“Yes,” he nodded, hard. “Yes, we can do that. I’ll just see myself out. For five minutes—any longer than that, and I’m coming back in.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Yes,” he said, retreating backwards to the door. “Five minutes.”

“While you’re out there, would you do me a favor and tell the manager that no one’s going to sue him? Just tell him to go away. Everything’s fine.”

“Lie to him, sure. Got it.”

“Nick,” I said, but he was already gone.

The faucet was still running—it had been running all this time, because I couldn’t stand the thought of the quiet if I turned it off. So I washed my hands again, and my face, too. I pulled off my sweater and slung it over the hand-dryer, and pressed the big round button to start the warm air. A full cycle didn’t dry the thing completely, but it warmed it up enough that I didn’t mind putting it back on.

My five minutes was mostly up, and I didn’t doubt for a moment that Nick would come barging back in.

Later, there would be time to sit and recollect . . . to sort things out and think my way through them.

I shut the faucet off and let the silence fill my ears. Other things joined it, of course. A toilet that wouldn’t stop running. The bickering talk of people outside the door—the manager probably, and Nick. And the maid or someone else. Maybe another woman wanting to use the facilities. There was no telling.

It sounded like Nick was shooing the other two people away, and I was glad for it. Between the light-headed fuzziness and the tingling along my stomach, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with even the best-intentioned people—much less curious folks who feared I might bring legal action against them.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Nick swept one arm protectively around my shoulders. I would have shrugged him off, but he was herding me away from the hotel employees so I let him leave it.

Back down the shiny marble stairs we went, and down the brightly-lit halls with the sky-high ceilings. “Talk to me,” Nick said. “What went on in there? What happened?”

“A bunch of things,” I breathed. “Just get me some food. I’ll tell you anything you want to know if you just feed me.”

Parked on the street not far from my own car, a white SUV emblazoned with TV station stickers awaited. Nick unlocked it and hustled me inside, then climbed into the driver’s seat. “What are you hungry for?”

“Sleep,” I said, then shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t care. Something fast and easy. Whatever’s close and cheap.”

He nodded like he understood, but took a turn up Fourth Street towards the Bluff View art district. There’s an Italian restaurant on the bluff, and it’s close but it isn’t cheap. “What do you care?” Nick shrugged when I mentioned this. “I’m buying, remember?”

“Yes, but I had something with paper cups in mind.” Going to the bluff felt too much like a date, except I looked like hell and Nick only wanted me for my information gathering.

“I guess you’ll have to settle for real food and a tablecloth on someone else’s dime. Sucks to be you.” He led me inside and I didn’t argue because I didn’t have the energy. All of my supernatural run-ins recently had done this to me—left me feeling drained and stupid.

It used to be only the really intense encounters had such an exhausting effect, but these days every shadow and whisper takes it out of me. This was the number one reason I’d declined Dana Marshall’s repeated offers to join her crew and investigate the weirdness of the world for a cable channel on TV.

We were seated off in a corner, away from the few other patrons. The place wasn’t crowded; it was the wrong time of day for mealtime rush—too late for lunch, and too early yet for supper. I liked it that way. So did Nick, who flapped open his napkin like he was straightening a bedsheet.

“Look, I want you to know—if I’d had any idea this was going to be so demanding and, um, bloody, I never would’ve asked you to look into it. I was just taking a shortcut, asking you to come in.”

“I know,” I assured him, scanning the menu. “And don’t worry about it. It’s usually not such a thing. And I don’t mind telling you—that’s the first time a spirit has ever tried to hurt me. Usually they’re harmless, even when they’re angry. Caroline’s a real piece of work, though. She knocked the wind out of me.”

“She did worse than that. I saw the floor in there. And that closet? What did you do—go straight through the door? There was blood everywhere. If I’ve learned anything from watching Law & Order reruns, it’s that dead people don’t spurt blood.”

“It always looks worse than it is. It’s the very nature of bleeding. One little cut looks like a massacre.”

