It’s been five days since I broke a twelve-year-old tradition. Instead of waking up and running, I wake up do the yoga video my buddy sent. Or, in the case of this sunny, Thursday morning, hop onto the second-hand bicycle I bought the other day and pedal to the bakery on Main Street. I bike home with my prize and polish off three strawberry crullers in the front parlor.

Cora paces a circle on the rug, shooting me a confused, resentful look.

“We’ll run in a little while, girl.”

While I wait for noon to come, I read the cards I had put off and send some thank-you emails from a desk in the piano room. I ignore forty-something Facebook messages and dozens of emails from friends and readers, no doubt reacting to the Page Six story. With gritted teeth, I answer an email I’ve been ignoring since Tuesday: the one from my personal assistant, Wills.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, mate. Anything I can do?’

I set him deleting condolence messages from my social media accounts.

Then I sit back and listen—to the ceiling. Marley usually works from eight to six, but earlier, before I went out to grab breakfast, I was pretty sure I heard her up there. Nothing now. I wonder if she’s at home sick. Little kids will do that to you.

At that thought, I feel sick myself. I redirect my thoughts by going into the bedroom I’m using as my weight room. It doesn’t matter what Marley’s doing, I remind myself. That’s why I switched my run time so it doesn’t coincide with hers. She and I exchanged some kinder words that night I helped her up the stairs, but things between us are no different than they were before.

We aren’t friendly neighbors. We aren’t friends or lovers. For the duration of the time we’re both living here—which I hope will be brief—I need to avoid her. No more Mr. Asshole, but I can’t be Mr. Nice Guy again, either.

I do my work out, tighten a loose doorknob in the formal dining room, and wander upstairs to my writing room while I wait for the call. I’ve got big news coming, I hope. Maybe good news. I’m not much for praying, but I send one up as I scroll through my work in progress. It’s not very good so far, but I can make it better. I just need to focus. Who could do that while they wait on something like this?

After a few times checking my inbox for an email from my lawyers, followed by a gut-twisting peek inside my “From Hugh” folder, I trudge downstairs, stretch in the hallway, and then pull on a pair of shades. I can’t disguise myself fully, but the shades do seem to help. I’ve cut down on the looks of recognition I get on the street almost entirely. So far, no in-person condolences, and no Fate Tribune write-ups.

I’m descending the front porch stairs, Cora bounding on my heels, when I look up and there is Marley.

Marley on the sidewalk with her hair around her shoulders, the hot pink tips fluttering slightly in the wind. Marley in a yellow polka dot dress, holding a giant pumpkin up against her belly. As she struggles with it, sunlight glints off her lime green glasses.

Her gaze swings up, and when it widens at the sight of me, she drops the pumpkin and it cracks against the sidewalk. Pumpkin guts go everywhere, and Marley wails.

“Oh, no! Pete!” She drops to her knees, her spread hand hovering over the pumpkin’s stringy, orange guts. “Aw, dammit!”

I can’t help the chuckle I try to suppress.

“Shuddup.” She shoots me a baleful glare. “This is your fault, McKellan.”

I laugh, despite myself. “How do you figure?”

“You distracted me.”

I take a few steps down the front walk, putting me closer to her. “Did I?”

With a glance at me, Cora prances over and begins to lick the pumpkin from the sidewalk.

“Ooooh.” Marley rubs her head. “Hey, pretty. What’s your name? Oh my…you are a pretty baby…” She scratches Cora’s neck, and Cora’s tail goes haywire.

“What’s her name?” Her eyes shift up to mine.

I wait just a beat before I tell her, “Coraline.”

“Oh is it?” she asks, still rubbing Cora. “I approve, yes I do, that’s a good name for a puppy,” she coos. “You’re a very pretty Coraline. I think I’ve heard you called Cora… That’s nice, too.”

I grit my teeth at the love fest out in front of me, wondering if I can go on and get moving. I can’t bring myself to do that, though. Despite my self-protection logic, I should do what’s neighborly, and in this case, that’s help Mar move the giant, broken pumpkin from our walkway.

I step closer, crouching down to grab the biggest pieces.

“Not a good shirt,” she says, between baby-talking Cora.

“Huh?” I look down at myself as I stand with the pumpkin pieces.

“Nipple city.”

“What?”

She nods, ogling my chest. “Your man nips are showing like whoa, and you forgot tightie whiteies underneath your running shorts. That’s why the death of Pete is all on you.”

I blink from her face to the pumpkin. “First of all, this had a name?”

“Pete. I was going to carve him up with a little bow-tie, but…” She makes a sad face.

It’s so preposterous, I laugh. I glance down at my crotch. “You’re wrong about the pants, though.” I know what I look like in my running shorts. I’ve checked myself out in the mirror lots of times, to avoid that very problem. As it happens, I’m wearing briefs.

“Not wrong,” she says, though I notice that she doesn’t look. “This place is swarming with dirty old ladies going to and from that midday prayer meeting thing, and all the busy-bodies who go to those frou-frou re-enactments at the library. Not to mention the slutty moms of young kids going to the finger-paint class at the farmer’s market.” She wiggles her brows behind her glasses. “More and more of them are hearing that the great Gabriel McKellan is in town. I’m just saying, I’d watch out.”

