“Hi, I’m Bailey Burke. Your real estate agent Allison Loren sent me.”

“Christy Jenkins,” said the woman who had the life I wanted. In her mid-thirties, she was gorgeous—firm body, everything still perky, makeup on point, eyebrows pure perfection. She had a hottie financier husband, two Mensa-worthy offspring, and a ninety-year-old Tudor mini-mansion with views of the lake. That she was selling because it was too small.

Five thousand square feet didn’t really cut it for me either, but I’d be willing to suffer with it.

This was the only downside to my job.

Raging real estate jealousy.

Yet the flip side was I got to peek into tons of houses I would never have seen otherwise, and one of the many things I really loved about Cleveland was the architecture. The Jensen’s neighborhood was a hotbed of Tudors built lakeside in the 1920s, and the details in those houses were always amazing.

“This is my husband, Tim,” she said as I followed her into the foyer. Tim gave me a wave and a smile before retreating to the back of the house, his phone in hand.

“You have a lovely home,” I said. The challenge of having high-end clients was they tended to push back when I suggested changes. Yet, if anything, they needed staging more than a starter home client, because their buyer pool was both small and finicky. Everything had to be perfect for every single showing.

“Thank you. How should we do this?”

“Let’s have you go through the house with me. I’ll make suggestions based on my immediate impressions, then I’ll send you a more detailed list with 3D images of the rooms with my changes implemented.”

Tablet in hand to take pictures and measurements, I braced myself to find the correct wording to not offend her or make her think the opposite—that my services weren’t even necessary.

But I have to admit, I wasn’t as inclined as usual to feel green, even as I walked into a mahogany-paneled library filled with enough books to keep me busy for the next three thousand weekends. I was too distracted with thoughts of Ryan.

Wondering if I had lost it and it was all a figment of my imagination. Hoping I wasn’t insane and his ghost was real, as much as a ghost can be. Wishing he would come back. Thinking there was no way in hell little old Bailey Burke could solve a murder. I couldn’t even solve the mystery of where my newspaper went every morning. Sometime between delivery at 5a.m. and my opening the front door at 6:30 it habitually disappeared, and I had no suspects. Though I had my eye on the old guy across the street, because I had seen him reading a newspaper, and most likely, we were the only two people on the entire west side still doing that.

But this was murder. What did I know about murder? The closest I came was the rage that blanketed me when the neighbor’s Rottweiler left brown bombs the size of a small child in my tiny front yard. Normally, I lived a very conflict-free life. I squirm when people say mean things to each other. I had retreated into the world of pretty things and design after my debacle of a stint as an evidence tech.

As we investigated the living room and formal dining room, I made notes but told Christy, “So far the only clutter I’m seeing is in your husband’s office.” It was littered with papers and laundry and something that may or may not have been an actual human skull. There was also a glass gun cabinet filled with a dozen rifles and the walls were lined with taxidermy out the wazoo.

“Stay out of my office,” Tim called, his head popping into the hallway, startling me. He had a booming, insurance salesman voice at complete odds with his lean build.

I looked at Christy for a cue on how to handle that statement.

“Don’t be stubborn,” she told him. “You said we need to sell the house, Timmy. It was your idea. Did you see the new listing I sent you?”

“It’s fifty grand overpriced,” Tim said. “And did you see the roof? What the hell is that?”

“It’s slate,” Christy protested. “It’s original. The owners have it checked and repaired every year. It would cost more than fifty thousand dollars, easy, to have a roof like that put on today. It has great resale value.”

“It looks old,” he said in disdain.

Um, because it was? That seemed to be the appeal of original for most people.

“I’m happy to leave your office alone if that’s what you prefer,” I told him. “Though I suggest you lock up your personal papers and any electronics that are easily removable, like your tablet and laptop. And you might want to lose the skull.” Anything deceased tended to turn off potential buyers. General rule of thumb. “And make sure the gun cabinet is locked.”

He gave me a nod, but he seemed more interested in the house his wife wanted to buy, that he was determined to hate. Tim shoved his phone at Christy. “Did you see this? That masonry needs repairs.”

My thoughts started to wander as they discussed their housing future. I didn’t care about the integrity of ninety-year-old brick at the moment. I cared about Ryan, who would never see forty, let alone ninety years on earth.

“Okay, sweetheart,” she said, voice mild and unconcerned. “We can talk about that later. Bailey and I need to go through the house. I’m sure she has other appointments.”

