A Strange There After (23 page)

Boone and I spent the afternoon drafting a
list of Roberts who died mysteriously, many labeled as accidents or
unknown. One, Marienne Roberts, was found crumpled at the bottom of
the front steps, which was only a three step drop. She had no
obvious wounds, not even a broken neck. Gerald Roberts was found in
his bed, hair and skin blanched of all color, as if scared to
death.

We’d been reading another when Boone broke
the silence. “So, I can’t figure it out. What do you see in Mr.
Hollywood?”

Boone’s question startled me. It took me a
second to find my words, but all I came up with was an inquiry of
my own.

“Why?”

He reclined in his chair, our bodies touching
for a moment before I pulled away. The sensation left me feeling
charged, electric. He stretched his arms over his head.

“Curiosity. Consider it part of our
research.”

I rolled my eyes. “I met Jason at a time in
my life when I had nothing.”

This time Boone gave me the eye roll.
“Really?”

“Yes, really. Sure, I graduated, but that was
about it. I planned to leave my beloved Savannah for college up
north, with the Yankees. My stepmother tormented me whenever she
had a chance. Her daughters were worse. My mother and father were
dead. Jason showed me what life had to offer, what I missed out on
the last couple years.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Don’t take this
wrong, but it doesn’t seem as if you have much in common.”

“I know you don’t like him, but he’s not what
he seems.”

“It’s not that I don’t like him. I don’t like
him for you.”

I skirted Boone’s chair to look directly at
him. He stared at me with an unreadable expression, or maybe I
didn’t
want
to read it. Was it possible he—no, I did not
want to go there.

But I did. “What is this really about?”

“Nothing.” He waved a hand over the page we’d
been studying. “This says Goderick Roberts died in his sleep, at
the age of thirty-two. This was in 1922. Autopsy showed no signs of
ill health and cause of death was recorded as ‘inconclusive’. I
think we can add this to the list.”

“Sounds like it.” I followed his lead and
dropped the subject of why he didn’t think Jason was right for me.
“I had no idea my family was tormented this badly. It’s a wonder
we’ve lasted this long. Hopefully the Roberts name doesn’t die with
me. Well, I’m a girl, so in a way it will die with me.”

“Don’t give me that. It’s not about the name,
it’s about the legacy.
When
this is over and you have kids,
your family will live on in the stories you tell them. They will do
the same for their kids. The house will be theirs too. It doesn’t
stop because you can’t use the same last name anymore.”

A hot lump lodged in my throat. His words
moved me. It was eerily similar to how I dreamed my future would
be—passing of the house on to my children, along with the tales my
mama used to share with me. I wanted to get my kids excited about
history, to make them feel it the way I did. Growing up in a place
like Savannah, I learned to respect our past, my heritage. It was a
huge part of the girl I grew into. I wanted there to always be a
Roberts in my home, regardless of their last name.

“Thank you,” I whispered, offering him a
small smile.

“Absolutely.” His cocky attitude returned.
“You are incredibly lucky to have me around.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

He began gathering papers, indicating it was
time to leave, and I moved out of the way so he could tuck them in
his messenger bag.

“This is a long ways from over. Best get used
to me.”

I didn’t answer until we were out on the
sidewalk, darkness settling on the streets. “How long were we in
there for?”

He shrugged. “A few hours.”

“You’re such a conundrum.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it. I used to watch your videos and
make fun of you. Your aggressive tactics drove me crazy. Not to
mention, you come off as a huge jerk. A know-it-all. And yet,
you’ve put your life on hold to stay here and help me. I mean,
don’t you have a nasty prison to investigate or an axe murderer
home that needs to be exposed?”

“Those places will always be there.” He took
off his glasses and cleaned them on his t-shirt. “Maybe once you’re
feeling like yourself again, we can do a show together, take it to
a nationally syndicated cable channel.”

I barked out a laugh. “Sure, you provoking
the spirits and me playing Dr. Phil to them after they’ve been
traumatized.”

“I think our lively banter will attract
viewers.”

“Is that what you call this?”

“I call it fun.”

