My lips and body couldn’t stop tingling, and it wasn’t just because of the sushi I had for lunch—an interesting experience seeing as how I walked in wearing a doctor’s coat, red heels, and fresh lipstick. I needed food to help me process what had happened with Mike.

I’d kissed him, and he finger fucked me to Heaven.

He would have done more, too, but I wanted to think I was getting wiser. Sure, sex on his desk would have been epic. But what about afterwards?

Would he have zipped up and coldly told me to go? By leaving on my own terms, the ball was now in his court. If he truly wanted more of me, then he’d have to come and find me.

Bold. Kind of scary. Because now I’d have to play the waiting game to see if he was interested.

In the meantime, while I waited for him to track me down like a dog after a thrown stick, I went into full-on sleuth mode.

I had a mystery to solve, one involving spirits and shit. Which reminded me, I needed to look into becoming ordained. If I was going to be dealing with crazy, possessed people, then I should have some kind of religion backing me.

After lunch, eaten in my underwear on my living room floor while watching Poltergeist at 2X speed—brushing up on my knowledge—I took a quick shower before I dressed in my Norma Louise Bates best. If you’ve never watched Bates Motel, the story of how young Norman got his psycho on, then you’re missing out.

As to my outfit… Baby-blue dress with a full skirt, fitted bodice, a lacy sweater, and sensible brown pumps. I fluffed my hair, adjusted the girls, and left my place, ready to tackle the next part of my fact-finding mission.

Having interviewed Mr. Peabody, I found myself full of more questions than ever. Was Mr. Peabody the only victim of possession? Had his wife and kids also been taken over?

Only one way to find out. I needed to visit the family.

But I kind of promised I wouldn’t go to that house alone.

Silly assurance really because everyone knew bad shit happened at night. Besides, Peabody was the cuckoo one. I would be safe. But just in case I wasn’t, I set up a delayed text for my BFF. A kind of “here’s where to look for the body if I go missing” type of thing.

Having done the responsible thing, I turned to the folder Chloe had on Peabody—which I took pictures of because the office had a thing about active files leaving the building. It, of course, had their address and the basics.

Peabody was married, his wife one Margaret Ann Peabody, age thirty-six. According to the grainy DMV image, she possessed a round face framed with mousy brown hair. A dull expression.

For the kids, Marcus and Melinda, all I had were ages. Fifteen and thirteen.

Horrible years. That was the span of time when I wore the headgear almost twenty-four-seven. Every morning, I set off the metal detector at school. In the end, I didn’t mind. It allowed me to smuggle a knife in with me. It came in handy when I had to threaten to cut off Gordon’s nuts. Stupid jerk kept calling me Metal Head and asked if my boyfriend, the toaster, had dumped me yet. Gordon said it one time too many, and I might have snapped.

The boys had a much healthier respect for me after the knife incident. When all the shit came off, and the ugly duckling turned into a swan—with attitude—Gordon even tried to get in my pants. The ultimate revenge? I did his best friend instead and told the biggest gossip in school that Gordon had a tiny penis.

My GPS announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” What it didn’t tell me was to brace myself for disappointment.

Slowing to a stop in front of the house, I double-checked the address—999 Cloven Hoof Lane.

Right place, but massive letdown.

The house that I’d imagined, sitting atop a hill surrounded by a rusted fence sporting turrets—because, hello, haunted houses had turrets—turned out to be a vinyl-sided, split-level in suburbia.

To compound my deflation, it even had a white picket fence and a rosebush—not currently budding, not even with dead, black petals—out front.

This was the evil abode that supposedly possessed Mr. Peabody?

It explained his sense of style.

Hopping out of my truck with my satchel purse hung over my shoulder, I felt ready to face anything. I’d brought some tools to scare the nails out of any haunted house—hammer, pry bar, and a small jar of plaster. If you asked me, many an evil incursion could have been stopped if the homeowners just damn well filled in that crack.

