Not Quite Mine Read online

  Daria rolls her eyes. “Of course he’s dead, but that doesn’t mean he can’t bite people. Now—”

  The fact that she’s about to tell the whole coffee shop that she sees ghosts, hunts them even, propels me into action. Which is dumb, considering everyone in here already thinks the same thing about me, but still…no need to parade our crazy right out where everyone can see.

  “Daria!” I call, skirting tables and moving quickly to her side. “What are you doing here?”

  Everyone already knows we’re friends so there’s no point in pretending on that front. Not that I could have, since she must be in Heron Creek looking for me. Again.

  She spins around, jabbing her right foot out like she’s kicking, well, a dog, and waves. “Hey, Graciela. I came looking for you but the library ain’t open yet.”

  “Yeah, I’m on my way there.” I pause at the counter, thankful that Daria’s antics had distracted people from forming a line, and ordered Amelia’s tea and my coffee to go, then sidle over to my newest friend. “What’s up?”

  I try and fail to stop staring at the floor in search of Mrs. Blount’s dead hound dog. I don’t see anything, but it wouldn’t be the first time the two of us have been in the same room but see and hear different things.

  “I wanted to cash in that favor you owe me,” Daria says to me.

  Please hurry up with those drinks, I think toward Belle silently. She’s going to say something about demons or ghost-hunting and the whole town will be exaggerating the story before lunch in a geriatric version of telephone. By dinner people will hear we both sacrifice babies to Zuul.

  “Here you go, Graciela.” Belle hands over my two paper cups as though she read my mind. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks.” I raise my eyebrows at Daria, trying not to let her see how bad I want to get her out of here. It would be a surefire way to make her keep talking. “You want to walk with me?”

  The old ladies are staring at us, all except Mrs. Blount, who’s holding a piece of lemon pound cake down toward the floor, exactly as if she’s offering a table scrap to a dog. I ignore her and give the women a smile that hopefully passes as normal.

  “Ladies,” I say. “It was nice to see you.”

  “We’re so glad your cousin is home safe,” Laurel says. “Terrible thing. No one can believe it.”

  “Poor Stella, too, dyin’ like that on her kitchen floor.” Dorothy makes a face, like it’s all too much to think about. “I mean, no one can believe she’d do such a thing, kidnappin’ Amelia. She must’ve had one of them strokes or something.”

  “Maybe,” I agree, not wanting to talk about it. I hadn’t given much thought to how the rest of the town would react to Mrs. Walters’s role in Amelia’s kidnapping, or the old lady’s subsequent death.

  I don’t really want to think about it now, either. No matter how awful the old bag was to me during her life, no one deserved to get used by Mama Lottie and die like that.

  “Well, we’re all just going to have to move on,” Sue says, reaching out to pat my hand. “Her grandson should be in town later today to sort out her estate.”

  “That’s true. I heard that he’s some kind of writer. Writes them sex novels,” Dorothy claims. It’s hard to tell from her face whether the prospect of having a romance novelist in our midst makes her excited or horrified. Either way, she definitely finds it more interesting than what became of her poor friend Stella Walters.

  “No, they’re not sex novels. They’re love stories or something,” her sister corrects.

  “I heard they were chop-em-ups,” Honey insists.

  “Yeah, let’s go,” Daria says, giving the invisible dog one final glare.

  We leave before there’s any sort of definitive consensus on what sort of books Mrs. Walters’s grandson writes. Knowing the rumor mill in Heron Creek, I won’t even believe he writes books at all until he tells me so himself, and if he’s anything like his grandmother, hopefully I’ll never have the chance to ask.

  “So what’s this favor?” I ask Daria once we’re safely on our way, shaking my head a little to dispel the nonsense from Westies.

  “I’ve got a bad one. I’ve been to the property once already, and I can’t see much.” She casts a dubious glance my direction. “They’re poltergeists, I think. Tricky little buggers to get rid of, if so, but I could use some backup to be sure.”