A date with the dead. That’s what I had going on.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I blurted to Christy after Tim made a face and disappeared again. I was clutching my iPad with white knuckles like it was the only thing anchoring me to the floor.

She was startled by my random question, turning her gaze from the view of the lake through the six panel windows to me. Christy was about ten years younger than her husband, and about five years older than me. She had straight blonde hair, bouncy breasts and long, tanned legs that rose above her designer stilettos. Overall she gave the impression of perfection. Intelligent, sweet, and absolutely capable of getting what she wanted. With the kind of body men like to grab onto.

I vowed to eat a whole chicken for lunch to gain some protein.

She was also a woman who was bound to think I was certifiable for asking her something like that. It seemed more likely her hobby was golf or pilates or wine tasting, not ghost hunting. I was going to lose this job and future commissions from friends she might recommend me to because I was fixating on Ryan. Yet I couldn’t stop myself.

But she nodded, apparently unperturbed. “Of course I believe in ghosts. Why do you ask?” she said, in such a normal conversational voice that I found myself reassured.

“Well. My dead best friend visited me today,” I said, leaning a little closer to her, eager for comfort. “And I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

Now okay, I admit that wasn’t highly professional of me, but damn it, I had to tell someone. It was either that or sling back a pitcher of margaritas, and I’ve never been much of a drinker. I tend to wind up sobbing while listening to Sinatra on replay when I’ve had too many. Frank does it to me every time.

Ryan always thought that was funny. He would tell me I was only person who could find a song with the word “tramp” in it sentimental. My eyes started to fill with tears. Ryan was dead. Still dead.

Christy patted my arm, her mouth rounding in sympathy. “Oh my, well, that’s sad but wonderful at the same time, isn’t it?”

“Exactly!” I nodded enthusiastically. Christy understood.

“You want to see her, but at the same time, you want to know that she’s found peace in the afterlife. And seeing her reminds you that she really is dead and won’t ever be a true part of your life again.”

“That’s so true.” Christy was clarity in cashmere. “Only she’s a he.”

“Oooohhh.” She squeezed my hand in sympathy, her cleavage Jiffy-Popping out of her sleeveless summer-red sweater. “That kind of friend. Just enjoy it, Bailey. Think of it as extra time with him. Not everybody gets that chance. And remember that you’ll always keep him in your heart.”

I blinked back the tears. “You’re right, you’re exactly right. Thanks so much, Christy.” For telling me exactly what I wanted to hear.

“What’s his name? Did he die violently? He may need help finding his way to the light.” Now she seemed really interested, a spark of morbid curiousity in her eyes mingling with the sympathy.

“His name’s Ryan, and he claims there’s no light in sight. But then, he’s a cop, a detective actually, and he tends to think he knows everything.”

“Did he die on duty?”

I shook my head, not wanting to explain further. “He was shot.”

Her eyes grew wide, so that I could see the rims of her green contact lenses floating over her pupils. “I remember that from the news. He killed himself, didn’t he?”

Again, I couldn’t do more than shake my head, shrug, and then give a half nod.

“Well then, no wonder he can’t cross over. He’s tormented over taking his own life. You need to reassure him. Release him from his guilt.”

She looked so earnest, so worried, so solemn, I felt the need to reassure her, not Ryan. “Okay, Christy, I’ll try. Thanks.”

As we moved into the spacious kitchen, Tim was eating a sandwich standing over the sink. “Is she telling you that you need to scale back on your wine collection? Because she should.”

At least I was right about the wine tasting hobby. Christy was a woman of layers, clearly.

“No, sweetheart, we’re talking about ghosts.” Christy shot him a dimpled smile, the tragedy of Ryan’s tortured soul quickly forgotten as she flirted with her husband, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He rolled his eyes and turned his head to finish chewing. But he then smiled indulgently at her and I wasn’t just jealous of their real estate. I was jealous of that—a man looking at a woman with love and affection. I needed to get out there more, clearly.

I tried to discreetly blow my nose and stuff the wadded tissue back in my purse. Used tissues should just evaporate. The minute you crumple it into a little ball, disintegration should spontaneously occur so you don’t find yourself with a handbag full of hard tissue balls with lint, dirt, and gum wrappers clinging to them. Too many tears today had made me stuffy.

