LITMIR.BIZ

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been ready to smack him for his lack of responsibility or for leaving one of them in the lurch. It didn’t matter. He’d still been a friend. Worse, it was such a ridiculous way to die.

      When she’d first found him, after the initial horror and disbelief, she wondered if he’d sat there to play a prank on her, maybe planning to apologize for disappearing. Maybe he’d tell her he’d gotten the gig of a lifetime because he’d taken off that afternoon.

      It had never occurred to her that anyone had killed him. His death had looked like a tragic, stupid accident. And that was terrible enough, but…

      Why would anyone kill Julian Mitchell, and why would that person go up to the attic and trash everything there?

      And how had it happened with her and Jason in the house, not to mention the thirty or so people in their tour groups?

      She’d barely dressed and her hair was still dripping when her doorbell rang. She cringed, not wanting to see anyone, but curiosity got the better of her and she walked to the door to look through the peephole.

      It was the Texas ghost buster.

      She watched him as she ignored the buzzer. He rang again.

      He didn’t go away.

      She considered it bizarre that the police had called in the FBI—and that they’d called in this unit. Allison had to admit she didn’t know that much about the FBI or the “Krewe of Hunters,” but she’d checked the internet when she first met Adam Harrison and read that they were a special unit sent in when circumstances were unusual. Unusual meant that something paranormal might be going on, or seemed to be going on, and it appalled Allison that a historic property like the Tarleton-Dandridge House could be turned into a supernatural oddity. Of course, the ghost tours in the city loved the house and the tales that went with it, but those tours were for fun. And that kind of fun was great as long as it didn’t detract from the real wonders of Philadelphia.

      All the information she could find about Adam—or his Krewes—seemed to have plenty of read-between-the-lines suggestions that there was something out of the ordinary about them. From what she could gather, the Krewes were well acquainted with the paranormal and made use of strange communications in solving crimes. No way could she buy into that!

      Peering out at Tyler Montague seemed to make it all the more ludicrous. He looked as if he should be in a barbarian movie; he was tall as a house and built with pure, lean muscle. How could such a man believe in ghosts?

      He had waited a respectable amount of time. He rang the bell again.

      With a sigh, Allison threw the door open. “What?” she demanded.

      “I need your help.”

      She turned and walked back through her house toward the counter that divided the kitchen from the living area. “With what? Do you need a cup of coffee? That I have. Do you want to know about the Tarleton ghosts? Can’t help you there. I’ve never seen them. Oh, and I suppose I should mention this—I don’t believe they exist. We have a shot at life, then we die. Period. I believe in God as an entity seen by different people in different ways, but I don’t think He has an open-door policy in heaven, saying, Hey, come and go as you please. But coffee? I’ve got that.”

      “I could use a cup,” he said mildly, following her inside and closing the door. He walked to the counter as she placed another pod in her coffeemaker. She turned to look at him, hoping—to her surprise—that her house was clean and neat. She had the feeling that, ghost hunter or no, he was observant and perhaps judging her character through her living space.

      “Things might be a bit messy,” she said, sweeping out an arm that indicated the sections of newspaper strewn on the table and her shoes and cape thrown on a chair. “Sorry. Long night.”

      “Looks pretty good to me,” he commented.

      “What do you like in your coffee? Oh, and what are you doing here?”

      “I told you. I need your help.”

      “That doesn’t answer my question about the coffee. What do you want in it?”

      “Just black, thanks.”

      “Of course. A fed from Texas. Black coffee.” She handed him the cup, asking, “What do you need from me?”

      “Information about the people you work with.”

      “Everyone fills out an extensive form in order to work at the house, and then has to pass an oral exam. Guides have to know what they’re doing. Believe it or not, the place gets a lot of applications. When the board hires, they want people who not only have a good grasp of history, but really love it. So they ask personal questions, as well.”

      “I’m aware of all that. What I want to hear is more about what you’ve seen. What you, personally, have observed.”

      She paused, eyes narrowing. “You think one of my coworkers had something to do with this?”

      “I don’t think Julian Mitchell went crazy, trashed his workplace, then sat down and killed himself on a bayonet—no.”

      Allison shook her head. “I’ve been through it and through it, with you and with the cops. I don’t know what else I could possibly tell you.”

      “Start with your day,” he told her. “Tell me about it again.”

      She sighed. “It was pretty much like any other day,” she said.

      He took a sip of his coffee, smiling. “I was looking for a little more detail than that. Were any of the tours unusual? Did anything stand out to you?”

      “Yes, I found the body of a friend in the study,” she said curtly.

      Before he could respond, his cell phone rang. He excused himself and answered it, frowning as he listened.

      Allison felt a chill; she knew it had something to do with whatever was being said.

      A moment later he hung up. “You took a family with two boys, Todd and Jimmy, on your last tour.”

      She nodded. “Yes, why?”

      “Their father’s in the hospital. He woke up in the middle of the night, screamed and fell into a coma. One of the kids was so hysterical when they reached the hospital that someone on staff called the police.”

      “What? Why? That’s terrible, but—”

      “The boy, Todd, wants to talk to you. He said that you’d understand. According to Todd, a ghost did follow them home.”

      3

      The hospital was cold. Outside, the late-summer heat was beginning to wane and the day was still beautiful, but inside the hospital, Allison shivered against the chill that seeped into her bones.

      She didn’t want to be there; she wanted to run away. But Todd wanted to see her because for some reason he believed she could help.

      And she wanted to help.

      The two boys were seated in an otherwise empty waiting area. Todd’s mother was in with his father, and an attractive woman of about forty was sitting with the boys. Seeing Allison, Todd leaped to his feet and came running over to her. She was startled when he threw his arms around her but she comforted the boy, embracing him and stroking his hair.

      “He followed us home! He followed us home. That awful man followed us home. The beast—Beast Bradley. He killed your friend and he made my father sick!” Todd said, his words muffled.

      Allison looked helplessly at the woman in the room and then at Tyler Montague.

      “Todd,” she said gently. “Ghosts can’t do that. Really. They’re just…inventions, something we make up in our own minds. Your father—” She paused, praying this wasn’t a lie. “Your father’s going to be fine. You’re in an exceptionally good hospital and the doctors will find out what’s wrong with him.”

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