Threatening Texter was a no-show. All I learned from our night at the beach was that I can eat a full pound of pulled pork in one sitting, I might eventually want to reproduce, and Alyssa was going to revenge date Michael Kincaid. I also had a sunburned nose, despite my obsessive sunscreen application. Oh, and that Ryan could read my mind, which meant I was never safe from humiliation.

I decided on Friday that it was time to focus on my own business, instead of running around town in pursuit of phantom criminals. I had appointments the rest of the week, plus one with the Jensens the following Monday, which had surprised me. Usually after a home is staged clients have no further need for me until it’s time to collect the rental furnishings, but Christy Jensen had said they wanted additional input, and since she was willing to pay for it, there was no reason to refuse.

Alyssa was with me in my home office, absorbed in her phone, gleeful that Michael had been texting her nonstop. “What an ass,” she said. “I’m so going to string him along and dump him.”

“Doesn’t that seem mean?” I asked. “I mean, that was a long time ago. He was a dumb kid. Don’t you want to be the mature one?”

“No.” She started typing a response. “I was bullied mercilessly in high school, you know that. I was called fat basically every day, and Michael was the ringleader. They used to say, ‘Rattle, rattle, here comes the cattle,’ when I would walk into class.”

Yeah, that was pretty bad. “Well then, I hope you get closure.” I had been bullied for my freckles and for being a crybaby, but that was nothing compared to what Alyssa had endured. I think it was fair to say most of us had been bullied at one point or another, to varying degrees. “And that you don’t get arrested for beating the crap out of him.”

She laughed. “Trust me, I will keep it cool. After all, the best revenge is looking good.”

My own phone buzzed. A text from Marner.

Call me.

For some reason, I found that intensely irritating. If he wanted to speak to me, why didn’t he call me? Or actually text me whatever it was he wanted to discuss, since he’d taken the time to text a command. Also, a “How are you?” would have been a nice intro. It just sounded bossy. So after just lecturing Alyssa on maturity, I very childishly decided to ignore him.

I was busy, after all, and he had left me the other night with no idea what we were actually doing and then didn’t say a word about it when he demanded I meet him at the station. And wait a minute. When I had left he had said “I’ll call you later” and he hadn’t. So the call burden was really on him.

“Random question,” I said to Alyssa. “Do you think it’s possible to help a ghost move on to the other side?” I had been up late thinking about Ryan. Worrying that he was stuck here indefinitely. That couldn’t be healthy or fulfilling.

Alyssa burst out laughing. “That truly is the world’s most random question.”

“I’m serious. Do you think ghosts are trapped or do they have a purpose they have to achieve?” It made me think about my own mortality. What had I accomplished? Helping Ryan find peace would be way more important than figuring out why I couldn’t seem to drink alcohol without winding up on the floor.

“I don’t know. I think that if that’s the case, I hope they make it clear, or I’m going to be wandering around indefinitely. I have no clue what my higher purpose would be.”

“Me either.” It made me want to eat a burger. “Want to go get lunch? Philosophizing makes me hungry.”

“Everything makes me hungry.” Alyssa stretched. “Is it wrong to sleep with Michael Kincaid even though I have no intention of dating him?”

“I’m not here to judge.” Personally, I couldn’t imagine doing that. I had never been able to separate sex from emotion. Part of me envied her though, because Alyssa walked around owning her choices. I second-guessed everything. “But what if you end up falling for him?”

“I highly doubt that.”

“I don’t know. I think you might be playing with fire. Just be careful.”

Alyssa scoffed. “When have you ever known me to be careful? I’m not going to start now.”

That made me laugh. “True.”

“How about Mexican for lunch? Since you’re going to Rocky River, let’s hit Barrio. It’s on the way.”

“Sounds good.” Now that my appetite had returned, I might as well be a glutton. Besides, Barrio had build your own tacos and a hot sauce wall that was free for customer use. I may not be hot-hot, but I do like spice in my food. The restaurant had a Dia de los Muertos theme with cool sugar skull artwork on the walls. My appetite was definitely back as I attacked a taco trio.