He had me there. “I guess it kind of is. Huh,
who would have thought? A couple days ago I couldn’t stand
you.”

“Ouch.” He clutched at his chest.

“It goes back to the conundrum thing. You’re
a bit of a marshmallow on the inside.”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll make you regret
it.”

We continued in companionable silence. I
found myself comparing him to Jason, which compounded me with
guilt. Still, it was hard not to make comparisons. Sooner or later,
I needed to really examine my feelings for my boyfriend, or
whatever he was now. In spite of being with Catherine for three
weeks, I knew Jason considered me his girlfriend, but I didn’t
exactly feel the same way. I kept thinking he cheated on me. Worse,
I had watched it. My reservations were justified, especially when
he existed in frustration and anger. I saw the way he looked at
Catherine, and it chipped away at my affection bit by bit. The
longer I was trapped as a spirit, the more I wondered if too much
time was passing.

With Boone, I didn’t worry about not being
seen, about being forgotten. I’d known him a significantly less
amount of time, but I had this traitorous suspicion he knew me
better than Jason ever did or could.

I shook my head, desperately trying to clear
the thoughts. It was a huge non-issue until I got my body back. Eye
on the prize, Roberts, I ordered myself.

“So, what are we hoping to accomplish with
those names?” I asked, intent on a distraction.

“I’m going to steal Abby’s suggestion and
have a séance.”

Shock stopped me in my tracks. Boone didn’t
notice until he was about twenty feet away, then he pivoted and
walked back to me. “What?”

“You’re serious?”

“Why do you keep questioning that?”

“A séance? You derailed the idea when it was
Abby’s. Even if Kalfu has people trapped, what makes you think they
will be able to communicate with us? And aren’t séances kind of
hokey? What do a couple of sensitives like us need with it?”

“Some ghosts remain veiled even from those
with the sight. I don’t intend to do it at your house. Too
unpredictable. I was thinking Abby’s, neutral ground.”

“What do you hope to accomplish?” I asked
Boone wearily.

“Let’s assume his collection is spirits who
haven’t passed on. Maybe we can persuade the trapped souls to, I
don’t know, stage an uprising. If they rise up and move on, Kalfu
won’t have any more power to draw from. Or we simply gather more
information. Find out exactly what is going on.”

“I’m not convinced he does take his power
from them. They’re his collection, his sick way of pretending to be
in charge, like he used to. Besides, it’s not like they’re a union
you can excite into rioting.”

“It’s worth a shot.” He sighed in
frustration. “I’m fresh out of ideas, Quinn.”

“Let’s give Meena a chance first. It’s a
voodoo spirit we are dealing with, so it should be voodoo we use to
banish him.”

“You’re probably right.”

“If nothing else works,” I hesitated, “then
we’ll try to contact someone.”

He nodded. “Deal. I just worry about you
running out of time. I keep waiting for Catherine to disappear, to
jet off to some far corner of the world.”

“I’m not sure she can. I get the feeling
she’s afraid of truly being on her own. Or if she leaves, the hold
she has over my body will weaken.”

“Brilliant.” He beamed at me. “Let’s pack her
off to the Arctic. She’ll be weak, then you can climb back in and
kick her out.”

“Let’s call that Plan C, after Meena and your
séance.”

We rounded the corner and approached the
house as a Ford Mustang pulled up the curb.

“Oh, joy. Prince Charming is back.”

I shot Boone a glare, then watched Jason
climb from a car I remembered too well. “Be nice.”

Jason regarded Boone solemnly. “Find
anything? Abby texted me and told me where you went.” His gaze
flicked to the left of Boone, looking for me, just on the wrong
side.

“You have some makeup on your face.” Boone
pointed to Jason’s cheek where a smear of foundation remained.

Jason scowled, clenching his jaw. “I didn’t
want to waste time by washing up. Besides, I’m living here, so my
stuff is upstairs.”

I had to hand it to Jason. He was being
remarkably patient with Boone’s constant antagonizing. As we all
trekked toward the front door, I wondered how long it was going to
last until one of them snapped.

