Chapter 29

DESPITE GRAYCIE’S threatening messages, I decided to take care of my medium business first. Wednesday I went straight from the airport to Ethan’s parents’ home, a large stucco split-level with a well-maintained lawn and an older Buick in the driveway. As expected I was kicked summarily to the curb. Then I cornered them in their church vestibule at Thursday afternoon Bible study and made them listen to what I had to say. We had an awkward, stilted conversation over coffee, but I wasn’t entirely sure they believed it. They agreed to meet with me the next day, and I agreed to try to “bring” Ethan. For once the irritating spirit cooperated.

They asked questions, and I answered them. Mrs. Sands cried, and Mr. Sands’ stoic face softened. They hugged me. Thanked me. Me. When I left that night, I started to imagine that being a medium wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Helping people move on and talk to their loved ones? It could be worse.

And then I saw that article.

Written by one Phillip Nichols. I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the fuckwit reporter yet, but the moment I did, there was room for the man in my basement freezer. And never mind the fact my apartment didn’t have a basement. I’d build one. Then bury Nichols in it.

I read that stupid article all weekend. Early Saturday morning, I spit my coffee out all over it. Saturday afternoon I reread the coffee-speckled newsprint. Late Saturday night I perused the article in the tub as I soaked like a debutante. If debutantes also liked cold beer and soft rock with their soaks.

By then I’d convinced myself that it wasn’t quite as bad as all that—that Graycie would consider the article garbage, and that it was only worthy of lining a bird cage. Resolved to line my bird cage with it. Resolved to buy a bird, just to line its cage with that crappy article. Listening to the happy pigeons chirping on the power line outside my window, I realized that would be stupid.

All of those events led me to my current predicament. I sat in a hard-backed chair in Graycie’s office and waited patiently for a well-deserved ass chewing. In the month that I’d been gone, Graycie had added another magnifying glass to his collection. It had a long wicker handle, intertwined with bamboo threads. Once again he cut right to the chase. “I assume you saw the article.”

“What article?”

Graycie almost tore the supremely thin newsprint as he turned it around. He clearly wanted to jam it directly underneath my eyeballs. “Here. Right here. This article. FBI Uses Real-Life Ghost Whisperer? That fucking article.”

“Didn’t see it.”

Graycie pushed the paper at me again. “Take it. Read it. I’ll wait.”

“I saw it,” I admitted crossly. “What’s the big deal? It’s just one reporter’s opinion.”

“One reporter buttressed by two parents—the parents of the victim. They were more than happy to speak about the wonderful agent who was working on their case, who gave them a message from their dead son.”

I had nothing to say to that, so I watched window ghost contemplate his eternal jump in silence. Graycie continued, his voice icy. “I’m trying to understand what would possess you to go to Ethan Sands’ parents and tell them something like that. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that Shawna Paul’s parents called me. They’d like to speak to you again.”

“You can give them my number.”

“I did.” Graycie stared at me. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“You read the article.” I swallowed. It was one thing to have a psychiatric break that the bureau could sweep under the rug. It was an entirely different ball of wax to admit to what I was admitting to.

“So it’s true.”

I nodded jerkily.

“And that lieutenant in Brickell Bay. Lieutenant Tate. What she told me… that’s true too?”

Another nod.

He sighed. Tossed the newspaper down on his desk. “You know you’re talking all kinds of crazy right now, don’t you?”

“I’m not crazy.” My voice was firm. That I knew for sure.

“According to you. Half of me thinks you should be committed for observation.”

My head tilted as I tried to pick up on his subtext—all the things he wouldn’t allow himself to say. Maybe he wasn’t quite as skeptical as he’d have me believe. “And the other half?” I finally asked.

He stared at me. Hard. When he spoke again, it was clear he was picking his words carefully. “You know this means your career, don’t you?”

“Yes.” I forced the word out. It was the right thing to do. And I could honestly say that the ghosts needed me more than the bureau ever did.

