Vincent needed something else to think about. If he sat at home, he’d only look into involuntary commitment, not for the first time, and make himself too stressed to sleep. He’d do the same at Ghost Note, only with more pleasant background noise.

  Instead, he stopped at a drug store for a notebook and pens. While not entirely on purpose, Vincent found himself living near a half dozen different cemeteries. Sometimes, the act of dying and entire funeral process was still not enough to convince people they’d died. They weren’t tethered to any particular object or person, no strong emotion compelled them to stay among the living. They simply needed a push.

  Golden Heart Memorial Park was the largest in the area, only around fifteen minutes from Vincent’s house. Naturally, the front gate was locked after hours. Vincent followed a narrow service road around back to a particularly dense area of foliage. The trees hid him from the road and surrounding buildings while a forgotten stump gave him the boost he needed to climb over the wall.

  On the other side, an old statue of an angel hid him while he checked for other suspicious characters trying to perform some ritual or graffiti memorials or have sex over someone’s grave. If the security guards didn’t have to leave their booths, they wouldn’t. They often ignored a lone man wandering from grave to grave.

  Some flower vases had been knocked over, some coins knocked off their headstones, some had become overgrown with weeds. Vincent did what he could to tidy these quiet spaces as he passed looking for fresher graves.

  Headstones and memorial statues of all shapes and sizes created a maze through the more crowded sections of the cemetery. The wind picked up, cutting through Vincent’s thin shirt and cardigan. It had, however, pushed the clouds and mist away from the moon, allowing it to bathe the area in pale light.

  Fresher graves were on the far end of the cemetery, past a gnarled tree the owners chose to leave alone, rather than tear it down with the rest. Once Vincent passed the tree, he felt faint energy from a few directions and heard weeping nearby.

  The weeping belonged to a man not much older than Vincent. He knelt before his own grave, head in his hands, and muttered incoherent apologies between sobs.

  “Sir?” Vincent whispered, coming up behind him. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  “You… you’re talking to me,” the man replied.

  “I am. You’re Stephen, correct?” Vincent asked, reading the grave through the translucent body of the spirit.

  The man nodded. “This is my grave. I’m dead…. I’m dead and I can never tell him I’m sorry.”

  “Is that what’s keeping you? You won’t find peace here.”

  “Ryan… we’ve been friends since elementary school. He thinks I’m—I was—sleeping with his wife and I put her in a coma. I just want him to know the truth.”

  “I’ll tell him.” Vincent pulled out the notebook and pen, kneeling to lean against the headstone. “I’ll write whatever you want to say.”

  Stephen drifted toward Vincent, his icy touch hovering over the psychic’s shoulder. His spirit had faded to the point he would even pass through Vincent. “Will he know it’s from me?”

  “You have to make him believe it’s from you.”

  The spirit thought for a long moment.

  “Okay. Address it to RV. No one’s called him that since his high school football days.” Once Vincent started writing, he rambled on, mostly coherently. “Tell him Jackie just wanted to surprise him for their anniversary. We were sneaking around planning a party in one of those crazy mansions in the mountains. It was all ready, pretty much. We just wanted to check with the owners once more. They were friends of a friend and we couldn’t believe how cheap they let us use their property for….”

  Stephen trailed off, fresh tears on his face. He didn’t need to explain. Vincent saw it. A pitch black, stormy night on a winding mountain road, ending in tragedy.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell him?”

  “Just that I’m sorry. That I’d never in a million years betray him like that. Tell him to forgive Jackie, too. There was nothing between us.”

  Vincent finished the note and pinned it under the thin vase on the grave. As long as it didn’t rain more before the next visit, Ryan should get the letter.

  “He’ll see it. You can rest. You shouldn’t stay here any longer.”

  “Thank you…. Is it lonely? Where I’m going?”

  “You’ll be reunited with those you’ve lost.” Vincent put a smile on his face to make his words more convincing.