Chapter
Twenty-Six

Determined to find George and finally have a
conversation with him about his mama, I wandered down the hall
toward the attic stairs. Passing the bathroom, I heard the shower
running. Must be Abby. I hadn’t seen her since Boone and I
returned. With a grin, I went through the door, stepping into the
steamy room. Concentrating on drawing power from the warm air, I
waited until I felt solid enough.

Then I reached out and ripped the curtain
open. A high-pitched, girly scream filled the small space. Only, it
wasn’t Abby. It was Boone. Naked. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t
move. Shock had me frozen to the spot, and my eyes traveled
downward. A tattoo snaked up from his hip bone, an intricate design
of skulls and tombstones and swords. Lower—no, oh God.

“Quinn?”

My gaze snapped up to his, and heat rolled
through me. We stared at each other for an eternity, and each
second ratcheted up the temperature. It sucked the air right out of
me. Yet I found myself captivated by his long, dark lashes and the
scar in the middle of his chin. Boone blinked, shattering the
moment.

“You scream like a girl,” I mumbled as I
forced my eyes no lower than his perfectly defined chest. Even that
had my mouth feeling like it was full of cotton balls.

“Most people do when a ghost goes all Peeping
Tom on them.” He reached for a towel. “Did you want something?”

I recognized the heavy smirk in his tone and
my skin turned hot, prickly. I spun on my heel to flee.

“Come back any time,” he called after me.

The attic, that was my destination, a place I
could hopefully hide out for a decade or four. Mortified, I trudged
up the steps and lifted a hand to my flaming cheeks. I certainly
hadn’t expected this kind of reaction. Sure, he was hot...wet,
crap. My mind kept wandering places it didn’t belong. I never
wanted to show my face around him again.

Instead of hiding, I found Jackson and George
speaking in hushed tones. As much as I’d wanted solitude a few
seconds ago, their company would keep my thoughts from going to
unwanted locations.

They regarded me with curious
expressions.

“Your face is remarkably red,” Jackson
observed.

“I, uh, um, saw...never mind. Distract me.” I
sighed and dove into a subject he guarded tightly. “How did you
die, Jackson?”

The unexpected question hit him with force,
and he stumbled backward a couple steps. George watched us with
huge eyes, but he had yet to disappear. My goal was to talk with
him, but Jackson’s presence derailed that.

“Tell me,” I pressed.

His handsome features grew hard, a muscle
ticked in his jaw, but he squared his shoulders and stared me down.
“You really want to hear it?”

“I saved your life, it’s the least you can
do,” I teased.

I didn’t elaborate, didn’t tell him I had my
suspicions, especially after Kalfu mentioned Catherine offering up
a sacrifice. According to the loa, they killed someone. I figured
it was her mother Margaret or Jackson, but I had to find out
which.

He slumped onto the bed, fiddling with the
brass buttons on his uniform. “A year after Catherine’s death,
after Margaret’s breakdown, I came back to the house. I had finally
made it out west, and it took a couple months for word to reach me
that Nathaniel was alive. We were as close as brothers. I always
assumed that’d be made a reality when I married Catherine. To
discover he lived was enough to bring me on another thousand mile
journey, to a town I swore I’d never return to.

“I came here, to the house, not knowing Nate
had taken his father and retreated to the cotton plantation across
the river.” He stared at a spot over my shoulder, lost in the past.
“The house was boarded up, neglected, but I went to the front door
anyway. I knocked. No one answered. After a couple seconds, I heard
voices coming from inside. Then the door opened on its own. This
was a place as familiar to me as my own childhood home, so I
believed I had a duty to go inside and check if all was well.”

Chills worked their way up my spine as I
listened.

“I stood in the foyer, listening. Then I
heard a laugh from upstairs, and my blood ran cold. I knew that
laugh. It was hers. Catherine. I ran up to the second floor and
stopped. I...” he was struggling now. “I turned and
saw
her
standing there. Beautiful as ever, smiling at me. She didn’t speak,
and I told myself I was witnessing a cruel trick. As the moment
stretched out between us, her expression changed. It turned cruel.
And this shadow loomed up behind her. She walked toward me, and the
darkness grew. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t leave her, not
again. It sounds so pathetic.”