I’m turning to leave when his voice stops me.
“I’m Nico.”
I turn back around, and there’s this moment where we’re just looking at each other, and I hope my face isn’t turning as red as it feels it is.
“Just Nico?” I ask.
“I’ve got a last name,” he says. “But to you, it’s just Nico.”
Okay… is it weird for him not to give me a last name, or is it weird for me to ask what his is? I think I’m overthinking it. “I’m Eden.”
“Just Eden?”
“To you.” I nod toward my car, where Bob is pressing his entire body against the window like he’s trying to phase through the glass to get to me. “That’s Bob.”
“I wasn’t expecting such a big personality to have such a normal name.”
“His previous owner called him Shithead.”
He crinkles his nose. “That’s creative.”
“Oh yeah, the asshole was a real prize. He used to hit Bob for barking too much. One day I saw Bob shivering alone outside in the rain, so I stole him. I’ve had him for a year.”
Nico looks over at Bob, and something in his expression softens. “He’s brave for such a small dog.”
I know he’s complimenting my dog, but Bob doesn’t get many compliments, so I feel my smile growing. “Yeah, well, sometimes the smallest things fight the hardest.”
Nico’s gaze comes back to me, and he gives me a real smile that gathers at the corners of his eyes. “I can see that.”
So much heat floods into my face that I must turn the color of a stop sign. I’m standing here, gaping at him like a complete moron, when a gravelly voice cuts through the morning air:
“I’ll be damned. Is that Eden Callahan?”
CHAPTER 4
I spin around so fast I almost lose my balance, to find the old man from last night standing behind me.
He’s holding two takeout coffee cups and is wearing a puffer coat with a green scarf looped once around his neck. Without those big brass goggles covering half his face, I can see the wrinkles and age spots on his brown skin. Using his wrist, he pushes his wire-rimmed glasses higher up his nose.
“How do you know my name?” I ask, stepping away from him. “Who are you?”
“Donald D. Dellman.” His voice is rumbling and so deep, one of those voices that makes you calm just listening to it. He extends one cup toward me. “Can I offer you a coffee?”
I want to take the coffee—I sure need it—but I can’t bring myself to reach for it. I can’t bring myself to move at all, actually. Strangers who know my name always want something from me, and it’s never anything good. Journalists. Crime podcasters.
Donald—Donny—lowers the cup. “I recognized you last night, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen your face. Then it clicked this morning. You’re the Girl Who Played Dead.”
I glance at Nico, and he’s staring at me with a small crease between his brows, like all the pieces just connected for him, too.
I hate that people can just look at me and know every detail about the worst thing that ever happened to me, that it’s something people can Google over their morning coffee.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your family,” Donny says. “It’s exceptionally rare for people to see spirits, but it’s no surprise you can, considering what you’ve lived through. But if I recall, you didn’t die that night. You survived by jumping out of a window, is that right?”
I nod.
He presses his lips together, and there’s genuine sympathy on his face as he must realize my near-death experience happened after the murders. “That’s a lot of trauma for one person to carry.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “It’s lucky I go to the gym.”
