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Sometimes, multiple times in one week.
In my defense, it had been a fuck of a week.
As Raj argued with the homeowner—who didnotwant us searching their property—I called Ward.
“Good afternoon, Hart,” he answered, pleasant as almost-always.
“Sabrina Estevez. Please tell me you can’t find her.”
Usually, he gives me crap about not being polite on the phone. Maybe it was because of our run-in with Faith Oldham or maybe he could just hear it in my voice, but he didn’t say a damn thing.
At least not until he said, “I’m sorry, Hart.”
“Fuck!” That had probably gotten the attention of both Raj and the estate owner—or the butler or whoever the fuck had answered the door. I didn’t care.
Okay, yes, I very muchdidcare, but not about what either Raj or the guy at the door thought about me, the apparently dead woman, or anybody else right about now. I cared that we’d failed to stop Shelby from delivering another Arcanid to her death, presumably somewhere on this fucking estate.
Then Ward spoke again. “I—Hart, I can send Sylvia to show you.”
I paused. “You canwhat?”
“We’ve been working on it—Sylvia staying visible at a distance. She thinks she can manage it for a little while. She’ll come with Sabrina and show you where they killed her.”
I paused. “If that fucking works, I’ll bake you cookies for a week.”
I could almost hear his smug little grin. “I like chocolate and marshmallows.”
“You pull this off, and consider it done, you crazy fucker.”
He did let out a little laugh at that. “Sorry. Okay. Sylvia can find you, and she’ll bring Sabrina with her. Do you know you’re in the right place?”
I was pretty sure. “Eighty-five percent,” I answered.
“Okay. Well, she’ll tell you if not. I don’t think Sylvia will be able tospeakto you, but you’ll figure it out.”
A couple seconds passed, my elbow went cold, and I jumped. “Fuck!” Then I sucked in a sharp breath, since the reason my elbow had gone cold was because it had just been touched by the Victorian dead woman creepily hovering a few inches above the blacktop of the estate’s driveway. I’d seen her before, but even still, ghosts are fucking disturbing. And Sylvia Randolph looked like exactly what you’d expect an older Victorian Lady to look like—her hair done up, a high-collared dress to the floor, a lot of lace and buttons. And a sardonic twist of the lips that told me she didn’t take shit from anybody, including me.
“Shit. Lady Randolph.” I cleared my throat, ignoring Ward laughing over the phone. “It’s… lovely to see you, unfortunate circumstances aside.”
She inclined her head, that slightly mocking smile on her lips. Then she gestured towards a small manicured path leading into what looked like a garden.
“That way? Are we mostly in the right place?”
She nodded.
“Hart?” This was Ward. “If you don’t need anything else…?”
“Nope, you’ve delivered, as usual.” I almost hung up, then reminded myself to be less of a dick. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He sounded surprised, and that made me feel like a jerk again, but I hung up anyway, turning my attention back to the ghost.
“Can you… hang on a sec?” I asked her. “Raj—Agent Parikh should really join us.” I gestured in his direction, and the ghostly woman turned, then nodded, lacing her fingers together in front of her. “I’ll be right back,” I told her.
“Um. Agent Parikh,” I interrupted his argument with the man at the door, who looked up close as though he was probably the home’s owner. He was probably a decade or two older than me, with thick silver hair and a pinched expression over a royal blue silk mask.
“Excuse me, who are you?” he demanded.
I flashed my badge, not at all in the mood to deal with his bullshit. “Special Homicide Detective Hart. There’s a dead woman over there who is going to show us where the murder happened, which means we don’t actually need your permission, Mr…?”