“Where? Where was this ‘one little cut’ of which you speak? When we first opened that door and you were there on the ground, it looked like someone had thrown a basketful of razor blades at you. Then you come out of the bathroom looking damp but unharmed. You want to explain that to me?”

“I did explain it. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. I cleaned up, and there were only a few small nicks. No big deal.”

“Show me.”

“No.” Even though he couldn’t see through my shirt and sweater, I closed my arms around my stomach again. It still hurt, some—but not too bad, and only when I thought about it. “And knock it off, already. If I was hurt, I’d tell you and show you just to get you off my back. But I’m not. Can we let it go?”

“Fine.” He picked up his menu and studied it to make a point of ignoring me.

Our waiter returned to take our orders and left us again to our sulking. He knew I was lying, and I knew there was no way to tell him the truth. We turned our attention to the digital recorder, since it was safer territory.

“I don’t know how much useful chat you’ll find on here. She didn’t say anything much except that her name was Caroline and someone had made a mistake,” I said as I slipped it across the table to him. “I’d be shocked if there’s anything on there I didn’t hear.”

He toyed with the buttons and turned the device over in his hands. “Caroline, huh? That’s all she gave you to work with?”

“Sorry.” I wanted to add that she was only halfway in our world anymore, but that seemed incongruous with the fact that she’d slapped me around so successfully. Another possibility occurred to me, so I put it out there for him to chew on. “I think maybe she was mentally ill. She’s violent and angry, and she wants something—but she’s no good at communicating it.”

“You think she’s a crazy ghost?”

“It happens more often than you’d think. People who die in despair, or frustration, they tend to stick around. But she’s not all faded out like so many of them are. She’s pretty powerful, so I have to assume her weirdness is a relic of her living personality.”

The waiter showed up with our drinks, and we paused our conversation while he set them down and retreated. I sipped at mine for a few seconds, then removed the straw and gulped most of the soda down. I was so thirsty I could hardly stand it.

“Excuse me?” I called the waiter back and he returned with another drink a few seconds later.

While I worked on the next soda, Nick played with the recorder. He turned the volume down and rewound a bit, letting it run a few seconds at a time. “I can hear you, but nothing responding.”

“On that? I can’t either. But maybe with the sound up all the way, you’ll be able to pick her up. Her voice is funny. It’s faraway one second, and screaming in your face the next. She’s disoriented, which isn’t so strange. But I have a feeling she’s been dead a long time.”

“How do you figure that?”

“The way she was dressed, for one thing. And for another . . . well, it’s just a feeling. The more I think about it, the more I think something woke her up. Maybe the remodeling, that’s my best guess.”

He zipped the recording forward and stopped it. My voice jumped out of it. “They who? Who’s coming for you?” I’d said.

“Did she answer?”

I shook my head. “No. She just went on about some mistake. She mentioned the Klan, but that may or may not mean anything.”

“Do you think it’s the remodeling guys?”

“Who knows? I don’t think she knows anymore. She hears strange people moving around, tearing up the place she occupies. I can see how she’d think it meant someone was coming for her. If that doesn’t explain her, then I sure as hell don’t know what does.”

“Caroline,” he mused. “It’s a common name, but not that common. Not anymore. And you said something about her clothes. Tell me everything—every stupid little thing. You never know what’ll turn out to be important.”

I went ahead and filled him in on most of the details, which is to say, I left out the parts that involved me bleeding all over the place. By the time our food arrived I’d given him enough to make a loose police description of her. Perhaps it would be enough for him to find some historical notation, but I didn’t think he’d have much luck.

She could have been anyone: an employee, a visitor—someone passing through who passed on instead. I suspected that Nick’s big news scoop was going to be a bust, but if he was honestly interested and deeply bored, he might turn up a likely ghost candidate. If he did, he was welcome to tell me about it, but I didn’t have any intention whatsoever of going back into that room.

He said he didn’t blame me.

5

Revitalized

They were still wrapping up the last of the construction, but the North Shore Apartments would be ready by spring;—in time for me to get moved in before school started, or so I hoped. I was already planning my living space and collecting household goods. I was already chatting up friends with pickup trucks.