pavement, Jenine’s breath coming in short, hard bursts. Bree pulled open the passenger door and practically threw Jenine in, then slid around the front and into the driver’s seat. She started the car, set the heat to high, and switched on the radio, turning up the volume until it was loud enough to drown out the drum of the rain.
“Where are we going?” Jenine asked as the car split away from the curb.
“To see the jackass.”
Jenine frowned. “We’re going to Travis?”
Bree snorted in laughter. “The other jackass, babe. The one who’s going to help us whether he wants to or not.”
“Richard Holt?” Jenine shook her head. It felt fuzzy, as if someone had stuffed it full of cotton candy. “I don’t understand…”
“I found a blog that was talking about ghost cameras. This woman has a theory that you can talk to the ghosts, to find out what they want. EMF tools, sensitive audio devices, whatever you can use to pick up their voices. She thinks some of the ghosts will help us if we can just communicate with them.”
Jenine glanced at the bruise on her arm. It had turned a dark, mottled blue. If that was how they communicated, she wasn’t sure she wanted more of it. “Has she ever tried it?”
Bree’s laugh was shorter and harsher than before. “Nope. It’s the best I could find, though.” She handed the slip of paper to Jenine. “I wrote his address down. Can you put it in the GPS?”
Jenine’s hands were shaking so badly that the task took her several minutes. She could feel Bree watching her and was grateful she didn’t say anything.
The rain had only gotten worse by the time they reached Richard’s home on the outskirts of the suburbs. It looked a lot like its owner: tall, meticulously neat, and very dull.
Bree parked on the street and opened her door, but Jenine hesitated. “Are you sure we should do this?”
Bree closed her door. “You don’t think we should?”
“He wasn’t very happy to see us last time. Even if he has equipment to hear ghosts, he may not let us use it.”
“I’ll convince him.”
Jenine hazarded a smile. “You’re not going to threaten him with your tape gun, are you?”
Bree laughed and got out of the car.
Chapter Six
Richard opened the door, then closed it immediately. Jenine had just enough time to see he was wearing a heavy red dressing gown—his professor-ish streak ran deep, apparently—and that his face blanched as soon as he saw them.
“Come on!” Bree yelled, banging on the door as the rain plastered her hair across her forehead. “Please, talk to us for a minute. It’s raining! You can’t just leave us out here!”
He certainly can, Jenine thought, wondering how long Bree would persist in the face of a locked doo r — b ut after a minute, Richard relented and opened the door with a heavy sigh.
He didn’t look happy, but he carried himself as professionally as he could in an oversized maroon dressing gown. He gestured for them to come into the foyer and said, “Wait here,” then disappeared into a side room.
Jenine gazed around the foyer. It was filled with expensive-looking decorations. She and Bree stood on a plush rug, to their left was a dark wooden stand, and large paintings hung on the wall.
The paintings seemed wrong somehow, and Jenine approached the nearest one for a closer look. It showed a nineteenth-century family picnicking beside a scenic river. The man and woman leaned against the trees to their backs, while the boy was on his stomach, gazing into the river. After a second, Jenine realised what was wrong: the people were dead. Gaunt and grey, they stared, slack-jawed, into the distance with empty eyes. It was as though the artist had taken three bodies from the morgue, dressed them in luxurious clothes, and arranged them into casual positions before laying out a rich feast of fruit, breads and wine as a twisted joke.
Jenine jumped as the door behind her opened. Richard returned, carrying two towels. He handed
“Where are we going?” Jenine asked as the car split away from the curb.
“To see the jackass.”
Jenine frowned. “We’re going to Travis?”
Bree snorted in laughter. “The other jackass, babe. The one who’s going to help us whether he wants to or not.”
“Richard Holt?” Jenine shook her head. It felt fuzzy, as if someone had stuffed it full of cotton candy. “I don’t understand…”
“I found a blog that was talking about ghost cameras. This woman has a theory that you can talk to the ghosts, to find out what they want. EMF tools, sensitive audio devices, whatever you can use to pick up their voices. She thinks some of the ghosts will help us if we can just communicate with them.”
Jenine glanced at the bruise on her arm. It had turned a dark, mottled blue. If that was how they communicated, she wasn’t sure she wanted more of it. “Has she ever tried it?”
Bree’s laugh was shorter and harsher than before. “Nope. It’s the best I could find, though.” She handed the slip of paper to Jenine. “I wrote his address down. Can you put it in the GPS?”
Jenine’s hands were shaking so badly that the task took her several minutes. She could feel Bree watching her and was grateful she didn’t say anything.
The rain had only gotten worse by the time they reached Richard’s home on the outskirts of the suburbs. It looked a lot like its owner: tall, meticulously neat, and very dull.
Bree parked on the street and opened her door, but Jenine hesitated. “Are you sure we should do this?”
Bree closed her door. “You don’t think we should?”
“He wasn’t very happy to see us last time. Even if he has equipment to hear ghosts, he may not let us use it.”
“I’ll convince him.”
Jenine hazarded a smile. “You’re not going to threaten him with your tape gun, are you?”
Bree laughed and got out of the car.
Chapter Six
Richard opened the door, then closed it immediately. Jenine had just enough time to see he was wearing a heavy red dressing gown—his professor-ish streak ran deep, apparently—and that his face blanched as soon as he saw them.
“Come on!” Bree yelled, banging on the door as the rain plastered her hair across her forehead. “Please, talk to us for a minute. It’s raining! You can’t just leave us out here!”
He certainly can, Jenine thought, wondering how long Bree would persist in the face of a locked doo r — b ut after a minute, Richard relented and opened the door with a heavy sigh.
He didn’t look happy, but he carried himself as professionally as he could in an oversized maroon dressing gown. He gestured for them to come into the foyer and said, “Wait here,” then disappeared into a side room.
Jenine gazed around the foyer. It was filled with expensive-looking decorations. She and Bree stood on a plush rug, to their left was a dark wooden stand, and large paintings hung on the wall.
The paintings seemed wrong somehow, and Jenine approached the nearest one for a closer look. It showed a nineteenth-century family picnicking beside a scenic river. The man and woman leaned against the trees to their backs, while the boy was on his stomach, gazing into the river. After a second, Jenine realised what was wrong: the people were dead. Gaunt and grey, they stared, slack-jawed, into the distance with empty eyes. It was as though the artist had taken three bodies from the morgue, dressed them in luxurious clothes, and arranged them into casual positions before laying out a rich feast of fruit, breads and wine as a twisted joke.
Jenine jumped as the door behind her opened. Richard returned, carrying two towels. He handed
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