I’d also brought a can of air freshener with me in case the priest hadn’t agreed with the house’s digestive system.

Funny how I didn’t have a problem believing Mr. Peabody’s story now, not after what had happened at the asylum.

I sauntered to the front door, clipboard tucked under my arm, cardigan over my shoulders because nothing screamed harmless lady collecting information more than a sweater and sensible shoes.

Knocking on the bright red door—could it be the cause behind Mr. Peabody’s aversion?—I stepped back and did my best to look innocent.

I don’t know how well I succeeded, given my lips kept pulling into a grin.

Mike liked me.

Kind of.

And I was helping to solve an attempted murder case.

Life didn’t suck, and I couldn’t help being happy about it.

The door opened, and expecting the miasma of death or, at the very least, dust and mold, the disappointment proved very real when the scent of freshly baked cookies wafted out.

Mmmm. Cookies.

I blinked at the woman standing just inside the door. “Mrs. Peabody?” I queried. She didn’t resemble the image I’d seen at all.

Unlike the dowdy woman in the picture, this woman held herself straight. Sleek brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Her bright eyes were perfectly outlined, her lip gloss very discreet.

As for her clothes, she took my Norma Louise Bates and raised it to a June Cleaver with pearls.

Damn.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a lovely modulated voice.

This couldn’t be Peabody’s wife. The guy I saw would never have won the heart or hand of this gorgeous, sophisticated lady.

Then again, I hadn’t seen what he hid in his pants. Must be quite the schlong, given not only was his wife hot but there was also only one Mr. Peabody. A couple that opted to pay higher taxes rather than bring another man into their home was unusual these days.

The mystery deepened.

A bright smile pulled at my lips. “Hello, Mrs. Peabody, I’m here on behalf of the insurance company.”

“And which company would that be?”

Being a secretary meant I saw more information than people imagined, such as names of companies, legal treatises, plus how things were managed. Things like say…a husband being incarcerated for insanity.

Someone had to pay for it, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the state.

“Bates Insurance.” I held out my hand.

The woman stared at it before shaking, her grip firm and not the least bit sweaty.

Not nervous at all.

“How can I help you, Miss…” She trailed off.

“Letecia Peterson.” I’d gone to school with her. Hated her guts because she was naturally pretty, but she came in handy now.

“I’m not sure why you’re here, Ms. Peterson. I already spoke to someone on the phone.”

“Yes, but we still had a few questions, so they sent me out to find some answers.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Insurance is a twenty-four-seven job, ma’am. May I come in?”

For a moment, she paused as if someone had pressed a button. Her expression went blank, her lips remained parted, her eyes unfocused, then she returned to reality.

“Of course, where are my manners? Come in,” she said with a titter.

A giggle that marched up my back and left shivers in its wake.

Stepping over the threshold, the world didn’t suddenly lose all color, turning black and white. The wallpaper didn’t peel; the floors didn’t creak. The sunshine didn’t suddenly get hidden, smothered by the ominous presence of the house.

Instead, the smell of cookies grew stronger, and I noticed the freshly painted walls in a light gray, the sparkling hardwood floors, and the light jazz playing in the background.

Since Mrs. Peabody wore her shoes inside, I kept mine on, as well, following her down a hall to a bright and clean kitchen just as a timer dinged.

“The cookies are ready,” she sang. “Have a seat.” She slid around the massive island, the polished granite top at odds with the age and style of the house.

I plopped my butt on a stool and remarked, “Your house is gorgeous.”

“Thank you. We’ve been doing some fixes here and there. The joys of owning an older home.”

The cookie sheet was placed on top of two pot holders. I almost drooled on them. Utter cookie perfection from their golden color speckled with melted chocolate, to the heavenly aroma wafting up from the pan.

Staring at the treats, I somehow missed Mrs. Peabody pouring a mug of coffee. It landed in front of me, along with a bowl of sugar and a creamer of milk.

