Pen Pal(76)

“When?”

“She didn’t say. Why does it matter?”

Shaking her head in impatience, Claire opens the laptop and taps the power button. She pulls up the internet browser and starts to type.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking up the office of the county recorder. We can check the property records for this address to discover who owned the house before you.” She clicks around for a minute, then types into a search bar. Then she stands back, frowning.

“What is it?”

“Was the deed to this property recorded in someone else’s name?”

“No. It should be listed as Michael and Kayla Reece.” I walk closer and peer over her shoulder at the screen. “Who the hell are Sandy and David Wainwright? It says they bought this house in January!”

Somewhere upstairs, another door slams. I hear the sound of running feet, then a child’s laughter.

My breath catches.

Looking upward, I say, “Wait. The little boy. We’re forgetting about him. If Dante’s the ghost in this house…who’s the kid? And what about the man in the trench coat and hat? How does he fit into all this?”

When I look back at Claire and Fiona, they’re wearing identical expressions of sadness, along with another emotion I’ve seen before. I saw it on Destiny’s face, the psychic I visited who wished me safe travels as I was leaving. It’s unmistakable.

It’s pity.

Unnerved, I demand, “Why are you guys looking at me like that?”

Claire says gently, “It’s all right, Kayla. Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of, my dear.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Give me the phone, dear.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to call the police station again.”

“What for?”

“I think there’s something you should know.”

“Like what?”

“Give me the phone.”

An overwhelming feeling of wrongness overtakes me. I back up a step. My blood turns to ice. All the hair on my arms stands on end, and I begin to hyperventilate.

The storm outside rages.

Claire takes the phone from my stiff hand and hits a few buttons. When a familiar woman’s voice fills the room, I realize she hit redial, then switched the audio to the speaker.

“Seattle PD, how can I help you?”

“Yes, good evening, ma’am. Will you please tell me when Detective Peters died?”

There’s a pause.

Claire explains, “My friend spoke to you a moment ago and was so surprised by the news, she neglected to ask. She’d like to send flowers to the funeral if it hasn’t been held yet.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I’m afraid it’s much too late for flowers. It’s been six months since he passed, almost to the day.”

Claire thanks her, then disconnects. Then she and Fiona stand there staring at me with that awful pity in their eyes, waiting.

As if from very far away, I hear my own voice. “That’s impossible. She’s wrong. He interviewed me after the accident. That was only two months ago. He sat with me out on the dock and interviewed me!”

Claire says sadly, “I have no doubt that he did.”

My hands begin to tremble. I find it difficult to draw a full breath. I back up another step. Looking at her for help, I say, “Fiona?”

She says softly, “You have to understand, dear, that there are very few people who can communicate with spirits.”

My voice rises. “What are you saying? What does that have to do with anything?”

She goes on in that calm, soothing tone, ignoring my panic. “Mediums, of course. A few psychics, too, though most of them are fakes. Also schizophrenics, for reasons we don’t really understand, though it probably has something to do with their altered brain chemistry.”

Claire adds, “Cats as well.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Cats can see ghosts, too.” She pauses. “So can some gifted children.”

The sound of a child’s laughter floating down from upstairs makes my heartbeat stutter.

It falls to a complete standstill when Claire says, “And so can other ghosts. Though they don’t recognize each other as such.”

I look back and forth between them. “I’m sorry, what?”

One of the bulbs in the fluorescent fixture overhead explodes. Another one follows immediately afterward, filling the room with a sharp crackle of shattering glass and the acrid smell of burnt wiring. A cold gust of wind whistles down the chimney in a high-pitched wail that sounds eerily like a banshee screaming.

A line from Dante’s last letter flashes into my mind:

You are the storm. You’re the source of everything that’s happening.

Then I recall something Fiona told me the day she came in and set off the alarm: “A spirit is energy manifesting itself. Akin to an electrical storm gathering force until it discharges a bolt of lightning. When a spirit is upset, that emotion—that energy—is transformed into a physical outcome. Hence your open cupboards and drawers.”

And one other thing that I didn’t begin to comprehend until just now: “I’d say the spirit who lives in this house is bloody furious.”

The way she looked at me when she said that, it was almost as if…