  Stephen disappeared in a flash of light like the others.

  For years, ever since he came to stay with his grandmother, Vincent had left these messages. He saw a couple newspaper articles about them, meaning they at least made it to the families and friends they were supposed to. It was simple, quick, low effort, and ensured more spirits safely passed on.

  He continued, intent on writing messages until he either pushed the thoughts of his parents from his mind or ran out of spirits to send off. The latter seemed the higher possibility as he reached the last few rows of graves before the recently expanded grassy field of empty plots.

  An elderly woman, Elena, had something to say to each of her six children and fifteen grandchildren. Vincent’s hand cramped at child four and he started paraphrasing at the third grandchild. He also heavily censored her messages. Elena paced behind him, paying no mind to what he was writing.

  “And Jennica, she needs to lay off the chips and cookies before she gets a triple chin like her mother,” Elena said.

  Vincent wrote Jennica, eat healthier.

  “Oh, and my youngest’s teenager, Jackson. Tell that boy I’ll drag him down to hell myself if I see him in another damn dress.” Elena spat on the ground with a few choice slurs Vincent omitted.

  He wrote Jackson, I’m not writing what your grandma said.

  After five pages of writing, they were finally down to the final grandchild, the newborn, Casey. However, Elena wasn’t addressing the baby.

  “What the hell is this cat eating bastard doing here?” she grumbled.

  Anger emanated from her spirit and seeped into Vincent’s heart. Memories of some war—they all looked the same to him—trickled into his mind. He’d been near her long enough to establish a stronger connection than he wanted.

  High pitched beeping told him who she was upset by.

  Vincent turned to see Eric, hushing some gadget Vincent hadn’t seen before, wearing his stuffed backpack and vest as usual. “What are you doing here?”

  Eric’s smile didn’t reach his eyes and his voice contained forced pleasantness. “Testing equipment. What about you? Are you curious about the suspicious lack of spirits here? Thought there’d be more….”

  “What lack?” Vincent glanced over at Elena, who continued to seethe at Eric’s existence. “I was just talking to Mrs. Anderson here before you got her off-track.”

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Anderson!” Eric offers a small wave to the general area around Vincent. Elena didn’t appreciate the gesture.

  A surge of anger and a string of slurs Vincent had never heard before overwhelmed him. He clutched his head and had to brace himself on the headstone behind him. Worse than the anger was the pure hatred Elena felt towards this greeting. Vincent squinted through the pain, barely making out the concern on Eric’s face.

  “Can you just go the fuck away?” The words came out harsh, louder than intended, and soaked in venom Eric didn’t deserve.

  Rather than snap back or ask questions, Eric shrank, muttering apologies, and retreated toward the gnarled tree rows of graves away.

  “Shit,” Vincent muttered. He tore the messages he’d written from the notebook, ignoring Elena’s chatter. “Are you happy now? Your family will read your shitty messages if they ever choose to visit your grave.” He dropped a nearby rock on top of the pages for lack of anything else to weigh the paper down.

  “I don’t want people like that near me, dead or alive. And I wasn’t done yet!” Elena yelled as Vincent passed her.

  “Then stay here. You can pass on and be at peace, or you can fester here until you fade to nothing. I don’t care either way.”

  Vincent left the spirit behind and jogged after Eric. He passed an upturned stone and the skid a knee left in the mud. Metal glinted in the grass where a couple of Eric’s gadgets had fallen. He gathered them up, cursing Elena and himself for letting her influence his mood so easily.

  Sniffles and muffled gasps came from behind the tree. The vague outline of shoulders and elbows added to the trunk’s shadow.

  “…Eric?” Vincent slowed his steps, like he was pushing through a pool of mud to get closer.

  The shadow jumped and one arm rose to rub tears from his face. He didn’t respond or turn around. Vincent crept closer, his mind swimming with words and his mouth had no idea which were the right ones to use.