Was it wrong that I wanted to marry Mrs. Peabody? The woman oozed sex appeal, and she could take care of a house. Who needed a husband? We’d just invest in dildos.

I sweetened my coffee, as she used a spatula to serve a gooey cookie onto a plate.

“So, Ms. Peterson.” The words purred out of her. “What kind of questions do you have that require you to work on such a lovely Saturday?” She leaned on the counter and blinked at me, long lashes over lovely eyes, the red spark in them mesmerizing.

It took an effort to look away. I stared at my coffee, the cream I’d added turning it a light tan color. I took a sip and found it bitter. I added more sugar.

“I visited your husband.”

“How is dear Alfred?”

Hanging from the ceiling when he wasn’t doing art. “Don’t you know?” I asked, looking at her sharply.

She turned away and busied herself at the sink, rinsing dishes and placing them on a rack. “His therapist thought it best that we not disturb him.”

“Who’s his therapist?”

She waved a hand. “I’m afraid I don’t recall his name. Dr. something or other. This whole ordeal has been so mentally exhausting.”

The reply seemed off somehow. I mean, we were talking about her spouse. A man she’d been with for more than fifteen years. “Aren’t you curious at all about what’s happening to your husband?”

“Curious about what? It’s quite simple really. I’m afraid poor Alfred suffered quite a mental break. I blame the stress at his work.”

Because helping people find shoes was so hard. Ha.

Given my love of shoes, I could probably make a killing on commission. People would walk into the store, and I’d eyeball their style and feet. I’d whip around, grabbing boxes and flip them at clients like Frisbees. They’d try on the shoes then break into tears because I’d totally understood their arch and sole needs. They’d buy tons of shit, and I’d bring home fat paychecks.

Which made me wonder why I was still a secretary when my obvious dream job was in retail.

However, retail didn’t have me investigating dudes who could walk on the ceiling—just like Lionel Ritchie. Was he possessed, too?

“Mrs. Peabody, are you aware that your husband is claiming this house is haunted and that you’re possessed?”

Laughter tinkled out of her, bright and clear as bells, yet the hairs on my arm rose. The fact that I had enough hair to rise made me wonder if I should look into waxing or laser hair removal.

“My poor husband. Suffering from such ludicrous delusions. There is nothing wrong with me or the children. Nor this house, for this matter.”

“Where are the children?”

“Hanging with their friends, of course.” She turned from the sink and wiped her damp hands on a towel before leaning against the counter. “This tragedy has taken such a toll on them, but I felt it best they keep a normal schedule.”

“Of course,” I muttered.

Mrs. Peabody said all the right things. And yet…ever feel like there was something going on, something you couldn’t quite see? In this case, I didn’t think it was a case of Meemaw’s neighbor sneaking around the apartment building spying on the girls getting undressed at night via the fire escape.

I sipped on my coffee in order to hide my lack of conversation.

Mrs. Peabody smiled widely. So wide that I couldn’t help but notice her giant teeth.

All the better to eat me with…

“What do you think of the cookies?”

I’d forgotten about it. Hastily, I brought it to my mouth for a bite. It looked better than it tasted. Dry, flavorless, and possibly less palatable than sawdust. I put it back on the plate and took a gulp of coffee. It didn’t mix well with the cookie.

My stomach sloshed unhappily, but I pasted on a smile and said, “Delicious.”

“Let me wrap some for you to take when you go.”

I couldn’t exactly say no, so I let her place some in a bag. I planned to ditch them on the way home. Or maybe I’d arrange to have them delivered to Mike when he didn’t make any attempt to contact me.

He won’t call. Why would he? He’d been pretty obvious about his dislike of me the first time we met. That moment in his office wouldn’t change that.

Maybe I should have saved the smooches and gropes for Sebastian. He’d at least seemed moderately interested in me.

But he never called either.