  “Poltergeists? Those are real?”

  “Sure. I mean, I won’t go so far as to say fairies and elves and unicorns and shit like that exist, but pretty much every version of a ghost story you’ve heard, I’ve seen. Or heard. Or encountered.”

  I hold up the hand that’s wrapped around Amelia’s tea. “I get it.”

  “Anyway, I figured no time like the present to call in my favor. In case you get any wild ideas about leaving town now that all the dust has settled.”

  “I’m not leaving,” I inform her. I’m a little surprised to realize it never crossed my mind, but where would I go? Everyone I love is right here, so nowhere else could be home. “You know, I have a phone. You could have called.”

  “You never call me. You just show up at ungodly hours, probably to get a peek at me in my nightclothes.”

  A laugh bursts from my chest. “Yeah, you caught me. That’s exactly it. It couldn’t possibly be the fact that you rarely return my phone calls in a timely manner.”

  “Timely is a subjective term.”

  She’s got me on that one, but part of her statement strikes me as interesting. “What are you doing up this early? It’s not quite nine.”

  “Haven’t been to bed yet, and I have to say, I’m not sure the coffee is worth dealing with those ladies.”

  “They’re not so bad.” I pause, deciding if I want to know the answer, then figure, screw it. “Did her dead dog really bite you?”

  “Yes. Animals who don’t cross right away are always evil as shit. That’s free advice.”

  “Thanks.” We reach the steps that lead up to the front door of the library. Amelia’s car is in the lot, and I’m now five minutes late. At least she unlocked the place for the zero patrons we’ll have at this hour. “Do you want to come check out a book? Cards are supposed to be for Heron Creek residents only, but I could probably hook you up.”

  Daria gives me a look that says she’s less than amused by my teasing. “I do read, you know.”

  “Let me guess, Stephen King? No, wait. Definitely Nicholas Sparks.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass.”

  “I’ve heard. When do you want to do this whole poltergeist exorcist thing?”

  “You’ve got to start actually watching the movies you attempt to reference. Tonight work for you?”

  “I guess.” Daria likes to go out late, so it shouldn’t affect my plans with Amelia, but it would suck being out half the night dealing with ghosties and have to work the next day.

  Oh my laundry, how old am I getting? It’s like Heron Creek puts something in the water.

  “Okay, good. Meet at my place by nine.” She grins. “I’ll bring the booze.”

  Daria leaves, snickering to herself over the non-joke. She drinks too much, a problem that’s become easier and easier to spot with not only my own hovering issues, but with Brick’s fixed status in our lives. Amelia told me he’s going to AA, which is awesome. I can’t say that my feelings toward the guy are at all simple to define, but ever since the case with Nan, it’s been impossible to hate him.

  And that was before he started doing things like making my cousin smile, engage with the world, and start to morph back into the confident girl I’d grown up with, which tip the scales majorly in his favor.

  I hustle up the steps and into the library, where I find Amelia organizing the books on the shelving cart by genre.

  “You’re almost on time,” Amelia says, knocking into a spinning rack with her belly. “I don’t know how to react.”

  “Except to knock shit over?” I set her tea down next to her and log on to the
computer behind my desk, just a few feet away, to check my work email. “I had to go see Travis, and then I ran into Daria at Westies.”

  My cousin shoots a look my direction, one that conveys curiosity but not concern. Her shoulders are relaxed, her eyes happy, and the entire picture of her feels peaceful for the first time in months. “I’m not sure which of those things to ask about first.”

  “Daria wants me to go help her with some poltergeists she’s having trouble getting rid of—” I hold a hand up before she has the chance to say anything, even though I’m not sure how to respond to the idea, either. “Yes, really. And as far as Travis, I felt so badly after I saw his unshaven hangdog face that I offered to do a DNA test to see if we’re related.”

