Ghosts

By Patrick Hodges

The life of a psychic is strange. It shouldn’t be deadly.

After several chaotic months, Bax has finally come to terms with his clairvoyant abilities. But fate takes a turn no psychic could have predicted when the teenage daughter of a prominent politician disappears under mysterious circumstances.

Forced to team up with his former nemesis, Bax is determined to continue his quest to atone for past mistakes. When the search for the missing girl uncovers a far more elaborate conspiracy, he begins to realize his selfless motives may be working against him - especially when the ghosts of his relatives appear with dire warnings about his imminent death.

Will Bax choose to save himself, or will he risk his life to save a girl who may not deserve salvation?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022

Book preview

Chapter One

What am I doing here?

I tighten my grip on the cell phone so hard I almost feel it crack under the pressure. Swallowing my nerves, I ease off, pressing it against the cloth of my dress. I make a conscious effort to breathe through my mouth. This room, this house, the man who lives here, stinks. This whole situation stinks.

Please be worth it, my mental voice screams on repeat.

I scan the room, illuminated by one intensely bright desk lamp on a shelf above the array of computer monitors my new acquaintance is staring at. I try not to look at the gigantic-boobed anime characters that make up the desktop background on two of them, focusing instead on the one where—I presume—he’s working his electronic magic.

The rest of the house is dark, which both freaks me out and gives me a bizarre sense of comfort. As much as I loathe having to spend one minute in this hellhole, the darkness provides me some protection. God knows how many scumbags there are in the area who would salivate if they knew someone like me was here. People probably get killed for the change in their pockets in this neighborhood.

There’s clutter everywhere: cardboard boxes, electronic components, unwashed plates, and piles of laundry in various stages of filth. The place reeks of B.O. and mold. It’s all I can do not to gag. If I have to burn my two-thousand-dollar dress later, Hunter and I are gonna have words.

Sure you don’t want to sit down? He gestures at an old office chair nestled against the wall. It’s missing the back rest and there are several tears in the fabric.

Is he kidding? I’ll stand, thanks.

Suit yourself. He swigs what’s left of his can of Monster, lets out a muffled belch, wipes his face with the sleeve of his ratty hoodie, and begins typing again.

I hope Hunter’s right about this guy. Barton—or was it Brendan?—with his stained shirt and unruly scruff, couldn’t look more like a pervy creep if he’d tried. I consider retrieving the small can of mace from my clutch but choose instead to keep my distance.

Okay, ready to go, he reports. You said you got your boss’s IP address?

Yeah. My cell phone cradled in my upturned palm, I set my purse on top of it and use my other hand to unzip it. Something with at least six legs crawls over my foot, and I let out a yelp. Serves me right for wearing open-toed pumps to this cesspit.

He snaps his fingers three times, holding his hand out toward me. Come on, sweet cheeks, I don’t have all night.

Bite me, I retort. Curbing my building rage, I locate the scrap of paper with my boss’s information. I stare at it for a few seconds, doubt rampaging through my mind.

This is it. Once I hand this over, I’m breaking the law.

Daddy, forgive me.

I hold out the paper. He takes it with a smarmy leer that turns my stomach, then swivels to face the monitors again.

What are you doing? I ask, trying to calm my jangling nerves.

Spoofing my system’s digital signature so it looks like I’m logging in from your boss’s computer. Shouldn’t take long.

I turn my attention to the screen on the left side of his desk. His fingers fly over the keyboard, his hand occasionally clicking on the mouse. Windows open and close faster than my eyes can process. Finally, it settles on a website I recognize—Valley National Bank.

Just how illegal is what we’re doing? I ask, unable to keep the tremble from my voice. I mean, it’s not like we’re stealing anything, right?

Doesn’t matter. Logging into any secure website, especially a financial institution, under someone else’s username without their permission is against the law. But don’t worry, I’m sure your rich daddy can afford a good lawyer.

Please be worth it. Please be worth it.

A few keystrokes, and he hits ENTER with a flourish. Okay, we’re in.

I edge closer. We are?

Every website requires passwords nowadays. Most people have trouble remembering more than a few of them. They’re too lazy or paranoid to write them down, so they let their computer remember it for them. Your boss is no different. Her system auto-filled her username and password for us.

I see.

He cracks his knuckles, making me wince. Is there a bad habit this guy doesn’t have?