  Eric sat huddled against the tree, pushing random buttons on the gadget in his hands. Wet streaks on his cheeks glistened in the dim light emitted by the screen. His lip quivered and shoulders tensed as Vincent approached.

  “Look, I….” Vincent sighed and slid down the trunk, sinking to the wet ground almost on the opposite side of the tree. His voice caught in his throat each time he tried to speak. “I didn’t mean to yell at you… so….” He felt stupid. Why was it so difficult to talk all of a sudden?

  “It’s okay,” Eric answered, his voice a sad whisper. “You snap at me all the time.”

  Vincent winced. Was that how he always sounded? How was that okay? He scooted a few inches around the trunk, and reached a hand out. It shook like he was trying to reach into a roaring fire and fell to the ground long before reaching Eric.

  “So… Mrs. Anderson?” Eric’s eyes flitted to meet Vincent’s, only for him to pull his knees as close as his thighs and belly would allow. The hem of one leg of his shorts was torn and the knee underneath muddy and scraped.

  “She’s gone. Probably….” Under his breath, Vincent added, “Vile old bag.”

  Eric’s gaze met Vincent’s again, this time lingering. “You’ve never said anything bad about a spirit before.”

  “Spirits are just people and some people are shitty.” Vincent fidgeted with the devices he found before holding them out to Eric. “You dropped these.”

  Eric moved closer to accept the gadgets. After a second’s hesitation, he scooted closer yet, until they were nearly shoulder to shoulder. He was close enough that Vincent could feel his warmth.

  “I’m sorry,” Vincent finally blurted. “When I connect with spirits, their emotions bleed into mine. I can usually filter them but….”

  “Is that why you always look so sad?”

  “I don’t always look sad…” Vincent muttered.

  “I have footage to prove otherwise.” A faint smile tugged at the corners of Eric’s lips. “Sorry for sneaking up on you. Did I break your concentration?”

  “No, it wasn’t….” Vincent turned toward Eric, overly conscious of every muscle in his face yet unable to form an expression that didn’t feel wrong. “It wasn’t you. Mrs. Anderson just… didn’t like you.”

  Eric’s eyes went wide and he shrank into himself again. “Why? What did I do?”

  “Nothing. She was just a bigot, ranting about Vietnam and Korea…. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I’m not Vietnamese or Korean….”

  “She didn’t care.”

  A smile crept onto Eric’s lips, a glimmer of hope flickering back into his eyes. “So it was Mrs. Anderson yelling at me, not you?”

  “If that makes you feel better.”

  “It does!” The smile fully blossomed across Eric’s face, from the little dimples in his cheeks to the creases around his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

  “I don’t.” At some point, the distance between them disappeared. Vincent wasn’t sure who moved closer. “I’m just not good with people. The living, at least….”

  “Yeah, I could tell.” Eric laughed at the glare he received, the last of his tears finally dried. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  Vincent held up his little notebook. “Most of the spirits lingering in graveyards just want to say something to those they left behind. I write their messages and leave them for the families to find whenever they visit next.”

  Eric stared at the notebook, brow furrowed in thought and lips sinking into a pout. “Oh, it’s just you?”

  The look deflated Vincent’s mood. Upon realizing how hopeful he felt telling Eric his deeds, he kicked himself internally. He wasn’t looking for praise. “Sorry I’m so disappointing.”

  “You’re not! I was just hoping to find some activity and catch spirits writing those messages, though. And, I did want to test my new equipment. I can’t do that if you send all the spirits away….” This time, Eric’s pout was exaggerated, laughter in his eyes.

  Vincent huffed a breath through his nose. He wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or relief. “Aside from Mrs. Anderson, I don’t like leaving spirits lingering. I’m not sure if anyone takes the letters seriously or if they even read them….”

  “You don’t get online much, do you?”

  “I spend plenty of time online.”

  “Watching fake drama and catfights?”

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Vincent didn’t respond. That was all he watched online. He closed his sweater over his chest and folded his arms.