  Amelia finishes and spins around, picking up her tea with a grin. “You’re such a softie, Grace.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t let it get around.”

  “Any other gossip I should know about?”

  “Mrs. Walters’s grandson is supposed to be showing up to take care of her house and estate and everything.” I waggle my eyebrows. “And apparently he writes dirty novels.”

  She snorts. “I bet the ladies love that.”

  “Bet your haircut money on it.”

  We go to work, her putting away books and grabbing a duster to run over the shelves while I answer emails. Then I get up to help her clean. Tomorrow is our weekly story time, so at least we have something fun coming up.

  “How are things with Beau? Good?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, good. It’s almost weird not having all of these axes hanging over our heads.”

  “Enjoy it, Grace. I’m sure your life won’t be boring forever.”

  “You know, I think he likes that about me.”

  “Oh,” she says, feigning surprise. “I thought it was because you’re easy.”

  We laugh, and I try to just let it feel good without any other emotion attached to our banter.

  “What about Brick? Is he into fat girls or something?”

  “Grace, I swear if you call me fat one more time I’m going to start slipping whole milk into your cereal.”

  “Fine, you’re not fat.” I pause. “Technically. Stop avoiding my question.”

  “Brick is…” She sighs. “I mean, he’s sort of amazing, but I know he only feels sorry for me.”

  “What?” Surprise does a number on my ability to articulate more.

  “You know, he’s got, like, a hero complex or something. He sees me as this tragic, abused woman, who’s depressed besides, and he wants to, you know…save me.”

  I peer at her, taking in her flushed cheeks and the way she refuses to meet my eyes. “Amelia. You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”

  “Sure. Why else would he be hanging around?”

  “Um, because even seven months pregnant, you’re gorgeous and loyal and smart. And he doesn’t see you as a battered, depressed woman. He sees you as a woman who survived horrible things, and is still surviving those things, and he wants to be close to your light.” I nudge her shoulder. “Like everyone else.”

  “Please,” she protests, but it’s with even redder cheeks and a shy smile.

  I don’t push any further because I can tell she’s not ready to say any more about Brick. They’re in that delicious place where they’re both enamored but neither of them has the guts to say anything yet, and it’s so damn sweet it’s giving me a toothache.

  It’s also the slightest bit awkward, given that she’s about to have another man’s baby and until a couple of weeks ago, he was representing that man’s parents as they tried to steal custody of her child. But we are Harpers. Weird, awkward, strange—those are our vibes. And apparently, the Drayton boys dig it.

  Chapter Two

  I get to Daria’s on time that night, despite the fact that I’m really not looking forward to going along for this poltergeist hunt. Maybe it will turn out to be something else, something normal. If that exists in my new world. Which is populated at least partly by the dead.

  It’s weird to think that my whole life these entities have lurked around me, unseen. Like maybe there’s a veil between this world and another, our universe and one slightly to the left, and it took Anne’s connection to me to let me see through it.

  I did a little research on poltergeists on the Internet earlier today. They’re one of the more active—and dangerous—manifestations of ghosts. Instead of the apparitions that I’ve seen, or the impressions others often report of spirits repeating the same actions over and over, poltergeists are both able to manipulate the world and have intentions for the living. It’s a bad combination, apparently, but Daria hasn’t let me get murdered yet.

  “Oh, hi,” she greets me after answering my knock on her trailer door.

  “Are you ready?”

  The question might be a moot point since she’s wearing calf-length yoga pants, a sports bra, and a pink, sleeveless shirt that says On Wednesdays We Wear Pink even though it’s Monday. And the temperature outside is sliding toward freezing.

  “Almost,” she replies. “Come on in and have a drink.”

  Being friends, or occasional colleagues, with Daria isn’t great for my drinking, but I’ve decided not to worry too much about it. If or when the day comes that I feel like I can’t make it through without some kind of alcohol, I’ll ask Brick about treatment. Until then…maybe having something in my life with the ability to relax me isn’t a bad thing.

