Page 29 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

That made her turn back to him. “Not sick and not an accident? Then what—?” A new and horrifying thought struck her. “Oh no. You didn’t do it yourself, did you?”

“No.”

Relief ran through her, sharp and immediate. “Then what happened?”

He didn’t even blink. “I was murdered.”

Chapter Eleven

The bowl slipped from Augustine’s hand and hit the floor with an echoing clang. “You were murdered?”

“Yes.”

There was no sadness in his face when he spoke, and no regret either. Just a strange, quiet acceptance that made something in Augustine’s chest ache. She could tell Theo hadn’t been old. He could only be, what? Thirty? Maybe Thirty-five at the most? He hadn’t been ill either, or unlucky. He’d been a man in the prime of his life, simply struck down. Unfair didn’t seem like a big enough word to cover it.

“Who, um, you know . . . ?” She waved her hand, unwilling to say the word again. “Did this to you?”

“I don’t know,” Theo said, and for the first time, a small dart of anger entered his eyes. “I was leaving my flat, and I was in a hurry. Something hit me in the head.”

Augustine frowned. “Do you mean like a bullet?”

“I think so.” Theo nodded slowly. “I mean, what else could it have been? It hurt, and I was knocked to the ground, so yes, probably a bullet. I was on the ground for just a moment, and then . . .”

“And then?”

He sighed. “And then I was here. Like this.”

“So, you were shot then,” she mused. “But you said you don’t know who did it?”

“I don’t.”

She made a frustrated noise. “But you must know. People in London don’t just get shot for no reason. I mean, having a gun alone is a big deal. It’s rare for people to be killed that way.”

“You’re right,” Theo said. “Statistically, the chance of being murdered in London is about one in one hundred thousand. And of that already very low murder rate, only twelve per cent involves firearms—” He stopped suddenly, and a faint blush crept across his cheeks. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I told you I was a statistician. I worked for the BBC. It’s hard to turn it off.”

Augustine stared at him.

The blush spread further across his face, colouring the tips of his ears. “I know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s incredibly geeky. But I’ve always liked facts. It started with Titanic when I was a kid. Dates, passenger lists, tonnage. I can still tell you the maximum speed of the Olympic-class ocean liners.”

Despite herself, Augustine felt a smile tug at her mouth. “No, no, I’m not judging you,” she said quickly, before she realized she was still staring at him. Up close, his eyes seemed even more unusual. Something about him tugged at her memory, faint but persistent, like a song she almost recognized, or the snippet of a film she couldn’t quite remember ever seeing. She chewed on her lip. “Are you sure we’ve never met?” she asked suddenly. “Because something about this feels . . . familiar. Like I’ve been here before. Like we’ve had this conversation before.”

Theo held her gaze. “No,” he said. “I told you: I’d remember someone like you.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Augustine realized she was still staring at him. Like, it had been minutes. An embarrassing and obvious amount of time. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly averted her eyes.

“Okay, um, so you need my help?”

“Well.” Theo cleared his throat. “Given that I’m apparently an earth-bound spirit, and you’re the only person who can both see and speak to me . . . yes. That would be nice.”

Nice.

Augustine hoped that if she ever died, she’d handle it half as politely. She bent to pick up the bowl she’d dropped earlier and placed it back on the shelf.

“And what exactly do you need my help with?” she asked. “Passing to the other side?”

He looked at her curiously, one eyebrow lifting. “Passing to the other side?”