The screen changes again, filling with financial data. Amounts, dates, transactions. This stuff I understand. I peer over his shoulder and gasp in alarm at the account balance. My God. It’s even worse than I thought.

Can you print all this out? I murmur.

Pfft. He rummages through the center drawer in his desk for a few seconds, producing a thumb drive that he sticks into his computer. This is easier. It’ll fit in that cute little knockoff purse you’re holding.

My grip tightens on the phone again. I resist the temptation to smash it over his dandruff-speckled scalp. "Knockoff? This thing cost me six hundred—"

Do I look like I give a shit? He keeps pounding away at his keyboard, oblivious to the icy scowl I direct at the back of his head.

Please be worth it. Please be worth it. Please be worth it.

A horizontal bar appears on the screen, indicating a download in progress. It takes a few seconds to reach 100%, after which he pulls the thumb drive out and rotates his chair to face me. Remember our deal, girlie—I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and after today, we never speak again.

Twenty venomously snarky replies try to fight their way out of my mouth, but I swallow them back down. Not a problem, I say instead, taking the drive from him and shoving it in my purse.

He points at the cell phone, still clutched in my hand. That’ll need to be destroyed. Can you handle that?

I feel my face flush with anger. My mouth opens as I form a reply, but he’s already turned away.

Can we go now? I ask.

Just a sec. Something I want to check first. He leans forward, bringing his face a foot from the screen. Huh. Interesting.

What? I ask through gritted teeth.

There’ve been six transfers in the last four months, all to the same account.

I squint at the monitor, now displaying what appears to be a wire transfer receipt, and read the header. Cayman Marigold Trust? As in Cayman Islands?

Yup.

My heart sinks. Oh, Miranda. How could you do this?

But that’s not what’s interesting. He points at the bottom right corner of the transfer receipt. You said your boss’s name was Salazar?

That’s right.

Well, unless there’s an ‘I’ in Salazar, that’s not who approved the transfer.

What? I ask, incredulous. I focus on the signature, and gasp again.

No. No way. It can’t be h—

BANG!

A high-pitched shriek escapes my lips as I instinctively duck down and raise my hands in a futile gesture to cover my ears, but not before something red splashes across my clothes, my face, and the monitors. Hunter’s friend slumps in his chair, a gaping wound in the side of his skull.

Holy FUCK.

My breath catches as a dark shape moves out of the corner of my eye. I turn, inch by inch, my heart threatening to explode in my chest, until I’m facing a black-clad figure. He—I assume it’s a man—is a few inches taller than me, just over six feet, with a slim build. I can’t see his face, mostly covered by a black ski mask. Only his eyes are visible. The dim light glints off the barrel of the gun in his right hand, which is pointed straight at me.

Please, I whimper. Please don’t.

Hunter’s friend—shit, I can’t even remember his name—gives a weak gurgle. The gunman moves the barrel, and his gaze, away from me and another loud BANG fills the confined space. I scream again, barely feeling the purse fall from my hand as my host’s head slumps onto his keyboard.

Somehow, I retain my grip on the cell phone. With his attention off me, I hold it flat against my thigh so he can’t see it. He hasn’t asked me to raise my hands or anything, so he’s probably not worried that I’m armed. Dammit, why didn’t I get my mace out when I had a chance?

No no no. This can’t be it for me. They can’t find my rotting corpse in this miserable excuse for a house, in this horrible neighborhood. God, the scandal that’ll cause. Dad will never recover.

Please, I beg again. Don’t kill me. My father’s rich. He’ll pay—

You’re goddamn right he will. Through the cloth of the ski mask, his voice sounds muffled but still ominous. And somehow…familiar?

He takes a step forward, then another, raising his arm. He’s going to hit me. Even if my feet weren’t glued to this gross, ugly carpet, I have nowhere to run.

He takes another step. I see his eyes, filled with hate and determination.

With a flick of my wrist, I fling my phone backwards, behind me. All I can do is hope he doesn’t find—

---

I slouch in my seat, my hands falling away from the cell phone lying face up on the table. I feel my own thoughts, my own memories, return to the forefront of my brain, but I don’t want to open my eyes. Not yet.

Soft breathing reminds me that I’m not alone in the room. I crack my lids open to see Natalie in the interrogation room’s other chair. She’s not looking at me, but at the door.

Mr. Baxter? a man’s voice says.

Shaking my head to clear the wooziness, I face the door. One of the most powerful men in Arizona glares at me, a mixture of worry and fury darkening his expression.