“Nobody wants to hear your theories about ghosts, babe.” Tim gave Christy’s butt a quick pat before he set her aside. “And please don’t tell me this house is haunted, because you know I think that’s crap.”

“Oh, but it is,” she said, her eyes wide and innocent. She looked like an angel with double D’s. Most men’s idea of heaven, Ryan’s included.

“I can feel it,” she added. “That’s why I’m finally agreeing that we need to sell this house that I love so much.”

Ah, so that was the real story. Christy didn’t want to move. Tim did.

He snorted, and polished off the last bite of his sandwich. “This house isn’t haunted. Don’t tell people that. And we are moving, Christy. End of story. I need more space.”

Christy sashayed away from him on her heels. I could practically hear the stripper music booming with each dink-dink of her curvy hips. Her husband’s eyes followed her movements.

She grinned at me when we were down the hallway and walked into a first floor guest suite. “We’re not moving, trust me. I adore this house. It has soul. But I have to let Tim think it was his idea to stay. Men are a pain that way.”

“I admire your confidence,” I told her truthfully. “I can’t get men to do anything I want.”

“Just play up your assets,” she assured me.

When I figured out what they were, I would jump on that. “I think you have more natural assets than I do.” I gestured to my chest.

“Natural? Hardly. And I didn’t buy the only pair.” She grinned. “Just remember the three H’s. Heels, hand jobs, heart. Wear the first, offer the second and the third, and he’s yours.”

Interesting life philosophy. I had done one and three with Ryan, but I wasn’t touching the second. Literally. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. That whole “bodiless entity” thing wouldn’t allow it. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now let’s look in your coat closet and see if we can reduce the number of out-of-season coats you’re storing in there.”

But as I stared at a sea of furs, bomber jackets, dress coats, and puffers, all I could see was Ryan’s mother dressed all in black, bundled up in a long winter coat, weeping on her husband’s shoulder at Ryan’s funeral.

She had asked me why he would commit suicide and I had said I wished we could ask him. They always say when someone is murdered the killer won’t talk and the victim can’t. But in this case the dead man was speaking and I needed answers that I wasn’t going to find staging a stately home.

Time to get my Nancy Drew on.

The police station is not my least favorite place on earth—that would be the outhouse at my cousin Sara’s farm—but its pretty damn close.

The building downtown needed an extreme home makeover. Or a bulldozer mowing it down. Everything is dingy gray, a bit rancid, just a little sticky—sort of like the bottom of my shoes after going to the county fair.

I understand that corralling prisoners is not about aesthetics, it’s about the safety of the officers and staff. But can’t you be safe with sunshine-yellow walls? And there’s no crime in having a few houseplants to perk the place up. If the accused is properly handcuffed, he can’t pick up a spider plant and wing it at anyone.

I didn’t think it would be wise to point this out though, since I was there to ask a favor, and during my days working at the station, I had complained to the point an unknown person had posted a printout that said “Glamour Cube” on the exterior wall of my cubicle and put crime scene photos all around it. It wasn’t funny, but I had deserved it, to be honest. It’s not a place for pretty.

Ryan’s old friend Marner met me at the glass window and had the guard buzz me in. Ryan had become close friends with Marner when they both joined the force, when I was still in college getting the degree in criminal justice I’d done nothing with after my evidence tech tenure (and yes, my parents are still annoyed about that). I knew Marner by default, since I had been friends with Ryan first, and occasionally the three of us did things together. During my lame attempt at working crime scenes after Ryan had thoroughly lost patience with me, it was Marner who had constantly offered me reassurance and encouragement. He was a good guy. Easy to be around.

Once we all had even gone to Niagara Falls together, which sadly was the closest I’ve ever gotten to a wild weekend with two guys. I had slept in a king-size bed sandwiched between two men after the hotel messed up our reservation but the wettest I got the whole trip was on the Maid of the Mist boat ride.

It was with that depressing thought that I smiled at Marner.

“Hey, Bailey, how are ya? Long time, no see.” Marner enveloped me in a hug, which startled me. He’d never hugged me before, except once at Ryan’s funeral, and now he was gripping me hard, right in front of half a dozen detectives in their cubicles.

“I’m okay, Marner, how about yourself?” I tried to subtly extract myself. He had a hell of a grip and was wearing way too much aftershave.

“Hanging in there.” He shrugged, but still didn’t let me go.

