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“Tristan,” Dylan said.

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Sure. Let’s get this over with. What does the son of a bitch want to know?”

“He says okay,” I said.

“Why is he here?” Dylan asked.

“That’s what you want to know?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“He wants to know who killed him,” I said to Dylan, without waiting for Tristan to answer.

“Why didn’t you tell me that this morning?”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “It slipped my mind. Dylan, please, this is really awkward for me. He’s standing beside us and—”

Tristan cocked his head to one side.

“And what, Emily?” Tristan said, interrupting me, his head cocked to one side.

I ignored him, wishing he would back off a couple of paces.

“Why can’t I see him?” Dylan asked.

I glanced at Tristan, my eyebrows raised in a question.

“Fuck knows, Emily. I’m still blown away that you can see me.”

“He doesn’t know,” I said. “He’s still amazed that I can see him.”

Dylan ran his hand through his hair just as Tristan repeated the gesture. I glanced from one to the other, and I couldn’t help my smile.

“What?” Dylan queried.

“You both have a nervous habit of running your hands through your hair. You’ve just done it in unison.” I giggled, and the corners of Dylan’s mouth rose. Tristan scowled at me.

“Oh, come on, Tristan, it’s funny,” I cajoled him.

“Funny for you,” he said, but I could see he was trying to suppress a smile.

“Sense of humor bypass?” Dylan asked.

“Definitely,” I agreed.

“Excuse me, I have a very good sense of humor,” Tristan snapped.

“Well, maybe now is the time to use it.” I smiled sweetly.

“Patronizing little thing, aren’t you?”

“I’d be much more comfortable if we were having this discussion in the kitchen rather than your bedroom,” Dylan said and reached over to clasp my arm.

I bit my lip, not wanting to leave.

“Melina’s cleaning my room. This one will be next,” he continued.

Oh, yes. The cleaner!