  Eric laughed and nudged Vincent with his shoulder. "Posts of those letters are all over the internet. You did a lot for those grieving families. But, apparently, they're no good in a court of law.”

  Vincent smiled and relaxed against the tree. With the panic and fear of further upsetting Eric gone, he had nothing to distract him from the chill and worsening ache behind his eyes.

  “You look exhausted. Do you want a ride home?”

  Though he gave a subtle hum of agreement, Vincent didn’t move. He just held his hand out. “Do that thing again. The pressure point thing.”

  “Okay, yeah. Sure. I can….” Eric missed his pockets twice trying to put his tools away. He dropped his knees to hold their hands in his lap. Warmth filled Vincent’s body. “Jeez, your hands are freezing….”

  Vincent closed his eyes and let his mind wander. The cemetery was silent around them. He only heard his own heartbeat and Eric’s breathing by his ear. Every train of thought led back to the hands around his.

  “Does your family support your ghost hunting?” Vincent asked. A brief pause in his hand massage made him regret asking.

  After a moment, Eric let out a sigh. The smile on his lips no longer reached his eyes. “Not at all. I’m the youngest and my older siblings are super successful. My sister’s a biotech engineer and my brother’s a fancy banker in New York City.” He squeezed Vincent’s hand, only relaxing slightly when Vincent closed his fingers around his. “I’m a disappointment.”

  “So am I, so don’t feel bad. Anytime I see my parents they try to commit me to some new mental hospital.” A bitter laugh slipped through Vincent’s lips. “No one's ever figured out what's wrong with me though.”

  Eric’s answer was soft and immediate. “There's nothing wrong with you.” He smiled and nudged Vincent with his shoulder. “I've never met a fellow disappointment, so we should stick together.”

  Vincent laughed, feeling lighter than he’d felt in years. “Is that how this works?”

  Eric stood, pulling Vincent up with him. “This is the most I’ve seen you smile yet, so this seems to be working just fine.”

  ~*~

  Over the next few days, Vincent always woke to a dozen messages. While he waited for his coffee, he’d skim the articles Eric sent—mostly businesses advertising alleged hauntings—and listened to the silly videos.

  He settled onto the sofa with his mug of black coffee in hand and the local news on TV, his phone ignored on the table. Though it was too early for people to be trying to sell him religion or landscaping, the doorbell rang.

  In the five minutes he wasn’t looking at his phone, he received more texts. Eric used the likes Vincent added to his messages as confirmation the psychic was awake.

  “It’s your friend!” Jill announced, poking her head through the front door. “The nice man!”

  “I know. It’s also seven in the morning.” Vincent ran his fingers through his messy hair. He hadn’t even had a shower yet and still sat in just sweat pants.

  The sound of the door opening pulled him from his search for the shirt he’d discarded somewhere off the side of the sofa the night before.

  “Vincent?” Eric called from the front door. “Hm? Where are you?”

  “Did I not lock the door? Why are you here so early anyway?” Vincent gave up his search and walked down the narrow hall that separated the front walkway from the garage. He only had dirty laundry piled next to the machines.

  “I don’t know. The door just opened on its own.” Eric closed the door and peeked around the corner to find Vincent. “Oh! Was it—”

  His question was cut off by a shriek and his falling hard to the floor.

  “Are you okay?” Vincent hurried to help Eric up and shot a glare at the small stuffed culprit. “I told you this was creepy. Get out of the doll if you want to move around,” he scolded.

  Jill’s voice came from Cici, “But I wanted to say hi…. He can’t see me.”

  “And he can’t hear you either way.”

  “Don’t be so hard on her. I was just surprised, is all…. Hi, Jill. Looks like you’re doing well here.” Eric’s voice shook a bit as he stared at the moving doll.

  Jill waved, still refusing to leave the doll, and ran under the dining room table where a plastic tea set was scattered about.

  “You get used to it…” Vincent muttered.

