I sent Jake a kiss emoji. I knew him well enough to know he would take a Lyft home. Like me, he wasn’t about breaking major rules.

My phone buzzed again.

I miss you.

Aw, that was sweet, but it was also drunk talk. He wouldn’t actually want me at the game with him. It was his guy time and I respect that.

But of course I texted “I miss you too” back because Jen was right. My boyfriend was adorable.

Humming along to the song playing from my phone I sipped my eggnog and busied myself making my tiny living room and dining room come alive with Christmas. It was snowing outside and, for once, I applauded the soft flakes falling outside my window. It was the perfect backdrop for decorating.

I was stringing the lights on my fake tree when without warning my electricity cut out. I was plunged into semi-darkness. It was gloomy outside from the hour approaching sunset and because of the snow. Music still cranked out from my phone, which helped me pick my way around all the bins and the bubble wrap to find it sitting on the coffee table. I hit the flashlight feature so I could somewhat see.

“What the heck?” A glance out the window showed that all of my neighbors appeared to have power still. My street is crammed with Victorians and craftsman homes, soldiered on narrow lots. They were all lit up. My next-door neighbor’s outside Christmas lights had already popped on per his timer, twinkling white. “Great.” Now I was going to have to call the power company and see what was going on.

I killed the music on my phone and sighed. Logic told me I should check and make sure the power was on in all my rooms. I should also check the fuse box in the basement. That sounded fun. Picking my way down steps that were in no way up to modern code in almost complete darkness. They were floating stairs before that was a design choice. I always envisioned someone hiding underneath them, and when I walked down into the damp basement, a hand reaching through and grabbing my ankle.

This was why I couldn’t watch horror movies. I go straight for the worst-case scenario.

Torn between wishing I had a cat for company and knowing if I did they would probably trip me on the steps and I would break my neck, I went through the kitchen and opened the basement door. It creaked horrifically and grated on my fragile nerves. For some reason, William’s skeleton hand popped into my head. Ugh. I didn’t need the visual reminder of that.

Reassuring myself that my house had undergone a down-to-the-studs reno and couldn’t possibly be hiding a body, I took a deep breath and gripped the railing. The steps also creaked beneath my weight and I walked gingerly, making sure I had no missteps. It took me longer than it should but I made it to the fuse box and flipped all the breakers on and off. I hadn’t left the kitchen light on so I couldn’t tell as I picked my way back up the stairs if it had worked or not, but as soon as I rounded the corner into the kitchen toward the living room, I saw the lights were back on.

“Yes.” I fist-pumped and applauded my quick homeowner thinking. No panicking here. I rolled my eyes mentally at myself. No panicking at all.

But I did panic when I spotted a Santa hat on my coffee table. At first I assumed it was William’s spirit hat, but there was a candy cane resting on it, laid carefully there.

I stretched my hand out, hoping like hell it would go right through the hat. Nope. I touched felt with faux fur on it. Then the plastic of the wrapper sealed around the candy cane.

Clapping my hand over my mouth, I ran to check my front door. Crap. It was unlocked. I hadn’t locked it after Alyssa left. A glance out my front window showed footsteps in the fresh snow leading both up to the house and away, cutting to the left, toward my neighbor’s house who didn’t have any lights up.

Was this some sort of secret Santa neighborhood fun thing?

I highly doubted it but I dead-bolted my door and swigged the eggnog like I’d been handed a water bottle in the Boston marathon.

Then I jogged through my kitchen and checked the back door, which was locked.

There was nothing left to do but drop my blinds, put on the Hallmark Channel, which was playing Christmas movies around the clock (because the Hallmark Channel is awesome), and finish hanging lights on my tree. I tossed the hat and candy cane in one of the empty bins and clicked the lid on tight.

Talk about literally putting your problems in a box and shoving them out of sight.

I was okay with that.

And in the interest of being mature and independent I did not call the cops or my boyfriend or my parents or my neighbor.

I just jumped at every sound, got a little tipsy on eggnog, and barricaded myself into my room at ten with all the lights on.

Totally winning at life. That’s me.

