Page 10

Nate sighed, and then he closed the notebook, dropped it on the bedspread, and unwrapped his sandwich.

Turkey and Swiss. It tasted like the plastic it had been sealed in.

Nate barely ate half of it before he grabbed his phone and looked at the house’s listing again. One of his subscribers had sent it to him a week ago. The photos were years old and overly flattering. Someone had shot the foyer in golden hour light, and the staircase looked like it belonged in a period drama instead of a money pit.

Nate could picture the ghost gliding down the steps with a smug smile.

He could imagine the chill that would go through the room, the air pressure changing. Even Sandra had been able to feel this ghost; he was strong.

The door had only moved three inches, sure. But a warped track on a hundred-year-old pocket door didn’t prove anything. What it proved was that the ghost had tried, which meant he was willing to escalate.

Eventually someone would buy the house.

Some family with more optimism than sense would fall for the woodwork and the afternoon light, and they’d move in.

And maybe they’d do something to trigger the ghost enough to become dangerous for real.

But that wasn’t Nate’s problem.

He should put his phone down and get ready for bed.

Pretend he’d never seen anything in that house today.

He couldn’t. As much as he would have loved to be the uncaring, irresponsible bastard Uncle Richard accused him of being…

He scrolled through his contacts.

Should he contact Mom?

No.

He kept scrolling. Jonah. His older brother. That was the safer bet. Jonah wouldn’t make it a whole thing.

Nate’s thumb hovered. He could send a text. Hey, saw a property today. There’s a pretty strong haunting, someone should probably take care of it before the realtor gets a family killed. Here’s the address.

Jonah would pass it along. Mom would assign someone. The family had people for this — it was literally what they did. Nate could hand it off, drive home in the morning, and never think about the house again.

Except.

Jonah’s gift was mild. He could perceive ghosts, but just barely. Some audio, no visual. He couldn’t clear a haunting on his best day. And Mom… Mom was strong, but she was also… well… The ghost Nate had seen today wouldn’t be receptive to gentle coaxing toward the light.

Mom would struggle. She might even fail, and then she’d call Nate anyway, except by then it would be a whole family production with opinions and disappointment and someone inevitably saying this is why we needed you.

He could skip all of that by going back tonight.

Not because he was a medium. He wasn’t, not anymore. He’d walked away from the gift, the calling, the whole righteous framework, and built something with his hands instead.

But he was still someone with a conscience.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

Ten forty-seven.

Late enough that no one would see him pull up to a house he had no business being at.

He grabbed his jacket.

The house was quiet again. Just the way it should be.