We were debating ordering a second round of guacamole when I got another text from Marner.

DeAngelo is dead.

I dropped my phone like it was on fire. “Oh my God!” I said to Alyssa. “DeAngelo died.” I quickly texted Marner back, asking him what had happened.

“Who is DeAngelo?” Alyssa asked. “Should we be sad or relieved?”

I willed Marner to respond, but nothing. I took a sip of my water, wanting to rid myself of the sudden lump in my throat. “Not relieved. Sad. I mean, DeAngelo’s the kind of guy who makes you mildly uncomfortable with his constant flirting, but I don’t think he was a bad person.” I did wonder though about Ryan’s concerns. And about the texts I had gotten from an unknown number. The no-show texter at the park. Had it all been DeAngelo?

“Was he a cop?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Did he get killed on duty?” Alyssa picked up her phone and starting tapping. “I’m looking it up.”

I hadn’t thought of that. If he had been killed on duty, it would be on the news. Marner still wasn’t responding.

“Detective found dead in his home last night by his girlfriend,” Alyssa read off her phone. “Cause of death undetermined, though he was a known diabetic.”

“That’s weird.” I shoved a chip in my mouth, needing to chew on something crunchy. “What does that mean? If he was killed, they would say that, right?”

“I don’t know. They don’t usually like to declare something a murder right away, do they? They have to eliminate other possibilities.” Alyssa put her phone down. “Ask Marner about it.”

“I did. He’s not answering me.” It was a very Marner thing to do. Reel me in, then leave me dangling.

“I feel guilty,” I told Alyssa. “I found DeAngelo annoying. Plus I thought he was probably involved in some sketchy things.” He couldn’t be Ryan’s killer though, if he himself had been killed. But wait, I was leaping to conclusions. He might have had a heart attack or choked on an olive or gone into insulin shock. I couldn’t get Sandra’s words out of my head though. DeAngelo had falsified police reports. He had stolen money from a drug bust. He knew Ryan had made a will. Was he somehow involved in the investments Ryan kept referring to?

“It’s okay to not like someone when they were alive but still feel bad they died. It’s not like you wished him dead—you don’t have to feel guilty over not liking him.”

I still did though. I couldn’t help it. I had entertained DeAngelo as a legitimate suspect in Ryan’s death, and now I wasn’t sure what a mysterious, “undetermined” death meant. “Do you think I should go to the funeral?”

“Did you sleep with him?” Alyssa asked, polishing off her margarita.

“What?” The thought made my skin crawl. “Of course not!”

“Then you don’t have to go to his funeral.”

“I doubt that’s an official rule of etiquette.” It would certainly explain the crowd of women at Ryan’s funeral though.

“It’s just my personal code of conduct. Physical intimacy requires I be present when they’re dropped in the ground. It keeps me from sleeping around.”

“Then you better hope Michael Kincaid doesn’t drop dead or you’ll need a black dress.”

Alyssa just laughed. “True that.”

Suddenly, I wondered what I would do if something happened to Marner. He was a cop after all, and at risk every day.

But I didn’t want to go there, so I hailed the waiter and ordered more guac, determined to eat my feelings rather than confront them.

My phone buzzed. I rushed to look at it, hoping it was a text from Marner.

Fear crawled up my spine. It was from DeAngelo. I had saved his number in my contacts when he’d texted me the first time as Dirty DeAngelo.

There was no threat. No explanation. It was a simple kiss emoji, accompanied by a wink. A kiss and a wink from DeAngelo on a Friday didn’t seem that odd.

Except that DeAngelo was dead, found the night before by his girlfriend.

And while the dead could rise, they couldn’t text.

Or could they?

I drained my margarita and tried not to have a panic attack.

