Page 13 of Love at First Fright

My jaw ached from clenching it.

“So doesn’t the shit pay bother you?” I asked, sharply.

Brad shrugged, that same easy confidence radiating off him like cheap cologne. “Nah, mate. It’s not about the money for me. I like the perks.”

“Perks.” I stared at him. “What perks?”

“I’m out here exploring the world, yeah? Getting to see places most people never do. Historic manors, ancient castles, proper old buildings with character.” He patted the dashboard affectionately. “Plus I’ve scored this company car because I’ve been with ExorSquad for an entire year now. Employee of the month three times running.”

I looked around the interior of the Ford Focus. The upholstery had more stains than a crime scene. The passenger door handle hung at an odd angle, held on by what appeared to be gaffer tape. Through the windscreen, where the bonnet didn’t quite align properly, was that awful hand-painted ExorSquad logo. The ghost looked more melted than menacing, its features dripping down the paintwork like a Salvador Dalí nightmare. I’d bet my last tenner Gerald had done it himself in his garage one Sunday afternoon, probably drunk. This wasn’t a company car. This was a 2002 banger held together by duct tape and delusion.

“Right,” I said. “The perks.”

“And the sense of accomplishment.” Brad’s voice took on that earnest quality again. “Knowing I’m out there saving lives, yeah? Protecting families from genuine supernatural threats. You can’t put a price on that.”

I snorted before I could stop myself.

Brad’s eyes flicked to me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, go on. What’s funny?”

The words bubbled up, accumulated frustration finding its target. “Oh, come on. How long are you going to keep this up for?”

“Keep what up?”

“This.” I gestured vaguely at everything—the car, him, the road ahead. “This whole act. I know this company is a joke. A con. Gerald’s taking money from desperate people, probably faking evidence, and paying us pennies to play along with his ghost-busting fantasy.”

Brad stared straight ahead, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“Gerald warned me you were a non-believer.”

“Of course I don’t believe in ghosts.” I let out a forced, hollow laugh. “Why would I believe in something there’s no scientific proof of? Show me empirical evidence. Peer-reviewed studies. Anything that isn’t blurry photographs and creaky floorboards.”

“Sometimes you don’t need scientific proof. Sometimes you just need to experience it.”

The car fell silent except for the rumble of the engine and the whisper of tyres on tarmac. Brad’s jaw worked like he was chewing over more words, but he didn’t say anything.

I turned back to the window, but the countryside had lost whatever meagre appeal it had held earlier. Now it just looked grey. Empty.

Emily’s face floated up in my memory, younger, rounder with teenage softness. She’d been thirteen when Dad died. For months afterwards, she insisted she kept seeing glimpses of him around the house. Could hear him moving in the hallway at night. Could smell his aftershave in the living room.

Mum had cried every time Emily brought it up.

I’d pulled my sister aside one evening, cornered her in her bedroom. Told her she needed to stop. That she was making things worse. That grief did funny things to people’s heads, made them see patterns where there weren’t any, hear sounds that had simple explanations.

That Dad was gone. Really gone. And pretending otherwise was only hurting everyone.

She’d stared at me with those wide brown eyes—Dad’s eyes—and nodded.

She’d stopped after that. Thankfully.

Obviously, she hadn’t been trying to upset us. It had just been her coping mechanism. Kids did that sort of thing. Made up stories to make the unbearable bearable. I understood that, even then. But Mum had been falling apart, and someone had to keep things together.

The M4 eventually gave way to smaller roads. A-roads became B-roads, which became narrow country lanes barely deserving the designation. Hedgerows pressed in on both sides, branches scraping against the Focus like fingernails on chalkboard.

After we almost slammed straight into a tractor, Brad remained hunched over the steering wheel, navigating the twisting route with actual concentration. Good. At least he’d stopped talking.