So when I told William I would get back to him on Monday, I meant after I had my usual work day. Which on this Monday consisted of staging a house that was about to go up for sale in three days. The homeowner was an investor and together we had decided to stage in grays and blues and whites focusing more on texture than color. I had holiday-ish accents like a mercury glass tree for the fireplace mantle and a white feathery wreath for the dining room. Silver pinecones in a bowl. That sort of thing. Subtle. Inviting.

You can picture yourself living here. That was my job.

The rental delivery guys had already dropped off the furniture so I was alone.

Though not entirely because William was following me around, pestering me with questions. “So why are you the only person who can see me?” he asked.

“Because I’m just lucky that way.”

He tilted his head. “Sarcasm doesn’t actually suit you.”

I moved the candlesticks I had placed on an end table. Too tall. “Criticizing me doesn’t make me want to help you, you know.”

“Don’t be touchy. You seem like a nice girl, that’s all.”

“Thanks.” I don’t like to work and chitchat. I want to be left alone in the zone but clearly that was not happening today.

“Did you talk to Cindy?” he asked.

“I don’t have Cindy’s number. Nor would I have any idea what to say to her. Besides, what do you think Cindy knows?”

“I don’t know.” William paced across the living room.

“Let me ask you a question,” I said, standing up straight and eyeing him. “How do you guys know how to find me? Like how did you know to appear here, in this particular house?”

William looked taken aback. “To be honest, I have no idea. I just think, check in on Bailey, and then bam. I’m wherever you are.”

“That’s profoundly disturbing.”

“If that’s the most disturbing thing going on in your life I think you’re doing all right.”

Interesting. And not something I wanted to pursue. “Anyway, I can’t call Cindy unless they ID your body.”

My phone buzzed in the pocket of my flare leg jeans. I pulled it out. It was Marner.

Dental records positively ID’d the body as William Anthony, missing Clause, according to ME.

Seriously?

It was like William had conjured the text up from nothing.

“It’s you in the slide. Dental records confirmed it.”

“Well, of course it is. I mean I know it’s me.”

“But no one else knew that.” That seemed obvious to me. I sighed. A deep drawn-out Marner sigh. “Do you want me to call Cindy and tell her?”

“Yes. Before the police call her.”

Cause of death? I texted back to Marner.

Blunt force trauma.

“Someone hit you over the head,” I told William. No point in sugarcoating it. He already knew he had been murdered. “Do you think it was an accident? Like a robbery gone wrong or something? You never actually even told me where it happened.” I had just been assuming the ballroom but that made no sense. That slide was something that Lauren had in storage. Her event planning company had all kinds of tables, chairs, props, that she used not just at Christmas but all year round. It was actually a dream of mine to see her warehouse. I know, my fantasies are lame.

“It was at my wife’s office Christmas party in Beachwood. She’s a real estate agent.”

This seemed super obvious to me. “So, then your wife killed you.”

“My wife did not want me dead. She was upset with me, but not homicidal. Besides, why would she kill me at her own office party? That seems risky. Not to mention she’s five foot two and a hundred and twenty pounds. I’m not sure she could move my body.”

“Maybe you just fell. Couldn’t that cause a head injury?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I had just fallen and you know that.”

Dang it. I did know that. “Fine. I’m calling Cindy.”

William gave me the number and I tapped it out on my screen. I put the call on speaker so William could hear.

“Hi, is this Cindy?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Bailey Burke.” And I see your dead boyfriend’s ghost. “I was at a charity event last night and we had the unfortunate experience of discovering a body.”

“Excuse me?” Cindy sounded shocked and suspicious. Rightly so. “What does that have to do with me?”

“The body is William Anthony.”

“William?” She didn’t say anything for a second, then “I knew he was dead. His wife killed him, didn’t she? She’s a nutjob. She stalked me for months when she found out about us.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Then Cindy seemed to realize my role is this was odd. “Why are you calling me instead of the police?”

This is what I’m talking about. Ghosts don’t get that I sound insane when I approach their loved ones. “I’m sure they will be calling you soon. I just wanted to let you know.”

“How did you get my number?”

I gestured frantically to William. I don’t think fast under pressure.

He just shrugged.

So I panicked and just hung up on her.

“What did you do that for?” he asked. “What the hell?”

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “What was I supposed to say?”