Help the cop, I said. Find the missing girl, I said. It’ll be fun, I said.

What the hell was I thinking?

Chapter Two

Saturday, December 5

(TWO DAYS EARLIER)

Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate. Concen—

Ah, fuck it.

I lean against the chair’s backrest and massage my aching temples. An exasperated sigh escapes my lips. The object of my bug-eyed scrutiny stares up at me. If inanimate objects could laugh, this one would be letting out a Joker-like cackle about now.

Sorry, Gina. I shoot an apologetic glance at my friend and neighbor, who’s watching me from across her small dining table. I swear I’m trying, but I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be doing.

It’s okay. She tucks a strand of her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear. Remember, this is new for me too. There’s not exactly an Introduction to Psychic Arts handbook I can refer to.

I scrunch my brow. So what’s the purpose of this exercise?

She gestures at the object, a diploma bearing Gina’s name from the Bertrand Bourque Culinary Academy. You already know psychics’ minds are more attuned to detect certain energies than normal people’s. When memories or experiences are powerful enough, they convert to psychic energy and can attach themselves to ordinary objects. When you touch such an object, you are, in a sense, releasing that energy. At its essence, that’s what psychometry is—your mind converting the memory back to its original form.

Yes, I know. I also discovered that I can only relive a memory so many times before the images start to blur and fade. If I relive it enough times, they stop completely. A light bulb comes on in my brain. Is that because all the energy stored in the object is used up? Like I’ve drained the battery or something?

"Exactly. What I’m hoping to achieve here is to teach you how to detect psychic energy in objects without touching them. Maybe you’ll even learn how to tell if something is giving off positive vibes or negative ones."

That would be hella useful, I muse. It would save me from blacking out if I ever come across another kidnap victim’s clothes…or worse. This statement takes me back to my very first extended flash, which ended with me face-down and out cold in the alley behind Hill O’ Beans. When I woke up, my head felt like someone had driven a white-hot spike through it. Not an experience I’m in a hurry to duplicate.

"You really didn’t feel anything?" Gina asks.

I glance at the diploma, and again move my hands as close to its surface as I can without touching it. I close my eyes again, straining to detect any trace of the psychic vibes I know the thing contains, but get nothing. I try harder, pushing my focus to its maximum, but all I get is a slight itch at the back of my skull. Probably my dumb brain overheating.

"Nope, nada." I sit back again with a sulky frown.

A knowing smile spreads across Gina’s face. "Don’t beat yourself up. Always remember that the ‘E.S.’ in ESP stands for ‘extrasensory’. What you and I have is just that, an extra sense. The more you use it, the better you’ll get at it. I was lucky enough to have my mom and grandmother to show me the ropes, and I used the same techniques to break Trina in when she developed her ESP. I know being an aurapath is different from being psychometric, but the basic principles are the same. As for what isn’t the same…well, we’ll just have to figure it out as we go."

I exhale and stare at the diploma again. I know Gina’s doing her best. Given how few people possess psychic abilities, the fact that I have anyone to teach me the ins and outs of this crazy shit at all is a miracle. To put it in perspective, if one were to fill every single seat in the stadium where the Cardinals play football, there might be one Special in attendance cheering for the home team.

Trouble is, I’m not feeling especially special right now. Turning my brain into a psychic Geiger counter has been an epic fail so far. I’m tempted to touch the diploma again just to confirm I have powers at all.

Go on. She throws me a smile that calms my whirling thoughts. You know you want to.

You don’t mind?

Nah. Knock yourself out. She flashes a mischievous grin.

I mock-glower at her. "That is so not funny."

Her laugh breaks free. Yeah, it is.

Yeah, it is. Gina’s a great friend and a really good teacher. But it’s these private moments when she shows her snarky side that I enjoy her company the most.

In my peripheral vision, I catch a slight movement. I turn my head and am momentarily blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the window of a passing car. I blink rapidly, and my eyes widen when something appears in Gina’s living room. A dark figure, barely a silhouette, in the shape of a man.

What the hell? Is someone else in here?

I shake my head, hoping to see through the glare. Gradually, my vision clears. Nothing there but Gina’s couch, a small ottoman, and a few of Trina’s things on the carpet next to the gaming system.

This is what I get for skipping my morning coffee.

Are you okay? Gina asks.

