thought.
Dakota catches me
looking at the artery-clogging remnants and says, sheepishly, “That’s our
secret. And who would eat a five-star meal here if I fixed it? Me and the
ghost?”
“Zipped lips.” I
take one final glance around. Seems safe. Then again, it’s the quiet houses you
have to worry about. “Should we go in? Get started?”
She rubs her arms
like she’s cold, and I know it’s not the temperature outside. Feels like we’re
in the high seventies already. Not even the breeze is chilly enough to cause
gooseflesh like that. “I think maybe you should go in. Alone, I mean.”
“Positive? It’s
not every day you get to hunt a ghost with a world famous paranormal
investigator.”
Shifting her
weight from foot to foot, daintily nibbling her bottom lip as she tries to make
up her mind, Dakota eventually takes a single step closer to the gorgeous,
beachfront mansion that she so desperately wants to call home. “Okay,” she
says, the single word shuddering itself into pieces. “I can—I can do this.”
“ We ,” I
remind her, raising my voice like Ford used to do during so many investigations.
He’d put on this locker room speech before filming, every single time, and the
crew loved it. So did I, honestly. It got everyone revved up and ready to rock,
and I’d like to do the same for Dakota. “Let’s go in there and kick some
ghostly ass. Let’s go tell this piece of shit where he can shove it, and let’s
take your home back, because you’re Dakota Freakin’ Bailey.”
“Damn right,” she
squeaks, without a single bit of confidence.
CHAPTER TEN
Ford Atticus Ford
It’s easy to be a
good person, and it’s also easy to be a bad person.
Making the right
decisions is the line that divides the two.
And sometimes that
line is blurry.
The choice I have
to make at the moment is whether to believe Lauren Coeburn or call complete
bullshit whilst throwing her and her dog-slobber-covered Grandma Ellen out of
my condo and into the ferocious rainstorm. Ellen—I’d probably be cool with her
hanging around. She’s nice, gentle, low maintenance, and has never completely
gutted me on national television in front of millions of people.
Am I a humongous
jerkface for holding a grudge? Depends on your angle, I suppose.
My therapist,
bless his pointy little goatee, wire-rimmed glasses, and fatherly tone, always
suggests that forgiveness will open my heart to the light of the world and
fresh possibilities. I generally try to follow his advice; then again, he
doesn’t really know what it’s like to stand across the kitchen counter from a
woman who slid a sharp blade across your reputation’s throat.
What she just now
told me is so thoroughly unfathomable that my brain can’t even comprehend the
enormity of it.
Tell Ford we’re
waiting for him.
I—seriously? For
real?
First, Hamster
Hampstead’s grandfather, Papa Joe, called me out by name in that abandoned
farmhouse.
Then, the demon
right-hander that had attacked poor Dave Craghorn—and we’re fairly positive it
was the same one from Chelsea Hopper’s house—that bastard knew me and knew my
name as well.
I mention this to
people all the time. The police detectives I work with on a regular basis, the
families I try to help… I try to make them understand that it’s all connected.
There’s sort of a universal energy out there, and you can look to George
Lucas and Star Wars for a fancy nickname for the thing that binds
everyone together, living or dead, earthly or otherworldly. My theory is that
information can travel across this plane of energy in the spiritual world,
which is exactly how Papa Joe—grumpy old cuss that he is—was trying to warn me
about what’s coming, especially in relation to Chelsea Hopper and that all-too-powerful
right-hander.
But this?
Black-eyed children, some of the least known and least researched paranormal
entities sending me a message, by name?
Well, color me
stunned.
It’s terrifying,
confusing,
Dakota catches me
looking at the artery-clogging remnants and says, sheepishly, “That’s our
secret. And who would eat a five-star meal here if I fixed it? Me and the
ghost?”
“Zipped lips.” I
take one final glance around. Seems safe. Then again, it’s the quiet houses you
have to worry about. “Should we go in? Get started?”
She rubs her arms
like she’s cold, and I know it’s not the temperature outside. Feels like we’re
in the high seventies already. Not even the breeze is chilly enough to cause
gooseflesh like that. “I think maybe you should go in. Alone, I mean.”
“Positive? It’s
not every day you get to hunt a ghost with a world famous paranormal
investigator.”
Shifting her
weight from foot to foot, daintily nibbling her bottom lip as she tries to make
up her mind, Dakota eventually takes a single step closer to the gorgeous,
beachfront mansion that she so desperately wants to call home. “Okay,” she
says, the single word shuddering itself into pieces. “I can—I can do this.”
“ We ,” I
remind her, raising my voice like Ford used to do during so many investigations.
He’d put on this locker room speech before filming, every single time, and the
crew loved it. So did I, honestly. It got everyone revved up and ready to rock,
and I’d like to do the same for Dakota. “Let’s go in there and kick some
ghostly ass. Let’s go tell this piece of shit where he can shove it, and let’s
take your home back, because you’re Dakota Freakin’ Bailey.”
“Damn right,” she
squeaks, without a single bit of confidence.
CHAPTER TEN
Ford Atticus Ford
It’s easy to be a
good person, and it’s also easy to be a bad person.
Making the right
decisions is the line that divides the two.
And sometimes that
line is blurry.
The choice I have
to make at the moment is whether to believe Lauren Coeburn or call complete
bullshit whilst throwing her and her dog-slobber-covered Grandma Ellen out of
my condo and into the ferocious rainstorm. Ellen—I’d probably be cool with her
hanging around. She’s nice, gentle, low maintenance, and has never completely
gutted me on national television in front of millions of people.
Am I a humongous
jerkface for holding a grudge? Depends on your angle, I suppose.
My therapist,
bless his pointy little goatee, wire-rimmed glasses, and fatherly tone, always
suggests that forgiveness will open my heart to the light of the world and
fresh possibilities. I generally try to follow his advice; then again, he
doesn’t really know what it’s like to stand across the kitchen counter from a
woman who slid a sharp blade across your reputation’s throat.
What she just now
told me is so thoroughly unfathomable that my brain can’t even comprehend the
enormity of it.
Tell Ford we’re
waiting for him.
I—seriously? For
real?
First, Hamster
Hampstead’s grandfather, Papa Joe, called me out by name in that abandoned
farmhouse.
Then, the demon
right-hander that had attacked poor Dave Craghorn—and we’re fairly positive it
was the same one from Chelsea Hopper’s house—that bastard knew me and knew my
name as well.
I mention this to
people all the time. The police detectives I work with on a regular basis, the
families I try to help… I try to make them understand that it’s all connected.
There’s sort of a universal energy out there, and you can look to George
Lucas and Star Wars for a fancy nickname for the thing that binds
everyone together, living or dead, earthly or otherworldly. My theory is that
information can travel across this plane of energy in the spiritual world,
which is exactly how Papa Joe—grumpy old cuss that he is—was trying to warn me
about what’s coming, especially in relation to Chelsea Hopper and that all-too-powerful
right-hander.
But this?
Black-eyed children, some of the least known and least researched paranormal
entities sending me a message, by name?
Well, color me
stunned.
It’s terrifying,
confusing,
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