I still had money in the bank. But it filtered through an hourglass at a concerning speed.
“Got it,” Esther said with a sigh, hinting she was relieved not to have to carry the responsibility of the updateanymore. “So, when are you meeting the woman of the hour?”
“After her speech.” There was no use in worrying my brother or her about the “maybe” of it all. I’d figure out a way, even if it came to sneaking backstage and begging the woman to talk to me. I hadn’t cried in years, but perhaps I could force out a tear or two for effect. If I thought about the mounting loan bills waiting for me at home, the waterworks would probably overflow.
The line of people started cheering, tearing my focus away from deciding if I should brush away my tears while putting on a show or leave them on my cheeks for a more rounded performance. What would Jones do? Another thing to ask.
A few yards ahead of me were the esteemed guests. I glimpsed their faces as they squeezed through the rustling crowd.
“She’s here.” I stood on my tiptoes in time to see a waft of bone-straight black hair flowing behind a door that led into the conference room.
“That’s why they’re chanting?” A low, impressed whistle escaped her lips. “I didn’t realize they gave paranormal investigators the pop star treatment.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I mumbled. The people in the line hugged plushies of mini Rae Jones. Some had temporary tattoos of cartoon versions of her face. Others clutched posters from a photoshoot where she appeared as a vampire slayer holding a bloody wooden stake.
I tilted my head, trying to get a better look at the poster, impressed by how incredible the skin-tight black-and-green ensemble looked against her deep brown skin.
“She’s stunning,” Esther said in a low voice. She musthave flipped to the back of the book to look at the author’s photo.
“She’s a scam artist with an ego problem.” I tore my gaze away from the curve of Rae’s waist. Only the incredibly self-absorbed would encourage this brand of fanfare.
“How do you know that?”
“A sixth sense.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in that kind of thing? None of these kinds of things.”
“Figure of speech,” I promised.
“Is the footage on your camcorder also a figure of speech?”
I frowned and rubbed the heel of my hand in the middle of my forehead. “Esther…”
I had some working theories on why sometimes doors locked after one of us went into a room by ourselves. Or why we thought we kept seeing someone in the corner of our eyes when no one was around.
Mold poisoning was my top contender. It’d explain the hallucinations. Not so much the doors locking. That sounded more like a physics problem that Wilson should focus on.
But the recording disproved my theory in three minutes. No amount of mold poisoning explained why something had moved around in my room while I slept. Poisoning couldn’t explain away the shadows on the wall…at least, not yet. Because as soon as I’d gotten enough rest to think straight, I’d examine the footage again and prove it was only the wind or the house shifting.
“Just wondering,” Esther muttered.
I peeked into my swag bag, spotting a Rae Jones yo-yo and a pack of her ghost hunter mints.
She had a mint line.
For budget reasons, I had to wait two weeks to get more tools for my stable renovation project. And she had a mint line.
Someone put me out of my misery.
“Try to compliment her when you’re pitching the ranch,” Esther suggested. “And make it sound real and not like…you know, you.”
“Me?” My forehead wrinkled. “What does that mean?”
“You hit the bull’s-eye every time, but sometimes you’ve got to dance around it.”
“Huh?”
“People don’t like playing with people who always hit the bull’s-eye. What’s the point?”