Yeah. I take a few seconds to center myself, regulating my breathing just like she taught me. Then I brush both thumbs and forefingers against the paper, and—

---

Dad’s eyes find mine, and I beam. He gives me the thumbs-up, then his face disappears behind his handheld camera. I turn the diploma in my hands to face him, giving him a perfect shot. Mom and Grandma Rose, sitting next to Dad, have their hands full keeping Trina from jumping out of her seat.

Should my palms be perspiring this much? God, I hope I can keep my powers in check without totally freaking out…

---

This is the third time I’ve relived Gina’s memory of the day she graduated from culinary school. As with all my previous flashes, I’m more able to disassociate my own persona, my own thoughts, from Gina’s with each pass. This doesn’t make the experience any less real, or her unbridled joy any less intoxicating.

---

Chef Bourque strides onto the stage. His white chef’s clothes are as immaculate as mine, and the proud grin that creases his pudgy face sends a shot of pride through me. Names are called as he moves down the line, presenting each graduate with a golden medallion, but I’m barely listening. In the third row, Trina, clad in an adorable pink and white floral dress, stands up on her chair and waves. Happiness swells within me as I return the wave as surreptitiously as I can.

My sweet little pumpkin, my cheering section, my everything. The reason I chose this path. I’m gonna make it up to you, baby girl. All the late nights of studying and cooking and missing so many precious moments. We’ll make a fresh start somewhere else, far from…him. Thank heaven he didn’t show up to ruin my—

Gina Forrester. A woman’s voice booms over the loudspeakers, shaking me from my reverie. A whoop of cheers erupts from the third row, led by Trina, who’s practically doing jumping jacks on her chair. Chef Bourque’s large frame blocks my view of my family, and I tremble in anticipation of the culmination of my dream.

Chef Bourque holds out the medallion. I lower my head, letting my mentor slip it around my neck. Once it’s in place, his arms fold around me in a gentle hug, followed by kisses on both cheeks. "Congratulations, Chef Gina, he says, sending another tingle through my body. I’m so very proud of you."

Thank you, Chef, I quaver.

Chef Bourque moves on to the next in line, and I take a moment to look at the parchment. I run my fingertips over the gold-embossed letters signifying my achievement, a master’s in culinary arts. My name, written in gorgeous calligraphic script, sits in the center, right above Chef Bourque’s signature.

I look up, meet my parents’ gazes, then Rose’s, then Trina’s. I feel a smile stretch across my face as I raise my arms in victory.

Swirls of color explode across my vision, a rainbow of greens, yellows, pinks, and whites. Happy, bright, positive emotions all. I drink it in, and—

---

The memory blinks out, and I’m staring at Gina’s bemused expression across the table. Judging from your smile, you enjoyed that. Again, she says.

Yeah, I admit. Love flashes that give me the warm fuzzies. Trina was a hyper little munchkin, wasn’t she?

Gina laughs. She definitely was that.

Was it hard leaving New Mexico? I mean, I know Arizona’s only one state away, but still…

I study her face, gauging her reaction. In our many conversations since becoming next-door neighbors, she’s not revealed much about her ex-husband, Trina’s father. As close as we’ve become, it doesn’t take a detective to deduce that the jerk was her biggest reason for pulling up stakes and moving to Phoenix. Her fear of his appearance at her graduation confirms that. I want to know more, but I respect her too much to dig up what are obviously painful memories until she’s ready.

Hardest thing I’ve ever done. A wistful glint sparkles in her brown eyes.

Not for the first time, I’m struck by how freaking hot Gina is. Dark hair, olive skin, striking features that highlight her Italian heritage. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had one or two naughty fantasies about her since I moved in next door. Okay, maybe three. Four, tops.

At least you found your dream job, I say, pulling my mind out of the gutter.

Hmph, she snorts. "Wasn’t quite that easy. Even with a brand-new degree, it took almost a year of searching to find a place that would hire someone with no restaurant experience. I had to swallow my pride and work as a server in order to pay the rent."

Is that when you found Harrigan’s?

Yup. She gestures at her white chef’s coat hanging on a nearby hook, with her name stitched right below the swoopy H that is her workplace’s logo. When he hired me, my boss, Ken, had already planned to buy the franchise rights. Less than a year later, I was head chef.

And now half his dinner menu consists of your creations. I pat my stomach. A few of which I’ve been lucky enough to sample.

I’m preparing my next potential masterpiece tomorrow night if you want to join us. A catty smirk emerges. Unless you got another hot date, of course.