“Good.” I patted his back awkwardly, realizing that seeing me must bring up thoughts of Ryan. And Marner still thought Ryan had killed himself. He hadn’t been granted the relief that I felt, and I wondered if I was allowed to tell him. I’d check with Ryan first, but it seemed like Marner had a right to know.

Finally he released me, but kept my hands tightly in his. “What brings you by?”

Weirded out that we were essentially holding hands, I kept my voice low. “Do you have a minute? Can we talk somewhere private?” I wasn’t sure if what I was going to ask was exactly legal in the strictest sense of the word, so I didn’t want a bunch of nosy-nelly cops listening in on our conversation. I couldn’t say about other stations, but here this particular group of cops eavesdropped and gossiped like a group of grandmas. Replace the knitting needles with guns and they were one and the same, male and female detectives alike.

Marner is more serious than Ryan ever was. He has an intensity in his brown eyes that shows he’s thinking, planning, processing. Ryan was always more impulsive, going with his gut. I like both of them. But I do love Ryan, and I think it’s because he isn’t like me at all. Marner and I can get a little solemn when left on our own together.

He studied me for a long second, than glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Sure, Bailey. Let me grab my wallet and we’ll go to lunch. You want Italian?”

Wallet most likely meant his weapon. Marner always locked his gun in his desk drawer when he was at the office. I followed him back through the maze of cubicles and got a couple of waves and “What’s up?” from men and women I knew, plus the very predictable “Yo, Bailey, how’s that Irish Cream?”

This was a longstanding joke they all found hilarious and I realized I hadn’t missed working here at all. As if there was any doubt. This time it was a familiar face—Detective Cox, who once upon a time I had made the mistake of encouraging because I had been young, he was gorgeous, and it had been flattering. Before I’d realized he was married.

“No,” I told Detective Cox flatly. He was wearing a grin on his long face.

“How’s the Put It Where? business?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “I have a couple ideas of where to put it.”

Sometimes you have what you think is a tremendously clever name for a business. I had thought that, truly. Only I had genuinely underestimated the number of grown men with adolescent humor. It wasn’t the first time I had gotten remarks about “where to put it”. Cox’s comment brought muffled laughter from the guy to his left, who I didn’t know. He must be a new hire. I also saw DeAngelo, the cop who had questioned me about Ryan, a few desks over. He was watching me. When we made eye contact, he waved.

Sexual harassment when I didn’t even work there anymore was truly crap. I thought it was time to put an end to it.

“Knock it off,” Marner told him. “You’re being a dick.”

I appreciated the intervention but I wanted to get the point across myself so I smiled and leaned closer to him. I opened my eyes wide, a la Christy with her husband Tim, and said, “Where would you put it? Do you want me to call your wife and tell her where you’d like to put it?”

It was enough of a break from my normal thinly veiled disgust that it seemed to confuse him. He swiveled his chair around so he was facing his desk. “That’s okay.”

That made me feel just a little bit smug. Bailey 1, Cox 0.

“Just ignore him,” Marner said as he bent over his desk, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “He’s an ass.”

“He started it. What’s this?” I pointed to a hand-drawn cartoon pinned to his wall. It was a stick figure lying on the ground in front of a car, yelling “Help!”

“I hit a bum by accident and this is the guys’ idea of humor.” He slid his gun into his holster beneath his suit jacket. Marner wore his suit well, very tailored and trim, and decent quality.

But he apparently mowed down bums. “You hit someone? Did he die?” I was a little horrified.

“Nah. Not a scratch on him. He was so drunk he walked right in front of my damn car.”

Ten minutes later, we were staring at each other across the table at an Italian restaurant on the end of what was an up-and-coming neighborhood. This place had been in existence for sixty years and stood by the philosophy that good comfort food would always trump trendy decor. Scooting the faux grapes and ivy floral arrangement out of the center of the table, I tried to smile at Marner. It was a struggle, because he was looking serious again.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called you,” he said. “I should have. I should have checked to see how you were doing.”

My throat closed. Guilt sat heavy in my stomach. I wasn’t the only one grieving, yet I had been selfish, caught up in my loneliness. “That’s okay. It goes both ways, you know. I haven’t called you either.”

“You’ve lost weight. Your clothes don’t fit right.”

Got it. I looked lousy. Thank you. I pulled my electronic cigarette out of my purse. Okay, so I had brought it. This was emotional DEFCON 1. I needed my security blanket. As I raised it to my mouth, Marner grimaced.

