“Do we have to confirm the ghost from the crime scene was Morrow?” I ask from the living room couch, where I’m sitting next to DJ and scratching Bob’s head. “Or is context enough?”
“Nico’s intuition is right ninety-nine percent of the time—honestly, it’s kind of spooky how accurate he is.” DJ tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, making her earrings catch the light. “But we like to confirm things just to be safe, so we listen to the death echoes.”
“The what?” I ask.
“The death echoes?” She says it again, as if that clears everything up, then turns to Benji when my confused expression doesn’t change.
“When a person dies while experiencing intense emotions, those feelings can attach to their body,” Benji explains, yawning into his elbow. “We can listen to a person’s final moments using a device called the Whisper Aid.”
Of course it’s called something dramatic like the Whisper Aid. What’s next, the Boo-Detector 3000? I respect the commitment to the bit.
“We usually only get screaming,” DJ adds. “But rarely—and I meanrarely, like one in ten times—it picks up words. Names.Locations. Specific details that help us track down the entity. It’s always a long shot, but when it works, it’s incredible. Like this one time we got an entireaddressfrom a victim in Delaware and were able to save the three other women still caged in the guy’s basement before he could kill them.”
“The guy gave his victim the address before killing her?” It’s a weird way to taunt someone.
“Actually, she found the address herself,” Benji says. “Becky was resourceful. She acted submissive, following every one of Hayden Radke’s instructions until he realized she could be useful. Entities can struggle with fine motor skills. Radke did, more than most. He gave her tasks he couldn’t do well himself, like pulling the tab on a tin of dog food. Or replacing the battery in his car keys.”
“Opening his mail?” I ask, guessing where this is going.
“Entities aren’t usually good at remembering to pay bills, but Radke ordered packages regularly,” Benji says. “There was no need for him to raise suspicion at the store when he could get anything he needed delivered to his door.”
“Did he catch Becky telling the other women the address?” I ask. The death echo must have been Becky’s voice, not Radke taunting her like I thought.
“He caught her calling for help.” Nico has appeared in the doorway, folder tucked under one arm, holding a steaming mug of tea.
How long has he been lingering there?
He hands the mug to Donny and stands at the head of the room next to the TV. He looks my way, ignoring Bob’s growl. “Radke needed help with his phone and left it with Becky, knowing there was no cell service in the basement. Radke died decades ago. Before smartphones existed. He taught himself a lot as an entity, but he didn’t know you can still make emergency calls without service until he returned to the basement andfound Becky on the phone with 911, repeating her location over and over.”
A chill runs down my spine.
“He killed her then,” Nico says. “Probably would have killed the others, too, but he realized the operator couldn’t hear anything. Ectoplasm had ruined the microphone. If the cops had been competent, they’d have followed up. Found those women. We found them instead.”
“That’s awful,” I say, dumbfounded.
“It is,” Nico agrees. “Radke’s interviews have proven useful, at least.” He gives me a pointed look.
I scratch Bob behind his ear, and he angles his neck into my fingers. “Are you going to do this death echo thing to the men who were found in the dumpster?”
“If they were forced to participate in trials, there’s a high probability the entity left specific instructions before they died,” DJ says. “Rules for the trial, maybe? Or threats about what would happen if they didn’t comply.”
Griffin stretches his arms over his head, his chair creaking under his weight. “Who’s making the morgue run?”
“I’ll go,” DJ volunteers, bouncing slightly in her chair. “And before anyone even thinks about suggesting it, no, I’m not taking Griffin.”
Griffin throws his hands up. “Why not?”
“Because youalwaysget into trouble, and I’m tired of cleaning up your messes.” DJ turns to face him, her ponytail swishing with the movement.
“Name one time I got into trouble.”
“Remember the library thing? Or the bar four days ago? What about that time you got us kicked out of a museum gift shop?”
“First of all, the library thing wasn’t my fault—how was I supposed to know she was married? Second, as we alreadytalked about, those guys at the bar started it, and third, that cashier was on a power trip.”
“You tried to buy a postcard with a twenty and then asked the cashier if she wanted to ‘discuss your change over dinner’—”
Donny clears his throat, and DJ immediately goes quiet.