I feel my face redden. I know guys my age are supposed to have active social lives, and every second I’ve spent with Sydney has been awesome. I can’t help but wonder, though, just how long I can keep my Godzilla-sized secret from my new girlfriend. As far as I know, only four people outside the Phoenix Police Department know about my psychic abilities: Gina, Trina, my friend and coworker Piper, and my former caseworker Sheila. That’s a number I mean to keep right where it is.

Pretty sure I’m free, I say. But I can text you if something comes up.

All right. She checks the wooden pendulum clock on the wall behind her. It reads just past nine. We’ll put a bookmark here, I think. You working today?

Ten-thirty to five. I raise and lower my eyebrows. "Then I have a hot date."

Gina gives me an approving thumbs-up as she leads me to her front door. You’ve come a long way, Bax. Something to keep in mind going forward…now that your brain is becoming more attuned to psychic energy, you might notice a few things starting to change.

What kind of things?

I’m not psychometric, so I can’t really tell you. If I had to guess, though, you might start to pick up faint images from objects you happen to be near. Kind of like visual white noise. If that happens, don’t panic. Before long, filtering those out will become as easy as breathing.

I click my tongue. Sounds fun.

She opens the door and smiles at me. Enjoy your date. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

That’s a pretty short list.

She laughs and thumps me on the back. See you tomorrow.

Chapter Three

Iwipe the steam that covers my bathroom mirror, admiring my reflection. I’m not one of those manholes who likes to preen when he sees his own physique, but I gotta admit, I look pretty darn good in a towel. The quiff my hair’s been styled in since starting at Hill O’ Beans has held up nicely, though it’s getting a little long on the top. I’ll have to pop in to see Nico for a light trim when I get a chance.

With practiced hands, I razor away two days’ worth of stubble, then slap a wad of gel through my hair. Satisfied that I’ve achieved a solid nine on the Sexy-Beast-Meter, I remove my towel, give my torso and legs one more wipe-down, then hang it on the rack. I make my way back to my bedroom, searching the floor for my cleanest pair of boxers and my un-wrinkliest pair of jeans.

Hey, little bro.

The girlish squeal that issues from my mouth is embarrassingly unmanly. It’s all I can do to keep my skeleton inside my skin as I whip around, searching for the voice’s source. I find him lounging on my bed, arms folded coolly behind his head. He’s wearing the same blue jeans and grey tee as the last time I saw him…which, until this second, I was sure was nothing more than a hallucination brought on by blunt force trauma.

Under normal circumstances, this would be annoying as hell. The fact that I’m about to have a conversation with my very dead older brother is…well, disturbing. As if my life isn’t weird enough.

I cover my junk with one hand while snatching up my jeans with the other. With my denim shield in place, I glare at my spectral guest. Not cool, AJ.

He spreads his arms wide. Come on, give your favorite brother a hug.

I’m naked, dude.

And I’m dead. But you got over that, thanks to me.

I edge over to the corner of my room, slide my big toe into the band of my boxers, and lift it into my waiting hand. And I’m grateful. Really. Now step outside while I get dressed.

AJ swings his legs off the bed and stands. Oh, come on. I’m paying you a visit from beyond the grave and you’re ordering me out of the room? It’s not like I haven’t seen that baby carrot you got hanging between your legs before.

I choke back a laugh. No way am I giving him the satisfaction of knowing just how much I’ve missed our brotherly banter. How much I’ve missed him. Screw you, butt-munch.

Tell me, has that hot girlfriend of yours seen that cocktail sausage you call an erection yet?

Righteous indignation washes away my embarrassment. I drop the jeans and, in full view of AJ, step into my boxers. "At least I can still get an erection."

He opens his mouth to retort, but then his shoulders slump. Touché.

Score.

You know, I’ve been wondering ever since that night in Harold Crane’s basement whether our little heart-to-heart really took place or if it was all in my head. Guess this answers that.

Yeah, about that. AJ pushes off the wall and faces me. I imagine you have questions about your psychic abilities.

Only about a million.

Well, I might be able to answer some of them.

Whoa. For reals?

Yup. No offense to Gina—who I really like, by the way. She’s cool in that spunky, early-thirties soccer mom kind of—

Guh. Guess my brother’s chronic verbal diarrhea followed him to the afterlife. "Please don’t finish that sentence, AJ. I’d better not find out you’re perving out on her when she’s in the shower or some shit like that. I deepen my glower. Wait a sec. Was that you just now in Gina’s living room?"

