“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” said Tariq.
“I don’t. But I believe in history.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Tariq asked, an edge to his voice.
“Nothing, really. Anyway, it sounds like Asher took it too far, but in a way it’s sweet, how protective he was of his sister. Still is, apparently, worrying about her reputation. By the way, you didn’t mention you had one of her paintings.”
Tariq finished off his drink. “It was a parting gift fromDelilah. Probably so I would think of her every time I’m in my apartment.”
“And do you?”
“Nope. But maybe because it’s been sitting in the back of my closet.” He shrugged. “Ready to go? I’ll take you back to your place, check things out. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Any ghosts dancing on the lawn.”
Part of her felt silly, but Harper was grateful when Tariq checked behind the shower curtain and in the closet. Just in case.
“I could stay the night, if you’d like,” he offered. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t have a couch.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “On the floor, then. I’m an old-school camper, remember? My old hunting days. Or, you could come stay the night at my place. I have a couch, like a normal person.”
“Well, you know me, I’ve never aspired to be normal.”
“No, not normal at all,” Tariq said with a sweet smile. He reached up and pushed a lock of hair off her cheek. Their gaze held for a long moment.
“Thank you, Tariq. But I’ll be fine. Really. I have pepper spray, remember? With a clever ninja carrying case, even.”
“All right,” he said with a quick nod. “Sleep well, and try not to sleepwalk.”
He paused, and for a moment she wondered if he might kiss her. But then he gave her a wink and said, “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”
He swiftly descended the stairs. Harper stood in her doorway and watched as he strode across the lawn, the light from the streetlamp illuminating his near-black hair and broad shoulders. Tariq certainly had grown up since graduate school.
But as he climbed into his car, she glanced into the darkness of the trees and saw a pair of glowing eyes. Again. Although it was a warm night, a shiver went up her spine before she turned away, firmly locking the door behind her.
Harper dreamed that she was in Boston, in 1861. She watched as a man dug in a cemetery in the dead of night, the blackness settling on his shoulders like a damp shroud. As if she could read his mind, his thoughts came to her:
It was always the darkest before the dawn, as his parents were wont to say. Until they died, writhing in their beds. Dawn never came for them. But his dear sister lived, still. How he yearned to see her face. Her eyes. She was the one he was doing this for. She was everything.
Thunk.
The shovel struck wood.
He smiled. His labored breath hung in clouds in front of him, the scent of his own sweat mingled with the briny air.
Happily, this was a recent burial. Not only was the earth already disturbed, making the digging easier and less noticeable, but the corpse was less likely to fall apart while being extricated, sloughing off skin and muscle in a horrifying puddle and making the body less useful.
“At least he’s not a stinker, this one,” whispered his helper,Ephraim. Ephraim had a real chip on his shoulder when it came to the “rich Harvard boys,” but he was paid twenty-five for each cadaver he supplied to the medical school. A handsome sum for a night’s work.
“What d’ya suppose that means, then?” Ephraim asked, gesturing to an inscription on the marble headstone:
“The wind is my breath,
the darkness my soul,