  She returned with a teacup in hand, holding it up to Eric.

  “Aw, did you buy her a little tea set?” Eric squatted down and accepted the cup, even patting the doll on the head. “I can’t play right now. Maybe next time, sorry.”

  Vincent gave up on clothes and returned to his coffee. “So? Why are you here?”

  “I was just… stopping by after work.”

  Now that his attention was off the doll, Eric’s eyes were locked on Vincent’s bare torso. It wasn’t much to look at, pale and too thin, nothing remarkable—aside from the long scar from his right side and up his back. He held a pillow over that part.

  “Did you just want to come stare at me in my pajamas?”

  “No! That’s not—I’m not—” Eric sputtered. “Why were you complaining about bitter medicine when you drink plain black coffee?”

  Vincent raised an eyebrow at the change of subject, but let it slide. “The bitterness wasn’t the problem. It tasted like dirt.” He swirled his coffee and took a long sip. The beans he bought last had a hint of hazelnut. “And I want to drink coffee, not slightly coffee flavored milk and sugar.”

  Eric scrunched up his nose and patted his pockets, looking for something. He wore a pink button-down shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. He even wore a tie. Even when faced with this outfit, Vincent still couldn’t imagine Eric as something so mundane as a supermarket supervisor.

  “Now who’s staring?” Eric stepped closer, holding his hand out with something that looked like a cockroach on his palm. “My coworker gave me—”

  “I don’t want it. What the hell is that?” Vincent leaned away, ready to escape if the thing moved.

  “It’s a brooch. It is kind of ugly though….” Eric chuckled and flipped the thing over. It still looked like a cockroach, but the metal clasp was now visible. “Are you afraid of bugs? I nearly had a heart attack when Jay threw this at me.”

  “I don’t like bugs bigger than my fingernail.” Vincent relaxed and returned to his coffee. “What is it?”

  “My coworker swears it’s cursed. He said that, since I’m ‘into this type of thing,’ I could keep it….”

  Vincent accepted the brooch. It was oblong and dirty bronze with a swirling design that almost looked like a face. He felt the remnants of a spirit’s energy, but it had long since dissipated.

  “There’s nothing here anymore. A spirit was probably attached to it for decades, until it ended up nothing but festering emotion. That’s what most ‘cursed’ things are.” Vincent gave the brooch back. Holding it made him feel itchy all over.

  Mateo’s name caught both of their attention as the newscaster started a new story. Police discovered multiple bodies after an investigation of the container depots along the coast. Vincent froze mid-sip as the new victims’ names appeared on screen.

  Martin wasn’t one of them.

  Many had gone missing weeks before Mateo. And a couple since then.

  “Did you send any of those others off?” Eric frowned, not taking his eyes off the screen as the reporter shared what little information they had.

  “No, but Mateo’s cousin was in here. He and his friends came to mess with me initially—they’re the ones that dumped Gracie on me.” Vincent frowned in the direction of the shelf he kept her necklace on. Her spirit wasn’t strong enough to roam as much as Jill. “He wanted information. He said he’d go to the cops, but who knows.”

  “I mean, you can’t get arrested for just knowing something, can you?”

  “I’d either get arrested for interfering with their investigation or sent to a mental hospital. Probably both. What’s the point if no one believes me?”

  “There are anonymous tip lines, right?”

  Vincent finished his coffee and pushed past Eric to the kitchen. “I can’t tell them how I know anything. What can they even do with the terrified memories of someone about to die?”

  “It sounds like you’re just looking for excuses. I bet you never even tried.” Eric was still watching the TV, his back to Vincent. Maybe he didn’t mean to sound as accusatory as he did.

  “Fine.” Vincent slammed his mug into the sink. “I never tried, never cared, never want to do anything useful with this fucking ability I’m stuck with. Are you happy?”

  Eric spun around, a range of emotions on his face like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be angry or hurt or both.

