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Strong. Sturdy. A flash of a gold ring.

I wished desperately that I could hear him, laugh about this entire thing but the silence remained. His hand faded, and I was left alone in the kitchen, two cups of cold tea on the counter.

Chapter 8

Ghost hunting was much like writing, apparently.

The entire sitting room was a disaster. I hauled myself into town for more candles, a printer that refused to connect and finally only relented when I swore I would throw it off the cliff, and two more games of Scrabble. The store clerk looked at me like I was insane. I was sure I looked like it, dark circles under my eyes and hair in disarray.

I lugged everything back to Kilmorran, out of breath and sweating. I spent three days deep down in the trenches of ghosts and spirits. What would allow him to move on? Was he stuck? Did he just not want to leave?

More importantly—why did it matter?

Anything was better than answering Marissa’s casual ‘how’s it going’ texts that made me want to rip out my eyelashes.

Trying to talk to a ghost seemed like a better option.

I printed out articles about the thin places around Ireland. The perfect storm—no pun intended—needed to draw paranormal energy in close. Which candles and herbs worked best. How to keep myself safe from possession or inviting anything evil in.

I dumped the next set of Scrabble tiles in the study and then in the kitchen. I made piles of each of the letters and stepped back, feeling Wolfe prowl around the room.

“This is a bit crazy,” I muttered, rubbing at my brow.

The tiles moved on the counter, rearranging themselves in whatever fashion Wolfe wished.

I’d grown up reading ghost stories. I loved Dracula and Frankenstein. I loved the dark, gothic nature of each. My writer’s mind began to turn at a young age. What would I do if I was ever face to face with a monster? With a ghost? And maybe it was the writer in me that flushed through those scenes and scenarios. Maybe that’s why I was so calm about the tiles moving with an invisible touch.

A BIT.

But he was funny, and he was willing to talk with me. Keep me company.

That was something, wasn’t it?

When I got back to New York, I promised myself I would book an appointment with my therapist and dive into the depths of my loneliness, but that would have to wait.

I was thousands of miles away and this felt…right.

I was certainly energized, which was more than I could say about the version of me I left in New York. That iteration of Avery Eden had been exhausted, pale with sallow skin, no light in her eyes, no curiosity left for the world.

This version of me, at least, was full of questions.

Maybe a touch of manic energy, but questions.

Curiosity.

There was a spark somewhere flickering inside me once more.

I tried twice more with the candles and his picture but it was barely more energy than he was exerting now. The storm on Friday was still two days away and I frowned, tapping my chin in thought.

WAIT.

“Do you want to wait?” I asked Wednesday night.

I did my best not to abandon my routines, puzzling over Wolfe and his life while I walked. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a plot was beginning to form. I ignored it, knowing that sometimes the best stories were the ones that snuck up on you.

Restless, I’d walked into town earlier and delivered a copy of my book as promised to Tommy to take to his wife.

“Moira is anxious for that dinner,” he reminded me. “I can’t hold her back much longer.”