“So, they’re not just a fashion choice?”
“They do make quite a statement, don’t they?”
He angles a framed photo on his desk so I can see it. It’s of Donny and Nico, smiling at the camera with one arm around each other, brass goggles pushed up on their foreheads. Nico’s smile reaches ear-to-ear.
“Is…” I swallow hard. “Is there a big salt circle protecting the house, or something?”
“Among other things, yes. There’s a salt line buried underground,forming a perimeter around the house, and I have installed iron sheeting in the walls.” Donny taps his knuckle against the wall behind his desk. Instead of a hollow thud, it produces a metallic echo.“I’ve modified this house to be safe from all unwanted visitors.”
I stare at the wallpaper, trying to picture sheets of metal hiding behind those faded flowers. “That must have cost a fortune.”
“Worth every penny for peace of mind,” he says. “The iron fence you saw keeps most curious spirits at bay.”
I frown, because I’m struggling to figure out how a fence could keep a ghost out. Couldn’t a ghost float over it?
“Plus regular security cameras in case any threats of the normal variety decide to visit,” Donny continues. “If anything crosses the perimeter, an alarm will sound. We’ve even got protective sigils carved into the beams throughout the house.”
I was following everything until the last part. “Sigils?”
“Certain symbols help repel spirits,” Donny explains. “It may sound far-fetched, but collective belief can imbue the sigils with energy.”
“But just because you believe something doesn’t make it true,” I say. “I can believe I’m invisible all I want, but people will still see me sitting here.”
“Ah, but what if millions of people across centuries all believed the same thing?” Donny’s eyes light up behind his glasses. “Faith, ritual, superstition—they all carry weight in the supernatural realm. These symbols have been used for protection for thousands of years. Collective human consciousness creates a kind of energetic fingerprint, and since entities are emotional constructs, they respond to that energy.”
I chew on that. On the one hand, it sounds insane, but forty-eight hours ago, I didn’t think ghosts were real, and now I’m standing in a house wrapped in iron, talking about sigils with some old guy I met in a parking lot.
“The human mind is capable of remarkable things when focused with intention. Sigils are tools to channel that focus.” He pauses, studying my face. “I know you haven’t felt safe in a long time, Eden, but you’re safe here.”
He sounds sincere, but I’ve been wrong about people before. All the foster parents I lived with acted like real professionals when I first met them, but so many of them changed once I was under their roof.
My mind flicks to Ray, who may be the only person in my life who cares about me, and the only person whose opinion I’d trust on this situation. But I couldn’t admit to him that I was living in my car. How could I tell him any of this?
I’ll have to trust my gut telling me Donny genuinely wants to help. But I’ll stay on guard.
My eyelids grow heavy. I take a big swig of coffee, hoping my body will remember that it’s not, in fact, nap time.
Donny settles back in his chair with careful movements that suggest his bones aren’t what they used to be. “This was thehouse I grew up in. I lived in Quantico for most of my adult life, but when I left the Bureau, I came home.”
Bureau. “As in, FBI?”
“I spent thirty-two years profiling killers for them.” He takes a sip from his mug, wincing as he swallows. “That’s why I recognized you. I consulted on your family’s case.”
My stomach pitches so painfully that I’m scared I might spew any remaining ectoplasm across Donny’s desk. If he saw through me so easily, did he do the same with Stanley Daniels? Does he know what makes Stanley Daniels tick?
I can feel that dangerous prickle behind my eyes, so I take another sip of coffee, letting the burn down my throat give me something else to focus on besides the ache that never goes away. “Did you always know ghosts were real?” I ask.
“I always believed they were,” Donny says. “But I only sensed them after I died. I was shot in the field.” Donny touches his chest, like the memory still aches. “I died on the operating table. They brought me back after two minutes.”
I wonder if he saw the same things I did—that nothingness that wasn’t quite empty, the feeling of being pulled toward something you couldn’t see but knew was waiting.
“Part of my job was interviewing convicted criminals in prison,” Donny says. “I noticed patterns. Every once in a while, someone would come in who acted just as afraid of the crimes they’d committed as a victim would be. They’d describe a separate entity inside them compelling them to kill, as though they were being guided by something out of their control.” He pauses. “After my near-death experience, I started seeing spirits, as well as things like ectoplasm at crime scenes only I could see.I was reminded of this idea of entities and began to wonder, what if it were true?” He lets out a gentle laugh. “You can imagine what happened when I presented my suspicions to my superiors.”
“They thought you’d lost your mind?”
“I was encouraged to take early retirement.”
I bet.