“You still smoking? Those things will kill you. You should quit.”

“This isn’t real smoking. I quit actual cigarettes two years ago.”

“You still can’t do that in here.”

“Fine.” But before I put it away I took a quick hit. That first drag is like a thorough kiss—smooth and satisfying. I know it’s bad for me, but so is pollution, and I had quit smoking once already. I was like in phase two of quitting. No one seemed willing to give me credit for that.

The short, paunchy waiter came over and Marner ordered a bottle of red wine. Not a glass, but a bottle. “Aren’t you on duty? Isn’t drinking off limits?”

“I can have a glass. They’ll re-cork it and I can take it home. You’ll have a glass too, right?”

“Sure.”

“And when I said you’d lost weight, I wasn’t saying you looked bad. Not at all. It was just an observation. I was wondering if you’d lost weight because of Ryan.”

There it was. His name was out in the open between us finally, and it hung there, like the vapor cloud from my electronic cigarette.

“Yeah, I’ve lost weight. No, it wasn’t intentional. I haven’t been hungry.” I leaned back in my wrought iron chair, the legs wobbling on the tile floor. “I can’t let it go, Marner, that’s why I needed to see you. I don’t think Ryan killed himself.” That was as close to the truth as I was willing to skirt at the moment.

He didn’t say anything for a second. Hand scraping across his angular jaw, he watched me. “Bailey…” he said finally. “Why does it matter? Ryan is dead. As much as we hate it, that’s the way it is.”

That surprised me, I have to say. Of all the things I’d expected him to say, dead is dead wasn’t one of them. “Of course it matters! And I know we can’t bring him back, but wouldn’t it be better to know he didn’t do it on purpose?”

“Would it?” He shook his head, dark eyebrows furrowing. “If I found out he was killed, I’d feel just as lousy, but in a different way. I’d be mad at myself for not helping him, just like I’m mad at myself for not knowing he was unhappy. Either way, I let him down as a friend, and either way he’s still dead.”

Tears rose in my eyes before I could stop them. “Marner.” Now it was me reaching for him, wanting to give him some kind of comfort. “Neither one of us could have done anything, either way. But don’t you think Ryan’s mother would rather know he was murdered than that he killed himself? And Ryan wasn’t suicidal. You know that. I know that. He’s the most happy-go-lucky guy I know. Knew.”

Damn, I hate the whole past tense thing when someone dies. Needing to lighten the mood (or emotionally hide, you be the judge) I joked, “If I haven’t killed myself, than surely Ryan wouldn’t.”

Marner jerked in his chair, horror on his face. “You’re not considering that, are you?”

“No!” I yanked my napkin off the table and spread it across my lap. “Geez, I was kidding. Going for a laugh to ease the tension.”

“Shit.” He poured two glasses of wine, handed me one, and inhaled the other. Slapping the glass back on the table, he ran his hand through his short dark hair. “Don’t say stuff like that, not even joking. It’s not freaking funny.”

It wasn’t. He was right. Feeling guilty and embarrassed, I drained half the wine to avoid saying anything for a second. My cheeks felt slapped, and my limbs numb, like the air conditioning was up too high. Forcing my mouth open, I managed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I care about you, you know.”

For a guy who normally never speaks unless spoken to, and who is more comfortable with electronics than women, this was a huge deal. The tears I’d been wrestling with all day shot out like a fire hose on high.

“I…I…care about you too,” I managed to say before dissolving into high volume sobs.

People at the tables surrounding us were gawking, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was so damn sweet. I hadn’t bothered to call Marner in six whole flipping months, and still he cared about me.

Marner got that panicked man look and said, “Hey, hey, now, it’s okay. We’re cool. And if you want me to look into Ryan’s suicide, I can do that.”

I nodded, blinded by tears and struck by inspiration. “And can you get the police report for me to look at? I just need some closure, I think.”

“Sure, sure. Have some more wine.” He filled my glass to the rim.

What? It’s called taking advantage of an opportunity. I wasn’t trying to play Marner or be manipulative. The tears were real. But if they worked in my favor, all the better. If I was going to humiliate myself in public, there should at least be some benefit to it.

I wiped my eyes, gave a shuddery sigh, and drained my second glass of wine. Or was it my third?

Which is how I wound up drunk at Ryan’s ranch house.