  “You know, you can’t always blame your mood on spirits,” he muttered. “Anyway, sorry for coming by out of the blue.”

  He left before Vincent could get a look at his face. Not that he needed to.

  ~*~

  Once again, Vincent was staring at his phone between every session. This time, hours later, he knew he should apologize. The next appointment scheduled was a séance and he prayed for it to be difficult. Anything to get his mind off his abysmal social skills.

  At three o’clock on the dot, a gruff, stocky man marched through the curtain, meeting Vincent before he could greet him in the lobby. His dark hair was slicked back with what looked like grease and the stubble along his jaw showed patches of gray. Vincent was tall enough, yet this man towered over him, staring down his crooked nose. Dennis was the name on the form. No last name.

  “Sir, welcome,” Vincent greeted him as pleasantly he would his other customers. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Who will I be speaking to today?”

  “You have some kind of confidentiality contract?” Dennis didn’t budge when Vincent waved him to the table.

  “The appointment form is the only contract. I don’t talk about people’s deceased loved ones with strangers.”

  “Even cops?”

  “…If you have some request that might involve the police, I’ll have to refuse.” Vincent narrowed his eyes at Dennis. He felt a faint energy coming from the man’s person, but a sinking, terrifying thought came to mind. Could a killer hold some remnant of their victims? What would a murderer want with a psychic?

  “It won’t involve the police if you don’t get them involved.”

  Vincent dropped his act and crossed his arms. “I’m not becoming some accessory to whatever crime you think I can help you with. The police would happily arrest me and send me to a mental hospital.”

  “The crime’s done. I need you to find where my backstabbing partner stashed my money.” Dennis shouldered past Vincent and sat at the table, flicking the crystal ball. “What magic mumbo jumbo do you need for this to work?”

  “If you want me to talk to your partner—who I assume is dead—I’ll need something of his. Something that was important enough to him that he’d stay with it after death.” Vincent sat across from the suspicious customer, pushed away from the table enough to run if needed.

  Dennis reached into his coat and slammed a gun onto the table. Vincent reflexively backed away further.

  “Is that….” Is that the murder weapon? was what Vincent wanted to ask.

  “It was his. Always went on about how his granddad used it in some shootout in the Wild West days. Heard this trigger going every night for the past week. Figure he’s trying to off me from the other side.”

  I don’t blame him. “I do sense a faint presence. It isn’t very strong.” Vincent wiped his hands on his thighs, as if he could wipe his fingerprints off before putting them all over a criminal’s gun.

  “Good. Ask him where my money is.”

  “There’s a chance he won’t want to talk to me. He doesn’t have to—”

  “I can be pretty convincing when I need to be.” Dennis sat back and folded his arms, one hand slipping into his coat again.

  “What’s your partner’s name?”

  “Dennis.”

  “That isn’t your name? What should I call you then?”

  “Nothing. Do you need my name to talk to ghosts?”

  “No… I guess not.” Vincent sighed and touched a finger to the barrel of the gun, subtly pushing it to face away from him.

  It was a heavy old revolver, its barrel short and thick and the wooden handle polished, clearly well taken care of. The cylinder clicked as Vincent pushed the gun, making him flinch. The nameless customer only laughed.

  The metal felt cold—colder than it should. Vincent took a breath and called out to the spirit hiding within. “Dennis? Can you hear me? I only want to talk. And I can convey any messages you have for your… friend here.”

  Anger pulsed from the gun, so sharp that Vincent winced and pulled his hand back. When Vincent gingerly placed his fingers on the metal again, it felt colder, like a lamppost in the middle of a frozen winter.

  “It seems you can hear me…. Do you have anything to say?”

  Silence. The living partner tapped an impatient finger against his arm, glaring across the table. A bead of sweat trickled down Vincent’s neck. He never thought to check if the gun he was touching was loaded. Even if it was, he wasn’t so delusional to think he’d beat a seasoned criminal in a draw. Or that he’d be able to pull the trigger.