I realized Mrs. Peabody was looking at me expectantly. Had she spoken while I woolgathered my rejections?

“Excuse me, I missed that.”

“I said when will the insurance begin to pay out? While we’ve covered for the moment the cost of repair, I’m sure my husband’s care, even if state mandated, will come at a price.”

“I don’t make those final decisions. Lots of factors go into it.”

“But surely you have an idea.” She leaned forward, her features sharper than before, the glint in her eye more red than brown.

An army of ants ran up and down my spine, and my stomach lurched again.

“It’s not up to me what happens.”

“A shame. Because you are such an interesting girl. A nice-smelling girl.” Mrs. Peabody leaned closer and inhaled.

I got the impression she wasn’t talking about my perfume. Someone else close to her also showed a keen interest in my scent.

Despite wanting to question her some more, I decided it was time to leave.

“Look at the time,” I said as nausea wracked my tummy.

The room wavered, one moment sunny and white. Then, for a moment, dark and dingy, the sink full of dishes, flies dancing in a cloud.

A blink, and everything turned bright again. I, on the other hand, didn’t feel so sunny. “I think I should go. I’m suddenly not feeling well.”

“Oh, dear.” Said with a lack of sympathy and all too much glee. “Would you prefer to lie down? The couch is quite comfortable.”

Lie down in this house with her watching over me? The idea didn’t appeal.

“No, I’ll just go home. Probably just a flu bug.” Or something I’d eaten.

“Take these with you. In case you get hungry.”

I’d eat dirt before I ate those cookies again.

She thrust the bag she’d filled at me, and I grabbed it, not in the mood to argue or let her know how shitty her cookies tasted. I just wanted out.

As I got to my feet, my vision wavered. I blinked and walked out of the kitchen. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, and sweat beaded on my skin.

Why did I feel so crappy?

How far was that damned door?

I put one foot in front of the other. Focused ahead.

The space tilted, the bright fresh paint fading to a dingy gray. I put my hand out and caught myself on the wall, the edge of a picture frame digging into my palm.

Pictures? I’d not noticed any on my way in. For a moment, I saw a blank gray wall, and then I blinked and saw a family picture taken in the Grand Canyon. Mr. Peabody, his arm around a woman and two gap-toothed children.

Pushing off the wall, I stumbled to the front door, wrenching it open, feeling the warm sun hit my face. I entered the fresh air outside, gladly.

“Bye-bye,” cooed Mrs. Peabody. “Hope you feel better soon.”

And was it me, or did she add in a muttered, “not,” under her breath?

Tottering steps showed the world worked against me, the ground weaving and bobbing as if the whole front yard was at sea. But I’d walked home in a drunken stupor before. I could handle whatever plagued me.

I remained upright, if only barely, reaching the sidewalk without falling over.

Goals!

My truck at the curb looked massive, the lift kit I’d had installed raising it high above the ground. I hoped I could climb into it.

Footsteps behind me showed I had company, and I almost looked over my shoulder.

Almost, but didn’t. If this were a horror movie, I’d look back and see that Mrs. Peabody had turned into some grotesque ghoul, fingers stretched for me, her mouth opened wide to eat me.

I reached my truck and yanked open the door, tossing in my stuff as I eyed the height of the driver seat. It felt like climbing Mount Everest getting in. But I made it and slammed the door shut. Locked it, too, before looking out the passenger-side window. The front door of the house was closed. The walkway empty.

And I didn’t feel good at all.

Certainly not good enough to drive myself home.

What did that woman do to me?

Good thing I had a plan in case of emergency.

Chloe answered on the second ring, and I croaked, “I’ve been poisoned. Find my phone.”

Why waste time trying to remember an address when she could just use an app? I slumped against the steering wheel, the phone slipping from my grip, her voice hollering my name.

No matter what, Chloe would find me.

Or, at the very least, call in the cavalry. I just wish I hadn’t barfed all over him when Dale opened the door to my truck.