Not at the stairs.
At the bar.
I blinked up the chandelier, unimpressed. “Bernard, if this is about the satchels, take it up with Thorne.”
It shook itself from side to side, like it was saying, “No.”
The chandelier wiggled and pointed toward the bar again. So, I walked toward it, and that was when I saw it.
Broken barstools littered the whole area, almost as though someone had thrown each and every one against the wall. They weren’t the only things that were broken, either. From the looks of the shattered glass covering the floor, something had destroyed all the half-empty and rancid liquor bottles that had sat on the shelves.
Thorne and I certainly hadn’t left the place like this.
Could the ghosts have done this? But why? They usually saved their rebellions for when I was present. Why destroy things while I was gone?
I straightened, then drew in a deep breath, trying to pick up on any scents. But thanks to the lavender satchels, I was nose blind while inside the building.
I dropped my gaze and noticed that the trail of broken glass led like breadcrumbs toward the stairs.
Had someone broken in?
I turned back to the door and stared at it. I could have sworn I’d locked it when Thorne and I left earlier. To return home and find it unlocked, as well as this mess…the only logical conclusion was that someone had broken in and the ghosts had pelted the intruder with anything not bolted to the floor.
White-hot rage bubbled within me. This was my bar. My domain. If someone had broken in, I’d kill them—it was as simple as that. This place wasn’t much, but it was mine. And I would defend it.
The trail led to the stairs, suggesting that someone had gone upstairs.
Fine. Only one way to find out.
I returned to the stairs and placed a hand on the banister only for the pressure to return. That same invisible force as before. Pushing my shoulders, urging me back.
“I understand,” I said, tilting my chin. “An intruder came. You did your ghostly best to ward them off. They went upstairs anyway. Are they still here?”
The chandelier swung and I glanced up to find Bernard once again swaying no.
“Good. The invader is gone, which means there’s no more danger. So, how about you let me inspect the upstairs?”
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the pressure eased. Not gone, but shifted, as though the ghost now stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder.
“Thank you,” I said as I climbed the stairs.
I stepped into the loft and stopped cold.
Someone had destroyed the entire room. The old mirror that Thorne had taken great care to clean now lay in a shattered pile, its glass scattered across the floor like shrapnel. They’d dumped out my suitcase and slashed all my clothes, including the few blouses I’d hung in the closet. My boots, my coat, my two pairs of jeans—all shredded. Then there was the desk, which now lay in a cluttered heap of drywood.
Last came my mattress. And the sight of what greeted me nearly brought me to my knees. Not only had the intruder knifed it right down the middle, exposing the coiled springs and padding, but they’d also left me a present on top. The watch my mother had given me. Destroyed. They’d smashed the clock face and sliced the leather strap clean through.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
I didn’t care about the mirror, the clothes, the mattress. But the watch? I cared about that. My mother had gifted it to me for my bicentennial. It had sentimental meaning in my life. And I had such few possessions left that this one hurt. It was the last scrap of my former life. A symbol of who I’d been, the one item I’d been able to hold on to after we lost everything.
And now it was gone too.
I walked to the mattress, crouched, and picked up the broken watch.