  “…give up.”

  The voice echoed in the back of Vincent’s mind. He almost missed it with his heart racing in his ears. “Give up?” he repeated.

  “Tell him to give up on the money.” Dennis’s voice sounded defeated, melancholy, even. It had none of the ire Vincent felt earlier.

  “Why do you say that?” Vincent kept his voice steady and continued via his thoughts. He’s not going to like that answer. I don’t want to end up like you.

  “You’ll both end up like me if he keeps pressing. Tell him to drop it.”

  Vincent lifted his eyes to meet his customer’s. He’d always thought he’d be stuck listening to the dead for another fifty years. Now he wasn’t sure if he had another fifty seconds. His mouth was dry and his chest burned with the memory of Mateo’s death.

  “Well? What’s he saying that got your pasty ass to go even paler?”

  “So… spirits…. People, after they die, they don’t always keep their memories. Dying is pretty traumatic, after all…. He said he doesn’t remem—"

  The gun slid away from Vincent’s fingers as a deafening bang rang through his garage. A hair of smoke drifted up from the barrel inches from a charred hole in the tablecloth. Shards of aquamarine trickled off the shelf the bullet flew into, marking one crystal casualty.

  Gracie and Jill phased through the damaged wall, hovering over Vincent to ensure he was still among the living. Vincent would have told them everything was alright if he believed that himself.

  “Seems you’re lying.” Dennis’s partner turned the gun so the barrel pointed at the psychic’s chest. “Try again.”

  Power pulsed around them, but none of it came from the gun. Gracie’s anger and Jill’s fear lashed out at random, knocking over chairs and shaking shelves. The man staring Vincent down didn’t flinch.

  “He said you should give up. Th-that you’ll end up dead.” Vincent’s hands shook, even as he balled them into fists on the table. He shot a glance at the two spirits next to him, willing them to calm down.

  “Bullshit. What’s he gonna do? Curse me from hell?” The man raised his voice, only upsetting Gracie and Jill further.

  Dennis didn’t respond. Vincent only felt the bitter sadness emanating from his soul. No malice, no anger, no desire to curse or harm his partner whatsoever. In fact, it was almost as if….

  “He’s trying to protect you,” Vincent muttered.

  The partner’s eyes went wide, then his whole body relaxed. He stared down at the gun, his face devoid of emotion. “You never ran off with the money.”

  “I wanted to tell him, but it’s better he hates me. He can’t go looking for revenge.” The air shimmered over the gun as Dennis tried to pool the energy necessary to manifest. He didn’t have it. Now that his partner knew part of the truth he hid, it was likely the rest of his spirit would soon fade, too.

  “Not much of him is left. I think he can still pass on. You’ll just need to let him go.” Vincent touched the gun again, reaching out to Dennis. If he could hold spirits, maybe he could keep them from fading for a short while.

  Dennis’s partner slammed his fist on the table and hid his face in his other hand. “Fuck! You goddamn idiot!” On the third punch to the table, Vincent swore he heard a crack. “Why? Why the hell did he let me think he stabbed me in the back?”

  “He said it was better that you hated him.”

  The man stood and grabbed Vincent by the collar, yanking him to his feet. “Tell me who put him up to it. I don’t even care about the money anymore.”

  “I-I don’t know! He won’t say! He doesn’t want you looking for revenge. Just—” Gracie and Jill rose to his defense, their emotions taking over their minds. Neither of them were stable enough to maintain violent bursts. “Enough! Stop! Not you—no, you too. Let me go so they’ll stop.”

  “You keep ghosts as bodyguards too?” He released Vincent’s collar and channeled his anger into pacing around the garage, unfazed by the cards and crystals falling from their shelves. “Someone put him up to it…” he muttered.

  Vincent reached out to Jill and Gracie, taking their hands while his customer was lost in thought. “Calm down,” he whispered. “Once you’re too far gone, there’s nothing I can do to bring you back.”