Sometimes your mother warns you not to do something and you do it anyway. Like when I was fifteen and decided I wanted to be goth and dyed my hair black. She told me I would look like a vampire, and not a sparkly one, and she was right. It took an entire year and hundreds of dollars in salon visits to gradually match my hair to the new growth. Plus, I sported Emma Watson’s pixie cut for most of tenth grade. Bad, really bad, idea.

Going to DeAngelo’s apartment alone? Possibly even a worse idea.

I don’t know what I was expecting to find, but I knew one thing for sure—he wouldn’t be there. He was dead, and the thought had been weighing on me for the last twenty-four hours. I kept thinking that maybe, just maybe, I could call on DeAngelo’s ghost to explain to me what the hell was going on. It seemed like he was right in the thick of all of this, and if I could see Ryan, who was to say I couldn’t see DeAngelo if he were trapped in his apartment where he died?

It was a stretch. Ryan said he had chosen me as his contact, but what about ghosts that appeared to wander with no purpose? People talked about that phenomena all the time. I had to do something, and it was either this or crawl out of my skin, and I kind of like my skin, despite the soft dusting of freckles.

So I found myself standing outside of DeAngelo’s condo, which I had found by doing a property search, wondering how I thought I was going to get inside. It was in a low-slung sixties-built building and the hallway was gloomy and quiet. I didn’t see any surveillance cameras anywhere. I also didn’t see anywhere that a spare key would be tucked. No doormat, no potted plants in a hallway like this. No mailbox. Damn it.

I decided to just try the knob. To my shock, it turned easily and yawned open at a soft push. Glancing guiltily down the hall, I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. It was hushed in the apartment, and gloomy, despite the blinds being open. The windows were high and squat and the balcony railing was actually a concrete wall, which further blocked the sun. There was no evidence of any sort of struggle or anything suspicious. It was a tidy apartment, although a quick glance around showed a few candy wrappers next to the couch. My heart was hammering in my chest. Marner was going to kill me if he knew I was here.

Ryan might back me up, but I didn’t want to talk to him. I wanted to talk to DeAngelo.

“Hey, DeAngelo, it’s Bailey Burke,” I whispered in the empty living room. I felt ridiculous, and a little terrified. Of what, I wasn’t sure. “Can you talk to me? Can you tell me what happened? If you talk, I’ll be able to hear you, I promise.” I thought I would be able to hear him, anyway. It wasn’t a guarantee.

Nothing. DeAngelo didn’t walk around a corner and give me a smarmy grin. I was torn being disappointment and relief. I was used to Ryan’s ghost. The freak factor might be high with a second spirit. I wandered around, not sure what the heck I was looking for. Anything suspicious would have been taken by the cops, and they didn’t have it cordoned off as a crime scene, clearly. But I also knew that whoever had texted me from DeAngelo’s phone had to be someone who had access to the scene. So it could be DeAngelo’s girlfriend, which seemed ridiculous. The EMTs. Or a cop. The last option made me shiver despite the heat of the stuffy apartment.

In the kitchen there was an empty orange juice container on the counter, given credence to the theory that DeAngelo went into diabetic shock. Between the juice and the candies, he must have been trying to regulate his sugar levels.

I peeked in the fridge, using my sweater sleeve to open the door, expecting to see his insulin kit, but it wasn’t on the mostly bare shelves.

Then a blow to the head sent me reeling into darkness.

When I woke up, the room was spinning, the cool air of the fridge wafting over me. I gave a groan and sat up, my stomach rebelling. I swallowed back a gag and hauled myself to my knees. Someone had hit me and I needed to get the heck out of Dodge. I used the refrigerator shelves to help right myself, and that was when I realized that in a previously blank spot sat an insulin kit.

It hadn’t been there before. I was sure of it.

Which meant DeAngelo had been murdered by a clever killer who had stolen his insulin.

But no one was going to believe me.

The question was why. What did DeAngelo know?

I thought about the money. The investment account Ryan had mentioned. They always say follow the money and you’ll find the killer.

All I needed was to do that before the killer decided they were tired of warning me and made me their next victim.