Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(9)

The attic was a large space with slanted ceilings and dormer windows. At some point knee walls had been installed in an attempt to make the space livable, but they were poorly built and drafty. Alex was in the process of fitting rigid foam insulation over the floor joists and caulking it.

Sitting on his heels, he began to replace the silicone cartridge of the caulking gun. He went still as he saw something on the wall … the dark hieroglyph of a shadow rising from a heap of debris and broken furniture.

The shadow had been with him for weeks now. Alex had tried to ignore it, tried to drink it away, sleep it away, but there was no escaping its watchful presence. Lately he’d begun to feel a sense of animosity coming from it. Which meant he was either crazy … or haunted.

As the shadow drew closer to him, Alex felt the cold sear of adrenaline in every vein. Purely by instinct, he moved to defend himself. In an explosive motion, he threw the caulk gun. The tube split, white silicone splattering over the wall.

The dark shape promptly disappeared.

Alex still felt the hostile presence nearby, waiting and watching. “I know you’re there,” he said, his voice guttural. “Tell me what you want.” A mist of sweat broke out on his face and collected beneath his T-shirt. His heartbeat was fast and ragged. “And then tell me how to f**king get rid of you.”

More silence.

Dust motes salted the air in a slow descent.

The shadow returned. Quietly it assumed the form of a man. A vivid, three-dimensional being.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” the stranger said. “How to get rid of you, that is.”

Alex felt his color drain. He moved to sit fully on the floor, to keep from toppling over like a domino.

My God, I have gone crazy.

He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until the stranger replied.

“No, you haven’t. I’m real.”

The man was tall, lanky, dressed in a scuffed leather flight jacket and khakis. His black hair was military-short and parted on the side, his features decisively formed, the eyes dark and assessing. He looked like some supporting character in a John Wayne movie, the rebellious hotshot who had to learn to follow orders.

“Hiya,” the stranger said casually.

Slowly Alex got to his feet, his balance shoddy. He had never been a spiritual man. He trusted only in concrete things, the evidence of his senses. Everything on earth was made of elements that had originally been produced from exploding stars, which meant humans were basically sapient stardust.

And when you died, you disappeared forever.

So … what was this?

A delusion of some kind. Moving forward, Alex reached out in a tentative gesture. His hand went right through the man’s chest. For a moment all Alex could see was his own wrist embedded in the region of a stranger’s solar plexus.

“Jesus!” Alex snatched his hand back quickly and examined it, palm up, palm down.

“You can’t hurt me,” the man said in a matter-of-fact voice. “You’ve walked right through me about a hundred times before.”

Experimentally Alex extended his hand and swiped it through the man’s arm and shoulder. “What are you?” he managed to ask. “An angel? A ghost?”

“Do you see any wings?” the man asked sardonically.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. I’d say I was a ghost.”

“Why are you here? Why have you been following me?”

The dark gaze met his directly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have some kind of message for me? Some unfinished business I’m supposed to help you with?”

“Nope.”

Alex wanted very much to believe it was a dream. But it felt too real, the stale warmth of the attic air, the dusty lemon-colored light coming through the windows, the caulking chemicals that always smelled a little like bananas. “What about leaving me the hell alone?” he eventually asked. “Is that an option?”

The ghost gave him a glance of purest exasperation. “I wish I could,” he said feelingly. “It’s not my idea of entertainment to watch you get sloppy on a fifth of Jack Daniel’s every night. I’ve been bored out of my gourd for months. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I was happier living here with Sam.”

“You …” Alex made his way to a nearby stack of flooring planks and sat heavily. He kept his gaze on the ghost. “Does Sam—”

“No. So far, you’re the only one who can see or hear me.”

“Why?” Alex demanded in outrage. “Why me?”

“Wasn’t my choice. I was trapped here for a long time. Even after Sam bought the house, I couldn’t leave, no matter how I tried. Then back in April, I found out I could follow you outside, so I did. At first it was a relief. I was glad to get out of here, even if it meant I had to tag along with you. The problem is, I’m shackled to you. I go where you go.”

“There’s got to be a way to get rid of you,” Alex muttered, rubbing his face with his hands. “Therapy. Medication. An exorcist. A lobotomy.”

“What I think—” the ghost began, but stopped at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Al?” came Sam’s muffled voice. His head appeared as he approached the top of the staircase, his scowl arrowing through the cream-painted spindles of the balustrade. Pausing at the top, he rested a hand over the top newel and asked curtly, “What’s going on?”