LITMIR.BIZ

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the burden. Of course, mothers were known to torment their sons.

      Not usually, though, mothers who had passed away.

      Bryan was the eldest; he had been twenty-four on the day that Hamish and Maeve had been leads in a DC run of Murder by Gaslight; they had both been killed—hand in hand—when the famous chandelier had fallen onto them both, killing them instantly.

      It might have been fitting—they were known for having achieved the rarest of the rare, an amazing marriage and a true love affair; they were always together, beautiful people, blessed to have a wonderful family with their love and their three strapping sons.

      It had been an incredible tragedy—for their sons more than anyone else.

      Bryan had been the first to pull himself together. He’d been the first to see his mother. She had tiptoed behind him at her own funeral, bringing a finger to her lips and whispering, “Shh!”

      He’d assumed he was suffering from PTSD—they’d lost both parents in a single blow.

      And then he’d heard his father’s voice.

      “Stop that, Maeve. I believe the boy can hear you. Don’t be a tease.”

      “Don’t be silly. We’re dead. The living can’t hear us. I’m simply being a diva, darling,” Maeve had assured Hamish. “I’m making sure that the funeral is appropriately massive and...well, that people are properly emoting for us.”

      “They’re emoting all over, including our sons,” the ghost of his father had said sternly.

      “Oh, dear, yes—our precious boys!”

      Then they had been gone. And that night—after an appropriate amount of Jameson whiskey—Bryan had convinced himself that they hadn’t really been there. That it was the shocking loss affecting him. Because he’d known it was what they would have wanted: a massive funeral with all kinds of press coverage.

      Even if he and his brothers wanted to believe that they were strong and capable of managing the tragedy, they had loved their out-there, talented and ever so slightly crazy parents. It was natural that the grief might be intense.

      Then...

      They had moved back in.

      It had been quite the night when each one of the brothers had tried to pretend that he wasn’t seeing the ghosts of his parents. But Maeve had heckled and teased—she was really quite as good at being a ghost as she had been at acting. She had quickly learned how to make the fire snap, how to press a glass just hard enough so that it appeared to move across the table and how to touch them...with a gentle stroke on the cheek, the way she had touched them in life.

      Brodie—the youngest—had been the first to snap. Maeve had counted on that; Bryan was certain. Eventually Brodie had leaped out of his seat and screamed, “Can’t you see them?”

      Bryan had looked at Bruce, and in that moment, they had realized that their parents, while not alive, were still with them.

      Hamish was worried; he didn’t know why he and his wife were still there, and he was sorry—a father needed to let his sons lead their own lives. But they were young. Maybe he and Maeve were still there because they were needed. The boys might still need help; they could be there to guide them as they grew older and became men.

      Maeve informed them all that she knew the very solid reason they had remained on the earthly plane—were they all daft? To guide their sons, yes. But she and Hamish had been taken too soon. They were kind, decent people—and young and beautiful!

      They had basically been robbed of life.

      Now they’d been granted the chance to help their boys, though, of course, they hadn’t really been at all sure that the boys could see them until Brodie—bless him—had cried out the obvious.

      Maeve and Hamish were home.

      At first it was wonderful. It was still wonderful. Other than still wondering now and then if he was sharing a terrible hallucination with his brothers.

      If it weren’t for the other dead people his mother and father always wanted to help. The dead they brought home, too.

      Because his parents’ reappearance had opened some kind of door, and now he could see the dead. And Bruce and Brodie could see them, as well.

      “You do remember Dark Harbor, right? The run ended...oh, five or six years ago. You three were grown-up, but I remember that even you said they managed to make it pretty darned scary and that the plots were good.”

      “Kudos to the writers,” Bryan said. He slammed down hard on his hunk of a log.

      She came up before him, suddenly very serious.

      “Bryan, please. A friend of mine was viciously attacked. And I’m worried sick about a young actress who I thought was wonderful—and who was very dear to Cara. My friend was murdered, Bryan. Do you understand me? Murdered—cruelly and with malice. And now, she sincerely believes that the other members of her cast are in trouble.”

      “And why is that?”

      “Because of the way the killer came to the table. Cara was always ready to jump up and get out front, and that’s what she did, and she was worried that, well, maybe someone else was the intended target.”

      “Someone else.”

      “There were five main cast members, Bryan. I know you remember the show. You would have had to have slept through seven years to have missed it. Cara Barton was the matriarch, but Scarlet Zeta was the most popular member of the cast—and she was next to Cara when she was killed.”

      “Scarlet Zeta?”

      “Marnie. The actress’s name is Marnie Davante. Her role was that of Scarlet Zeta.”

      Bryan did actually know. He’d seen the show. He’d actually enjoyed it. He wasn’t usually that big on the paranormal—especially now, living a life in which his dead parents haunted him and brought home their dead friends now and then.

      But Dark Harbor had been good.

      And he knew who Cara Barton was—or had been. He grudgingly remembered that she had come to the funeral when his parents had died; she had been kind.

      And he knew who the actress Marnie Davante was—true, only someone who had been on Mars for the past decade or so would not. She had been great on the show—sexy and endearing, an American sweetheart who might well have sent a few adolescent boys into their first solo sexual experiences. But on many talk shows she’d also come off as an amazing human being. She loved animals, gave to all kinds of children’s charities and appeared to be a really decent human being.

      “What is Marnie Davante now, about twenty-seven, twenty-eight?” he asked.

      Maeve sighed. “Twenty-nine, but what difference does it make?”

      “I’m trying to find out about her. She has a good reputation among coworkers, right?”

      “Yes.”

      “They’re all in danger, so you say. Why are you most worried about Marnie Davante?”

      “Because,” Maeve said, “I told you, the Blood-bone-costumed guy was coming for Marnie first. Cara wanted the extra attention and pushed her way forward. Maybe the killer got mixed-up. Maybe it was supposed to have been Marnie.”

      “I’m assuming the police are already looking into it.”

      “Ah, but will they look far enough? Bryan, someone who cares, who is willing to give the murder his full attention, needs to be out there.”

      Bryan looked up at the sky.

      When he’d gone to help in the missing child case, he’d been asked for his assistance.

      Getting in on a high-profile murder case where police certainly had to be touchy, and might not want an

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