Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(135)

The room was . . . empty of smells. No one spent enough time here to leave a mark. Couches placed just so were without the normal scuffs and worn edges that such things acquire in daily living. Rick gestured us forward, but he, himself, stopped at a discreet half bar.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, opening a sliding cabinet door I could hear even though I couldn’t see it. He pulled four glasses out and set them down.

“Not me,” said Zack.

“No.” Lisa had walked across the room to look out the window at the river.

“No, thank you.” The lack of other scents made some things very interesting. I stepped closer to Rick and took a deep breath. “Are you fae?”

His hand stilled where he had half lifted a bottle of soda water over a glass.

“My grandfather,” he told me. “My mother’s father. He abandoned his wife and my mother. I don’t know exactly what he was. He left me with a bit of intuition about people—and that’s it.” He finished pouring. “I tell you this because you’re married to a werewolf—I may be isolated, but I do read local newspapers. Hauptman is a name that comes up as often as the reporters can figure out how to slide it in. The Tri-Cities’ most famous person, the handsome face of werewolves everywhere.”

I smiled at his sarcasm. “I think he’s pretty, too. Truthfully, his good looks annoy him, though he’s not above using them when he needs to.”

“I will answer your questions, mostly, because my fae-born intuition”—he smiled wryly—“for what it is worth—tells me that you are exactly what you say you are. And that you just might be able to help. I am not in the habit of sharing my family secrets with everyone.” He grimaced. “If you really wanted to know, you could just read any of the true-crime novels written about my wife’s murder, anyway.”

“All right.” I felt bad intruding on his privacy even if it might be for his own good. I met his eyes. “You should know that I’m not fae or werewolf, but I am something. That’s how I knew you were fae—and that’s why I might be able to do something about your ghost. I’m giving you my secret because I stole one from you—and I’ll be asking you for more. You should have at least one of mine in return.”

Rick looked at me, then nodded. He glanced at Zack. “Our introductions were truncated. I’m Rick Albright. Lisa, you’ve obviously met, and I’ve met Ms. Hauptman.”

“Zack Drummond,” Zack introduced himself.

Rick nodded. “All right.” He looked at me. “You’re in charge.”

“Lisa said your wife has been haunting you since her death,” I told him.

He nodded. “I thought ghosts were supposed to be attached to the place they died, or at least someplace important to them. But it doesn’t matter where I am. In airports. Business meetings.” He blanched, drank the soda water in one smooth gulp. “Sometimes she looks alive. I’ll look over, and she’s eating at the table next to me.” He looked away from us and kept talking more and more quietly. As if noise would make the images more real. “Or walking down the road. Sometimes she’s . . . in pieces. Just like when I came in from a night of drinking and found her body cut up in our kitchen. Some of her was in the sink, some of her was . . .” He stopped speaking. “Excuse me,” he said, and walked rapidly out of the room.

Zack and I could hear him vomiting. We waited for him, Lisa visibly torn because she wanted to follow him.

“Sorry,” he apologized as he returned.

“Why don’t you show us around the house,” I said. “Tell me if you see her, and I’ll tell you if—”

And standing behind him was a woman who was almost six feet tall, a stunning redhead with bright blue eyes and a sad mouth. She reached out and ran a hand over his shoulder.

“Well,” I said. “I don’t think that will be necessary. What was your wife’s name?”

“Nicole,” he stared at me, then looked behind him. “You see her? She’s not there.”

“She’s wearing a camisole,” I said. “Blue with embroidered black flowers and a pair of black yoga pants.”

“That’s what she was wearing when she was killed,” he said. “All the newspapers reported it.” His eyes narrowed at me in sudden suspicion. He turned all the way around, looking through the ghost I saw as if she weren’t there. When he faced me again, he said in a low voice, “There were photos of her clothing in one of the books.”

“What about your intuition?” asked Lisa in a small voice. She was responsible for bringing me here.

His mouth softened.

“Nicole,” I said.

She looked at me—and then straightened when she could meet my eyes. “I can’t leave,” she said.

I nodded. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t leave,” she told me sadly, running her hand down his arm.

“He didn’t kill you?” I asked.

She looked at him, bewildered. “I can’t leave.”

There wasn’t a lot of intelligence left. The kind of haunting that Rick had described, brutal and powerful, just seemed beyond her.

“Rick,” I said, still looking at her, “did you kill your wife?”