Page 27 of How I Met Your Murderer

Eric was dead. Eric was a ball of energy who often looked real enough to trick my brain into thinking otherwise, and that’s where things had gotten complicated. He sounded so warm and convincing when he said that he wanted to protect me from suffering a fate like his own. And when I was at my lowest, worn thin, he always lifted me back up—which was why I had agreed to go watch the stars with him that first night, and every night since.

After that, well . . . he was always running his mouth, but there was something about it that kept me coming back for more. It soothed something in me, the way he would delve into one of his passions and tell me about it in detail, like he really wanted me to share it. Of course, I still couldn’t bring myself to admit that I’d been wanking to a dead man’s videos, so every time he mentioned The Shattered Crown, I’d turn scarlet. He must think I was hot for roleplaying and dice by now, which wasn’t entirely wrong—as long as it involved him.

It was easy, on those late nights when we sat out on the balcony, to focus on nothing but him, like we were the only two souls in the castle. Or off in our own little world, one he had created for us with that endless imagination of his.

I didn’t understand it yet, why he listened closely to all my stories the way he did. Why he wanted to know all about me and my gran’s ghost tales and hurling and my friends. What he could possibly see in me that made him look twice, let alone as often as he did.

I was a loser with a job no one else wanted and a van for a house, not to mention no real dating experience, and he was so much more than that. Smart. Funny. Awful gorgeous. Caring. He had money, he had ambitions, he was going places—or he would have been. I had to imagine that, if he were alive, he could’ve done a whole lot better than spend his nights with the likes of me. He was just settling because I was the only lad who didn’t run screaming when a disembodied voice whispered in his ear.

But I would take what was being offered all the same, because our conversations were some of the best I’d had in years. I never held back my thoughts with him (except about the wanking), because there wasn’t any need. The grave keeps its secrets, as they say. I could just be myself and ramble about sports or the sprawling garden I wanted to plant someday or the latest song I had on repeat. Or sometimes, even, the things that really scared me—not a poltergeist grabbing me by the collar, but losing my gran or someone else I cared about, or letting my community down, or living the kind of life that’s easily forgotten.

Eric was dead, but he had also quickly become my friend. And not just because he was the most helpful person I’d ever met on the job. He also made me laugh. He surprised me often. He made bad days better just by sitting with me for some tea and perspective. And he was always pointing out things I did right, too, and reminding me of the good when I couldn’t see it. Hell, even though I knew it was a joke, I really felt like somebody when he came up with a nickname for me. He really could always find the bright side.

And between my stubborn determination to succeed at this job and Eric’s quick wit, we made a great team.

At least until last night, in the parlor. I hadn’t meant for Eric to see that I was on a dating app—not that it mattered at all, because Eric was dead—but then he’d gone and matched me with my ex. He couldn’t have known who Ronan was, but what had he been thinking, anyway? Why try to pair me up with anyone? So he could be rid of me sooner? He didn’t act like he wanted me gone. But the most confusing part was that, in those brief moments before the candle wick had burst to light, he had seemed almost . . . jealous.

You deserve worlds better, he’d said. Galaxies. Did he mean what I thought? Did he know that for a moment, until the candle distracted me, I had believed him?

We hadn’t gotten to talk about it whatsoever thanks to that business with the candle. It was clear that Eric didn’t know what happened any more than I did, but that just showed how little he really knew the castle’s other spirits. Part of me worried that he was in as much danger as I was if he trusted them, especially if this spirit had marked me as a target and Eric was always hanging around. He would have been better off chatting up Jordy, even if that meant extra work fending off Pepper’s amorous attentions.

Maybe then I wouldn’t still be thinking about the chill of his touch on my knee, the pressure of his slender fingers. Wondering if and when he might put in the effort to touch me again. Knowing the energy he had to gather to even let me feel his touch proved . . . something. Proved that, maybe, he felt as drawn to me as I felt toward him.

Finally, it was ten o’clock—ExorSquad’s daytime business hours. I took the rest of my latte and stepped out into a breezy, overcast morning that spelled the last of September, keeping the castle within my sights as I paced outside the café and rang the London office. I was determined to get the head of operations and owner, Gerald Pickett, to answer.

The phone rang six times before the harried-sounding secretary, Ted, finally picked up. “Thank you for calling ExorSquad, where all your hauntings go to die.”

That was a grand promise, wasn’t it?

“This is Rafferty O’Meara, Ireland West Division,” I announced as I strode through the heather along the edge of a leaning wooden fence on the way into the village proper. “I need to speak with the boss.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible at the moment. Mr. Pickett is currently indisposed,” the young lad said. He was either crunching some kind of sweet or grinding his molars so hard that the speaker picked it up.

I wasn’t having it. I had met Gerald when I flew over for training. And sure, he was an odd fellow, with milky blue eyes that sometimes struck me as uncanny, but the spirit extraction business was his life. Or at least his livelihood, funding his favorite hobby—gambling. I’d caught him at it more than once during my brief time at headquarters, whether on his phone or the office computer. Cards, horses, dogs. He couldn’t go long without checking his bets, much like my granda. He even had Granda’s tobacco-stained fingers, and going by the scent, they smoked the same brand. It had made me like him instantly.

I could just picture Gerald now, snug in the enormous leather wingback chair behind his desk, surrounded by all sorts of strange artifacts that each clung to the same kind of shadows as Ardruin Castle. In my mind, his head bent over his phone as he watched a dog race streaming live from Northamptonshire, or perhaps Galway.

Well, even if Gerald did remind me of Granda, and had always been decent to me, this was urgent. I didn’t have time to make nice.

“Listen, Ted, I know he’s in his office having tea and playing Emerald Odds Casino or something, so you need to put him through now. It’s life or death here, not dropping a fiver on the dogs!”

“Right then, Mr. O’Meara. Please hold.”

I was treated to a few minutes of smooth jazz, which only stoked my temper the longer I was made to wait. I kicked a few rocks in my path as I ambled slowly toward the village center, taking my time in order to avoid putting any unnecessary pressure on my knee with how it still ached after yesterday. What could be more important than an employee in mortal danger? I wished Eric was here to say something that would all make it feel okay somehow. The next best thing was recalling his commentary on the boss when I had told him about ExorSquad.

Gerald sounds like some kind of chaotic rogue with maxed‑out charisma—for what he’s paying you, he’s clearly picking your pocket and smiling while he does it, and you let him. Sounds like he rolls with advantage on all his deception checks.

By the time Gerald came on the line, I was grinning to myself.

“Raff, my lad!” Gerald boomed in an affable, raspy voice. He seemed to think calling me lad somehow made us brothers, which was ridiculous. Yet sure enough, my temper was already fading. “Smashing to hear from you.”

Advantage on deception—right. I wasn’t going to be taken in this time. “Mr. Pickett, hi,” I said quickly, remembering the burning skull candle and the screaming faces in the flame. “Listen, I need you to send someone else to Ardruin Castle. I need a partner. There’s something going on here that wasn’t covered in training, and I could really use someone with more experience leading on this one.”

“Ah, I’m so sorry, my lad. No can do. It’s not in the budget right now—”

“Funny, you’ve always got a tenner for the bookies,” I cut in.

Shame immediately washed over me. Now I’d gone and been rude to Granda.