I widen my eyes slightly—my default not-sure-what-to-say look—because, really, I’m not sure what to say to that—so it seems as good a time as any to head toward the trash can, stashed behind her stairs.

Marley follows with her own armful of busted pumpkin. “I do think the shades help,” she says, as she dumps the pumpkin in the garbage. She looks at me, touching her own glasses. “Those make you look less you, for sure. And bonus points for the camouflaging beanie.”

“Jesus, do you charge a fee?”

She smiles brightly. “Just offering a little neighborly input. Since we’re on less hostile terms now. We are on less hostile terms, right? Or was that a drunken hallucination?”

Something warm spills through me. Maybe shock. I shake my head, belatedly. “Not a hallucination.”

I stride back toward the pumpkin guts and get another armful.

“Bless your heart,” she says in an exaggerated twang.

“Yeah, yeah.” I dump the guts in the garbage and offer her a waggle of my brows. “Sorry for the loss of Pete. May he rest in peace.”

With a stupid salute that helps me avoid her soft brown eyes, I tear off toward the cemetery, glancing down at myself as I go.

* * *

“Since then, I’ve seen him three more times,” I murmur as we wander underneath an unmanned LuLaRoe tent, petting all the pretty leggings.

“Mmm, these pirate ones.” Kat holds a pair up.

“Festive.”

It’s the last weekend before Halloween, and old town Fate has been transformed into a mini carnival surrounded by craft booths and colorful tents: the annual Fall Festival.

Kat and I have been wandering the median in front of Fendall House, but we’re working our way toward Main Street, where, in the bank parking lot, there’s a Ferris wheel, a go-kart track, and a water-dunk machine that I’m signed up to sit in for work. Freaking disenfranchised children fundraiser. Who can say “no” to that?

“I think I need these pumpkin ones for sure,” Kat says, tucking them under her arm. “You should get the skulls.”

I take them from her. “Yeah—I should.”

“So you didn’t finish. What about the other times?”

I smile, sipping a peppermint latte I bought a few booths back.

“You’re enjoying this.” She glares as we hand our cash to a high school kid.

“A little. That’s my right as someone in the world’s most awkward situation. So anyway,” I go on, softly; Kat and I take our receipts, and start walking again. “After the pumpkin incident, I got up the next day, and there was a pumpkin on my porch. With a sticky note stuck that said ‘Pete II.’”

Kat gapes, and then emits a tiny squeal. I jab her with my elbow as we pass a booth where kids are getting faces painted. “Shh, you hussy!”

“He bought you a new one. Marley,” she coos.

“So anyway, I thought of asking him to carve up Pete II with me, but it seemed like too much, you know? So I haven’t carved him yet at all. I took a Polaroid of Pete II with a baby blanket wrapped around him and wrote ‘thanks for bringing me home, stork,’ but let’s be honest—that was weird as hell. It got stuffed into a drawer. I then decided I would meet him on the morning run—we’re both doing a morning run, or had been, actually since we were together. Can you believe we both kept that habit all this time? But anyway, hear this: he changed his running time. Or stopped running.” I drop my tone another notch as we stroll past a church booth where some kids I recognize from the clinic are playing the harp, and a friend of ours from high school coaches them; luckily, her back is to us. “So a few days ago, I was off for the day because the office was being re-painted, and I watched and listened for him. He’s now jogging midday. When I’m not there to ogle him, I guess. Dear God. Anyway, I took some trash out around the time he was coming back, and I said thank you for Pete II.”

“Ooh, and how was that?” Kat asks, her gaze stuck to a tent decked out with Christmas décor.

“It was pretty awkward, actually. Not sure if it was me or him, but he barely even interacted with me. Acted almost pained, like he was in a huge hurry to get inside,” I report as we pass a cob-webbed tent with a hand-painted sign that reads ‘Ghost Fortunes.’ Something about the sign catches my eye, and I have to laugh when the tent’s flap swings open and a large, cloaked figure emerges. The fortune teller, tall and broad, is covered with a sheet: all white, except for eye holes.

Kat giggles. “What’s our ghost fortune, Marley?”

“I don’t know. You wanna see?”

The ghost nods, holding up a sign that says, ‘Ghost Fortune: $10. Proceeds to Carnegie Library Read for Leadership program.’

“Okay, let’s do this thing.” Kat hands the ghost two tens. I hand over two more, winking at our ghostly fortune teller. “For the kids.”

The ghost nods and gives a thumbs up, revealing large, masculine hands. Then he sweeps the tent open and beckons Kat inside a funky, bead-draped space with lava lamps and a huge crystal ball. The entrance flap doesn’t close completely, so I watch as Kat holds her hand over a little table, and the ghost leans in over it. I hear Kat giggle, followed by a soft exchange of words.

She smiles again as she says, “That sounds perfect.”