My phone started ringing. “Crap, she’s calling me back!”

“Of course she is.”

I figured if I didn’t answer she would just keep calling so I steeled myself and accepted the call. “Hello?”

“Were you seeing William too?” she asked, sounding furious.

“Of course not,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “I’m sure you were the only one. Besides his wife.”

William was waving his hands manically, his expression appalled. What? It was true.

“It doesn’t matter either way I guess. He’s dead and I knew that in my heart.”

Or in reality because she had killed him. Hmm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know him but everyone says nice things about him.”

William gave me a double thumbs-up and a smile.

“Why is love and marriage so complicated?” Cindy asked, sounding melancholy and hopeless.

I’d like to ask my parents that question but I really didn’t want to hear the answer. “I don’t know. Emotion makes people vulnerable.”

A wise sage I am not. I had no idea what else to say.

Her tone changed, grew harsh. “I hope his wife goes down for this and spends her golden years wearing an orange jumpsuit.”

We all have our Christmas wishes.

“I’m sure the police will solve the case and justice will be served.”

Cindy gave a snort and said thanks and goodbye.

I watched the phone screen go blank and I looked at William. “She thinks it was your wife,” I said unnecessarily.

“It wasn’t my wife.”

“Then who was it?”

William sat down at the kitchen island. “Beats me. I think we’re barking up the wrong tree with the women.”

“We’re not doing anything,” I said. “Honestly, I think this might be a case the cops can easily solve. I have faith they can sort this out. You disappeared from an office Christmas party. There were people everywhere. All they have to do is interview everyone. They might even have surveillance footage.”

“Who has surveillance footage from three years ago?”

“People,” I said confidently. Probably no one. But seriously, this was the kind of case that if the police started interviewing people someone was bound to crack and confess. Or say they saw something odd. I doubted there would be much in the way of forensics but that was for TV anyway. Most cases were solved with interrogation and confession. I know this both from my mother and from Marner. “All we need is maybe a list of people at the party. The cops will interview them and someone will confess or point fingers. But first the medical examiner needs to rule it a homicide. I don’t know for sure that he did.”

“So what you’re saying is you’re going to do nothing.”

Pretty much. “I don’t really see what I could do, William.”

“I want you to talk to the vendor who broke down that slide at the party three years ago and moved it to the warehouse. I want to see if it’s been used at any point in the three years since. Maybe go check out that warehouse.”

I didn’t think there was anything that seeing the warehouse would reveal but, truthfully, I wanted to go there anyway, out of morbid home stager curiosity. It was a dream to have a warehouse full of home goods that I could treat like my personal shopping spree for every job I worked on. “Okay. I’ll go to the warehouse. I will find out who the moving company was. And if you want, I’ll talk to your wife.” The third I didn’t think he’d take me up on, but I wanted him to think I was busting my butt so he would leave me alone. I couldn’t concentrate on making a small living room feel spacious when William was yapping in my ear.

Contrary to what my mother thinks, my job matters. People’s financial solvency rests on being able to sell properties with lightning speed and I have a part in that. It wasn’t saving lives but it was saving bank accounts.

“I can live with that.”

That particular wording made me giggle, which made him frown at me. I schooled my features back to neutral. “Sorry.”

Note to self: William didn’t like death humor.

It made me miss Ryan. He had loved a good dead joke when he had been hanging around me post-mortem.

William actually clapped his spirit hands. “Chop-chop. Let’s do this.”

Because that wasn’t annoying at all. Ugh. I wanted to roll my eyes so far back in my head I fell over.

Spirits are entitled as crap. That is the number one lesson of being a medium.

Take the firm upper hand. I remembered the advice Wanda the psychic had given me a few months back and decided to implement it. “If you ever say ‘chop-chop’ to me again I will sage the shit out of you and banish you back to purgatory. It’s like a restraining order for ghosts and I am not afraid to do it.”

“Well, that seems a bit dramatic. Everyone is so overly sensitive these days.”

Annoyed, I made a point of pulling my phone out and checking my email and social media until he got bored and left. It took him about ten minutes. But I can lose hours online watching videos of otters eating and dogs skateboarding. I knew I could outlast him and I was right.

Cell phones. The modern equivalent of “not being home to callers.”