I swear his face goes pale. Is that possible? He is a ghost. Does that mean he—ah, screw it, I don’t care right now. I can freak out about this when I’m not running late. I snatch a clean black polo and a pair of socks from my dresser drawer, then sit on the bed and pull both on.

It was me, he admits. But it’s not what you think. I can only appear to someone who’s a blood relative, and only in their direct vicinity. And before you ask, yes, you’re the only one who can see me.

Good to know I’m not gonna be visited by every spook in town. I slip my feet into my black Converse. So, is that all you have to say? Sydney’s driving me to work today, and she’ll be here any minute.

I sense another presence behind me a split-second before it speaks. Oh, for Pete’s sake, tell him already, says a male voice. This one is more mature yet equally familiar.

An old man, clad in a crisp blue dress shirt and white pants, stands by the window, staring through the tiny gap between the blinds and the frame. The short white hairs that cover the lower half of his face have been trimmed to perfection, and the air of authority that surrounds him hasn’t waned even though he died six years ago.

Grandpa Bernie? I gasp.

Hey, kiddo. His weathered face cracks into a warm smile.

Wha…how… I slam my eyes shut, shake my head, then open them again. He’s still there. I fix AJ with a stony glare.

He responds with an infuriating smirk. I might have mentioned to a couple of our relatives that you can see us now.

Aaaand the mountain of crazy just gets bigger and bigger. All that’s missing is Sauron’s eye.

Glad to see you’re finally taking care of yourself, Bernie says, drawing my attention. Always knew you had it in you.

Uh…thanks? I stammer.

His expression hardens, and his eyes flash with indignation. But…‘Bax’? Is that how you show respect? By ditching the name you were given? I took a bullet to the chest at Gia Lam in ’73, for which I won—

The Silver Star, yes I know. You were a Badass First Class, Grandpa. But do you know what being named ‘Bernard’ gets you on the playground these days? Beaten up.

You should have stood up for yourself, instead of letting your brother fight all your battles.

Leave him alone, Gramps, AJ interjects. You saw how Mom treated him. He was just a little kid. You gonna blame all that on him, too?

Grandpa’s jaw tightens for a moment, then he shakes his head. No.

Lest we forget, I had to deal with the same bullying. What was Dad thinking, naming me Amos? You know how many times I was called ‘Anus’ growing up? It was hell.

What’s wrong with Amos? This voice comes from the doorway. A bald man who looks a lot like Bernie stands on the threshold, clad in an army dress uniform that reminds me of the one Steve Rogers wore before becoming Captain America. It means ‘strong’, just like the men of this family have been since the days of my own great-great-grandfather! He scrubs a hand over his hairless head, facing Bernie. I’m telling you, son, these kids today—

Gah. Enough is enough already. I have no idea if making a break for it would work, but I’m seriously considering it right now.

Give it a rest, Dad, Grandpa Bernie says, then returns his focus to me. "Sorry, kid. Now you know what I had to grow up with."

AJ holds his hands up. Grandpa, Great-Grandpa, no offense, but I can handle this.

Phooey, Amos grumps. Doesn’t sound like you’re handling anything.

I hate to agree with the old man, but he’s right, Bernie adds.

Old man? Look at you! You’re ten years older than me!

Because I had the sense to stop smoking when my doctor told me to!

"Okay, that’s it! I bellow at the top of my lungs, silencing the cacophony with a vengeance. When I’m certain I have their attention, I continue, looking at Amos and Bernie in turn. Before this becomes a thing, we’re setting some ground rules. First, my life is crazy enough without the Undead Baxter Family Reunion. From now on, I don’t want to see more than one of you at a time, got it?"

Got it, AJ says without hesitation. He feels me on this one. Thanks, dude.

Fine, Bernie and Amos say together.

"Second, if you insist on coming into my home, without me inviting you, you are going to treat me with respect. Maybe I wasn’t at Saigon or Iwo Jima or whatever third-world shithole became your path to glory, but that doesn’t mean I need to be reminded just how unlike you I turned out."

Shock washes over the faces of the two military men. "That’s what you think?" Bernie says in a hushed tone.

Boy, you got us all wrong, Amos adds.

