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“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Yeah, so then who slammed the door?”
“Bess,” he said, as though this were the logical conclusion for anyone to make.
“Who the heck is this Bess?” Isobel’s arms went up and landed at her sides in an exasperated flop. She hadn’t even met Bess, and already she was starting to despise her.
“The poltergeist.”
“The what?”
“Pol-ter-geist,” he said again, enunciating each syllable.
“You mean, like what?” Isobel scoffed. “A ghost?”
“Sort of.”
“You’re serious.”
His eyes lifted from the table to fix on her—seriously.
“Whatever,” she said, brushing off a patch of gray grit she’d spotted on the front of her jeans, dust that she’d probably picked up from those grimy stairs. It was evident that he was just trying to weird her out again. Probably.
Isobel ignored the goose bumps that prickled all the way up the back of her neck, like tiny spiders with electric legs. “So we’re working up here? I don’t get it. How do you know that guy?”
“Bruce owns the ice cream shop.”
“He’s your boss?”
“More or less,” he said, and scribbled something onto his notepad.
“I was kind of wondering why you were there all by yourself,” she said, using her dad’s probing trick, trying to make it sound more like a casual observation than prying.
“Yeah, well, he’s short on help. And speaking of that, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention anything to him about . . . what happened.” He didn’t look up at her, just kept writing, his pen moving in slow, careful strokes.
“Why? Would you get fired?”
“No. He’s just got enough to worry about.”
“Do you work here, too?” she asked, looking around. She shed her backpack and let it drop to the floor. Then she took a seat in the chair across from his.
“Not really,” he said.
“So what, you just hang out here? With Bruce? And Bess?” she added, trying not to smile.
“Did you read?” he asked.
She paused. Oh, yeah. The reading.
For the first time since she’d written them down, Isobel thought back to the list of titles he’d given her. So much had gotten in the way between then and now. She grimaced. “Mm.
About that . . .”
He sighed. A soft sound, like a dying breath.
“Well, have you read them?” she asked.
“Multiple times.”
