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Webster paled. And for the first time since he’d saved me, Tristan turned to face me. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

Tristan’s face darkened. He turned to face Webster once more, and Webster levitated off the floor and was slammed against the wall.

Webster bellowed with frustration and fear. “What the fuck!”

“Tristan!” I shouted.

“Get off!” Webster screamed.

“I’m not touching you, slimeball,” Tristan hissed with glee.

“Don’t you get it, you stupid fool?” I said. “You’re being held captive by a ghost. The ghost of the man you murdered. He’s been waiting for your return, and he has nothing to lose.”

Webster gasped.

“Yes. Time to pay attention!” I was warming to my role as interrogator.

“Ask him why he’s here,” Tristan said through gritted teeth.

“Why are you here?”

Webster gave me a mulish look and said nothing. His head bounced off the wall—twice, harder than last time.

“Fuckin’ hell!” he screeched, and he wrapped his arms around his head for protection.

“Tell us why you’re here.”

“I’ve come to get what’s mine,” he sneered.

“Where is it?”

Tristan disappeared and reappeared a moment later. “It’s in the fireplace. A shoebox. Full of money,” he said.

“Money?”

“Yes. From dealing drugs,” Tristan hissed with another venomous look at Webster.

“Drugs?” I squeaked.

“Yes. He was siphoning money from each deal on the sly and stashing the cash.”

I turned to Webster. “You were stealing cash from your drug deals?”

“What the fuck?” Webster said in astonishment and tried to get to his feet.

“Don’t fucking move!” Tristan yelled, and Webster, pinned against the wall, roared with frustrated fury.

“We need to retrieve the box,” Tristan said.

“From the fireplace?”

“I don’t think the son of a bitch has touched the fireplace.”

Dylan!

“Tristan, is Dylan here? Is he okay?”