“Fuck.” He jabbed his hands in his hair. “Fuck.”

“Nice, Grace. You kiss your mama with that mouth?”

He ignored my flippancy. “I sent you down to Brickell Bay to get clarity, Rain.”

His use of my first name was rare and really drove home how final it was. I nodded yet again. “I understand that.”

His voice hardened. “Is this about McKenna?”

“No.” I took a deep breath. “This is about me.”

I couldn’t possibly expect someone like Graycie—who thought in terms of black-and-white, as I once had—to understand something like that. I still wasn’t sure about the ghost business, but I was sure I wanted to shed my monochromatic, placid lifestyle.

I was tired of spending all my time dotting my t’s and crossing my i’s. Following all Graycie’s rules. Driving a perfectly boring, nondescript sedan. Hell, I was even tired of the dark gray, lightweight cardigan I kept on the back of my chair in my office, just in case I got cold. I was ready for the unpredictable. I was ready to see what strangeness life had in store for me. I was ready for color and confusion and… messiness. Most of all? I was ready to go home.

I probably was going to go grab that cardigan, though. It’s Ralph Lauren. I’m quitting, not crazy.

Window ghost finally spoke for the first time. “He’s always been like this. Stubborn as a mule.”

I tightened my fingers on the chair handle, but other than that, I refused to react. It was really not the time.

But window ghost continued. “Alfie never could understand things he couldn’t touch. Feel. See. So literal. Probably as a result of my death. I took something even more important from him than a father for all those years. I took away his hope.”

“There are worse things,” I said under my breath.

“Tell him I’m sorry. Sorry for all of it. And that I didn’t mean what I said the night I died. I’ve always been proud of him.”

I swallowed. “Thank you for telling me that.”

Graycie frowned in annoyance. “Telling you what?”

“Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “Will you give me a good reference?”

He snorted. “To whom? I don’t know what kind of reference I’d have to write to get you another position after this.”

“I might work someplace in Brickell Bay,” I maintained stubbornly. Because whether Danny wanted me or not, that’s where I wanted to be. Working on our trust. I sighed. I had a feeling it was going to be a long haul. But no matter how much credit the bank of “shit happens” tried to extend me, I wasn’t going to borrow any more trouble. “I’d be an asset in the cold-case sector.”

“FBI to the police department.” He shook his head. “Going backward.”

“Says who? Your ego?” I said coolly. “Can I go? I have someplace I need to be.”

“I hear unemployment doesn’t open until ten.”

“Cute.”

“I’m assuming you’re back with him?”

“Back with whom?” I asked coldly.

“That big, dumbass detective who let you go the first time.”

I stared at him for a moment. It was a telling statement. After all those years, I hadn’t even picked up a blip of interest from Graycie. Some profiler I was. “I wasn’t aware my dating habits were part of this review.”

Graycie slammed the folder shut and leaned back in his chair. Clearly he couldn’t decide what made him madder—the Danny thing or the ghost thing. “You walk out of that door, you don’t come back.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact.

I pushed out of my chair and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, I turned. “Grace. Your father was an agent?”

His voice was irritation personified. “Yeah. Why?”

“He called you Alfie.”

The hand on the folder stilled. “What the fuck are you doing? Parlor tricks?”

“He said he didn’t mean what he said the night he died, and that he’s always been proud of you. He’s standing behind you.”

“Get the fuck out of my—”

“He’s a bit of a whistler. Won’t stop whistling ‘Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.’”

Graycie almost seemed to stop breathing. He paled and stared at me for a long, hard second. “You’re not bullshitting me, are you.”

It wasn’t really a question, but I shook my head anyway. “No.”

“That’s his favorite,” he said, voice a little shaky. “That song. It was one of his favorites.”

“He’s sorry. For everything.”

“So am I.” He nodded, his eyes wet and shiny and twitchy. “Tell him… tell him….”

“He knows,” I said softly. “See you, Grace.”