  “Thanks,” I say, accepting a glass of what smells like bourbon on ice and moving some papers out of the way to sit on the couch. “Is there anything you can tell me about tonight? Or is this one of those things where you don’t want to spoil the ending?”

  “The latter. I need you to go in without any preconceptions in case I’m wrong.”

  She pours herself a drink and leans against the bar, taking a long pull.

  It takes a moment for my thoughts to slide into place regarding tonight, and it doesn’t help that I’m wondering when she’s going to get dressed. Or if Daria really works out, because despite her thin frame, she doesn’t seem the type. I’ve also rarely seen her eat.

  I narrow my gaze at her, worried briefly that maybe she’s a ghost and this has been some kind of Sixth Sense thing, but that can’t be it. Other people have seen her.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” I try a laugh, to distract her, because the truth is embarrassing.

  “Like you think I’m about to sprout snakes from my head and kill you with my eyeballs.”

  “If it’s not a poltergeist at this house, what else could it be?” I change the subject, needing to get back on track for the sake of my struggling sanity.

  “Could be a powerful spirit. Could be something worse, like those demons you spotted at that place out in Mount Pleasant.” She shrugs, then sets down her empty glass and starts digging through a pile of laundry in a wicker basket.

  “Great.” I eye the bottom of my own glass, then decide to have one more. It’s the least I can do as far as prep if we’re going to meet something powerful. I’ve had about enough of that descriptor after Mama Lottie.

  Daria tugs on a black hoodie, then shucks her short pants in favor of longer ones before she sits and laces up her Chucks. “You know, your friend Melanie called the other day asking about my business.”

  “What?” It’s as though the statement is so far out of the range of things I expect to come out of Daria’s mouth that I assume I misheard. “Why?”

  She glances around the mess in the room, patting down piles of crap before coming up with her keys. They were beneath an upended bowl that says Food on the side, like for a cat. I don’t think she has a cat, but if she does, it could well be lost in the chaos.

  “As you can see, I have a bit of an organization problem. Melanie is interested in getting into investigations as a business and knew I’d talked to you about coming on as a partner.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Mel? Wants
to be a paranormal investigator? You can’t get me to believe that.”

  “No, idiot. She’s thinking about getting her real private investigator’s license, all legal-like, and thought it might behoove us to work together.” Daria snorts. “Behoove. She actually said that.”

  “Now that I believe,” I murmur. My head spins, but out of the confusion comes the memory of a conversation between the two of us in my grams’s kitchen, when Mel confessed how much she’d enjoyed the cloak and dagger of the past several months.

  Still, this seems like a stretch.

  “She suggested it would save me time if she investigated the people who hire me, their family history, the property in question, things like that. Then we could get together and compare notes.”

  I snap my fingers. “It’s like that television show.”

  Daria shakes her head. “I only watch Court TV and The Bachelor, but it doesn’t sound like a bad idea, especially if she’s willing to organize the office, to boot.”

  There are about a million quips that come to mind, but the concept is so big it blocks them from coming out of my mouth. Mel wants to be a private eye? And she wants to work with Daria? I try and fail to guess how Will is going to react. I don’t even know how I’m reacting.

  “You ready?” Daria stands up and stretches her arms over her head. She reaches for a coat and zips it up, then jams a bright red stocking cap over her fuchsia hair.

  “Sure.” There will be time to talk to Melanie later, I suppose. I need to let that mystery go and focus on the one in front of me so I don’t end up getting possessed or ordered around by some dead assholes.

  We walk outside, Daria pausing to lock the door behind us, then shuffled over to her car. She refuses to ride in mine because of the smell, or so she claims. I think she just likes the control of driving. But I could use the extra time to wrap my head around tonight’s task, anyway.

  The potential for that flies out the window when she points the car back to Heron Creek instead of toward Charleston.