I open my mouth to argue further, but Amos holds his hands up, cutting me off. We’re going, we’re going. Don’t blow a gasket. He shoots a withering look at AJ. Make sure he knows. With that, he turns on his heels and vanishes through the wall.

Bernie, for his part, gives me a contrite nod and a sincere, See you soon, kiddo, before leaving the same way.

No, not disturbing at all.

Sorry about that. AJ’s voice breaks the sudden quiet. I meet his eyes, which are no longer playful or glinting. You have to understand, they grew up in a way different time than us. They’re proud of the man you’ve become, even if they suck at showing it.

Yeah, yeah. I check my phone. God, can’t Sydney just get here already?

Look, I know you gotta jet, so I’ll just say what I came to say. Something’s coming. Something bad.

This gets my attention. I approach him, stopping a yard away. I want to reach out, to grasp his arm, but instinct tells me I’d end up only grabbing air. I’m not sure I want to deal with that right now. What?

AJ’s face falls. I…can’t tell you that.

I take it back. If he weren’t dead, I would totally gut-punch him right now. Why the hell not?

I just…can’t.

A loud knock comes from the door, followed by a sweet, Baxy? You ready to go?

Be right there, I call, then face AJ again. Let me see if I’ve got this…first you say you can answer my questions, then you flake out. You warn me about this ‘bad thing,’ but you can’t tell me what it is. So do me a favor—don’t come back until you can be of some actual help.

With that, I walk straight through him and out into the hallway. Whatever I expected to happen—a sensation of icy fingers pricking my skin, a three-aspirin headache, a flash of color or light—I get nothing. My brother has no more substance than a hologram.

B, he calls after me in that brotherly tone I’m unable to ignore.

I glance over my shoulder, waiting expectantly.

Gina’s right. You have the potential to do a lot of good. But you got lucky last time. If you’re determined to keep playing this game, you need to be more careful from now on. You read me?

I nod, even though I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about.

Just…watch out is all I’m saying.

Whatev.

I fling open the front door to be met by a gust of chilly wind that nearly blows me backward. A second later, Sydney envelops me in a warm embrace. I barely have time to register the red-and-white striped sweater that hugs her body in a way that makes my mind go someplace dirty.

I close the door behind her, casting a wary glance down the corridor. Thank God, we’re alone. I’m so relieved I practically crush her to my chest, and we share a heartfelt kiss.

Ooh, someone missed me, she coos.

Well, naturally. In a heartbeat, the ghosts of Christmas-Never fade from my mind, and all I can see, think about, is the beautiful girl in front of me. I run my fingers through her straight, dark blonde hair, and my cares melt away.

Is the plan still IHOP, and then that new Sophie Devereaux movie?

Nothing but the best for my girl. I grab my thick brown leather jacket from the chair next to my dining table, hearing the jingle of keys that I know are in the pocket, before tapping my grinning girlfriend on the tip of her nose. After you.

I smile and slide into the passenger seat of Sydney’s car. As we drive away, my thoughts creep back to the cloud enveloping my mind. With Sydney lost in the refrain of some new pop song the radio stations insist on playing to death, I work through what suddenly feels like the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders.

I have a second psychic ability.

I’m seeing ghosts. Who are forecasting my doom. Or something.

Hoorah for me.

Chapter Four

Iexhale with relief when Sydney and I step through Hill O’ Beans’ door. The calendar turned to December last week, bringing with it a biting chill that I feel through my thick jacket. Warm, toasty air envelops us as the door closes behind us, along with the aroma of freshly roasted perfection. We’re immediately greeted by a Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas from the life-sized Santa statue, which just a couple days ago replaced Hobadiah the Thanksgiving Pilgrim. Austin has a thing for talking statues.

Speaking of the boss-man, I don’t see him anywhere. Lucas and Amari are both busy, which is not surprising considering there’s not one empty table in the place. Java Luvva, a rival coffee shop that had to close due to an electrical fire six weeks ago, has yet to reopen, resulting in a fifteen percent increase in sales according to Austin. When he showed me how many Sexy Baxes—my own version of a mocha chai latte that has become all the rage in our little corner of the city—had been rung up in the month of November, I damn near fainted.

Thanks for the ride, I tell Sydney, who still has her arm around me. I should be off at five. I plant another kiss on her forehead.

That’s when my volleyball practice ends. Got our final match of the season this weekend.

Go kick some ass. I smack her playfully on the butt. She blows me a kiss as she departs.

I so lucked out meeting Sydney.