  “That man was hurting you,” Jill sobbed. “I was scared.”

  “We can’t just stand by while some thug is shooting at you!” Gracie pulled Jill into her arms, patting the girl’s head. Though her tone was harsh, the energy tearing through the garage had subsided.

  “No one was shooting at me. Go back inside.”

  “Hey, psychic. You done over there?” Dennis’s partner found his way back to the table and leaned forward, hands on either side of the revolver.

  Vincent watched until Jill and Gracie disappeared into the house. “Yeah. Don’t worry about them. They won’t—”

  “Never said I was,” the man interrupted. “I want to talk to Dennis.”

  “I can try. His tether to this world isn’t very strong, so he can’t fully manifest.” Vincent sat back down and pointed the gun away from him again. As soon as he touched the metal, he felt Dennis’s presence and heard his quiet refusals to speak to his partner. Nevertheless, he laid his other hand palm up on the table. “You’ll need to take my hand. I’d appreciate it if we can stay nonviolent while I channel your friend.”

  The man sat back down and grabbed Vincent’s hand. His rough, calloused skin and tight grip made it feel like Vincent had been captured by a snake. No one spoke.

  Dennis, come on. At least tell him to fuck off yourself….

  An eternity passed before Dennis spoke up, “Chuck, let it go.” His partner jumped at hearing his voice and the already tight grip on Vincent’s hand grew tighter. “Forget about me, forget about the money, forget about all this shit.”

  “It’s easy for a dead man to say that. You don’t have to live with this,” Chuck replied. His voice trembled on the last few words. “Psychic, can’t you just read his mind or something? Get him to talk.”

  “I could pry and figure out who killed him, but—”

  “I know who killed him.”

  “Then why…?”

  Chuck’s jaw tensed as he stared into the metal of Dennis’s gun. Vincent didn’t need the flash that slipped through the wall Dennis put up to block him out. A fit of rage based on a lie was all it took.

  “I want to know why he let me…. Who got him so scared that he’d rather die than tell me the truth? Was it the boss?”

  “So you don’t have the foggiest idea? That’s good. Maybe you’ll give up now.” The connection weakened. Dennis’s spirit started to fade, but not with a warm light and calm relief. He’d fade to nothing. “Tell Janelle I’m sorry. My girls all deserve better than I could give them.”

  Vincent felt Dennis slip away. If he tried to grab hold again, it was like trying to hold a wisp of smoke.

  “Dennis? Dennis!” Chuck slammed his hand into the table again. “Where the fuck did he go?”

  With the connection gone and his adrenaline faded, the throbbing in Vincent’s head took center stage. He leaned on his elbows, pressing his hands against his brow. “I don’t know. He’s just gone. His spirit couldn’t hold on any longer.”

  “Fuck!” Chuck kicked the leg of the table, causing Vincent’s head to jerk to the side and hurt even more. “He didn’t say anything else? You couldn’t dig in there?”

  “Please stop yelling…. It was hard enough maintaining a connection with a spirit so faint and he was blocking me out. I saw a glimpse of something when you said you knew who killed him, so maybe something slipped through. But I can’t think about it now. My head feels like it’s splitting open….”

  Chuck took a breath and lowered his voice. “So if I come back another day, you’ll have something?”

  “How about you leave a phone number and I’ll text you or something?”

  “I’ll give you one pass, since you’re a law-abiding citizen,” Chuck grumbled, reaching into his coat again. He slammed a basic flip phone on the table and pushed it toward Vincent. “Take this. Don’t use it for anything but to tell me when to come back here. I’ll send a text from another burner and that will be the only number you save to that phone.”

  “Right. I better not get arrested for this.”

  “You’ll get worse than that if I don’t hear from you soon.” Chuck took his friend’s gun and stormed out.

  Vincent slumped over the table. He was going to be murdered because a criminal killed his own friend. And he still hadn’t apologized to Eric.