A few moments later, she emerges, mouthing something to me. Lip reading is definitely outside my skill set, so I shoot her a look that says later and follow my ghostly host into his abode.

With walls of white fluttering around us, I sink into a black bean bag and watch the ghost sit behind his table: a scratched-up, piece-of-crap, wood number with a large, fake spider perched on the edge and a sticky eyeball stuck beside the glowing, purple crystal ball.

The ghost nods and makes a come-hither motion with his fingers, and I rest my hand, palm up, on the table.

He reaches out and cradles it in both of his. As his big hands surround mine and a finger drags over my palm, I feel the air slip from my lungs. Gabe. I know it’s him before I look into his eyes.

“Mmmm,” he murmurs in put-on tone that doesn’t sound like him. He drags his finger over my palm, which wastes no time starting to sweat.

“Do things look good?” I breathe, trying to sound light-hearted.

Gabe’s eyes are hot on mine as he traces the middle line on my palm.

“They do.” His voice is a rumble I feel between my legs.

He draws my hand closer to him, and I feel chills spread over my skin. Gabe traces the outline of my thumb.

“You moved home,” he says, in that ultra-low, fake, ghost voice, his cool fingers caressing my wrist.

I nod slowly.

“To an old house, very old, with many spirits.”

My lips twitch.

“Also, there is someone else there. Someone…” He closes his eyes and rocks slightly. “Very attractive.” His eyes open. “But not very nice.”

My stomach sprouts a pair of wings and starts to flutter. “How’d you know?”

He nods at the table where our hands rest, at the crystal ball.

I bite my lip, which sort of wants to smile. “You’re right, Ghost Medium. My downstairs neighbor is a total fucking asshole.” I lean closer. “Huge dick,” I whisper. “And I do mean that in both ways.”

I can see Gabe’s eyes go squinty with his hidden smile—or, more likely, smirk. I can feel him trying not to laugh. His finger, paused in its perusal of my palm, starts tracing again. “Has this bad neighbor caused…unhappiness?” he asks, making me want to laugh at his ridiculous voice—even as my pulse races at the soft stroke of his finger on my palm.

“You know, honestly…” I bite my lower lip for effect. “I think he may be under the impression that I care more than I do. Like, he’s Fate’s VIP, this neighbor, but to me, maybe he’s just…a boring neighbor.”

I can’t hide my smirk, and he can’t hide the way his eyes crinkle. “Is that right?” he asks in his normal voice. He coughs. “Is that right,” he repeats in ghost-tone.

“Kind of a been-there, done-that sort of thing, you know what I mean?”

I can see his jaw drop, even through the sheet. He drops my hand, then grabs the crystal ball and tugs it closer. He holds up a finger. “One of my ghostly brethren has a message for us…”

“Is that right?”

He nods, running his palm around the crystal ball, which shoots out yellow sparks.

Gabe shuts his eyes. All at once, he flips them open and leans forward. “Your neighbor is a wizard, Marley.”

I scoff, stifling the howl I want to let loose. “Is he?”

“It seems so.”

“I can see how he might be under that delusion,” I say. “He’s a little kooky, by profession, in fact—but I’m not so sure your source is right on this…”

“Oh yes, he is definitely right. And the minds of wizards, they are very readable to ghosts…”

“Are they now?”

He nods. “So I have insight I can offer you.”

“Well, I’d love to hear this, then, Ghost Medium.” I lean forward.

Gabe leans closer too, his gaze burning my own. “Your neighbor is, in fact, an asshole. Since you moved in, he has been a dick most of the time.” He grabs my hand again as my face flushes red hot. “So this is my message: It has nothing to do with you. Only with him.”

I swallow, so thrown off, I have to take a second to gather my thoughts, lest I blurt something out. I look down at my hand, still palm-up on the table, and feel a veil of surreality shimmer over both of us. After a deep breath, I glance back up. “So why’s he being that way? What’s the matter?”

His eyes shut, and he gives a quick shake of his head. “Sometimes an asshole is an asshole.”

“That sounds nebulous. And possibly excusatory. Surely that’s not true. And anyway, sometimes this person does nice things. I think he’s capable. In fact, lately, my neighbor hasn’t been so bad.”

He takes my hand again, and rubs along one of the lines. “That’s good to know. I’m glad to hear no hauntings will be needed,” he says in his low ghost-voice.

“No. I think no hauntings will be needed.”

“Very good.”

“This is a good disguise for Mr. Famous,” I whisper, with a small quirk of my lips.

What he’s doing with my hand… He’s tracing in between my fingers.

“Yeah,” he says, and the word sounds thick and heavy. Tired. And just like Gabe. He’s dropped his faux voice as he says, “Trying to stay in the shadows. For now, at least.”

My eyes shut as he strokes the base of my palm. I pull them open and find his hot on my face. “Does everybody get this kind of séance and palm reading,” I whisper.

He blinks, then lets go of my hand. Without another word, he stands and waves me toward the door. “Goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye,” I snort. I wait till Kat and I are well beyond ear shot to growl, “Your future looks grim, Kitty.”

“I tried to tell you,” she hisses.

“You failed.”