Page 148 of Dead Vengeance

forty-one

Backup

Archer

Marsden’s already sat back down at his desk. His hand freezes halfway to his keyboard when he realises I’m still here. “Forgot something?”

“This thing with Liam,” I begin, leaning back against the locked door. “He hasn’t told you all the details. There’s some pertinent information you need to know.”

The smirk grows a little wider. “Do you have something to add, Mr…?”

“He doesn’t want to tell you himself, but Liam’s very… haunted.”

“Haunted?”

“Yes. Haunted.”

He tries to put on some show of sympathy, professionalism, but fails entirely. “Missing cases can be hard on everyone. It’s no wonder he’s feeling—”

“No, no,” I cut in. “He is, quite literally, haunted.”

Marsden threads his fingers together, leaning forward on his elbows. “I wonder if you know what the word ‘literally’ means.”

I can’t hide my own smile at his ignorance. “Very literally haunted. It’s his brother, you see.”

He takes in a deep breath, as if he’s being oh-so-patient with me and my poor grasp of the English language. So I talk on, trying to illuminate the matter for him. “He’s angry. And he’s out for vengeance. And he’s not going to stop haunting Liam until you fix this.”

Finally, it clicks, and his tone manages to become even more contemptuous. “You’re talking about an actual ghost?”

“Correct. An actual, literal ghost.”

“Right. Well, if you go back to the reception area, Phil can take a report down from you about your ghost problem.” His hands drop down onto the desk to push himself up, but before he can rise a full inch, his body slams into the seat, the chair’s wheels rolling back several inches with the violence of the blow.

He looks around in complete fear, shock stealing the words from him. Then his hands dig into the arms of his chair. He tries again, bouncing from the violent force that shoves him back down.

His eyes land on me.

“You see the issue?” I ask calmly. “It’s not just Liam’s ghost problem. Now it’s yours too.”

The lights flicker overhead, then cut. The entire office outside erupts into loud whines about shitty London electricity, lack of resources, all the hubbub drowning out whatever’s about to happen in here.

I make my move, leaning over him as menacingly as I can manage. “Tell me where the body is.”

“There is no b—” The sound is instantly muffled. It’s fascinating to witness. I can see his lips and jaw trying to work through the invisible hand that presses over his mouth. Then the way his shirt collar folds inward—the constriction of his neck.

“Jem Locke, that’s his name,” I provide. “And he’s going to kill you, right here, right now, unless you tell me where you put his body.”

The huffs and groans morph into words when the ghostly hand releases his lips. “How are you doing this? What are—” And back to the suppressed garble.

“You can see the lights are out. Electricity is off. The cameras are not working. Nothing that happens now will be recorded.”

An outraged grunt rips out of him.

“Shhhhh,” I whisper. “I’m trying to help you. This isn’t my doing. You have wronged a dead man, and now he’s come for vengeance. I’m but a conduit, speaking for him, explaining to you the only way you’re going to survive this.”

His eyelids peel wide, like a cuckoo clock opening on the hour.

“Oh, yes. He does want to kill you. Ghosts are like that sometimes. But if you tell me where to find that body, right now, he might let you live.”