Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

"Doctor Walsh, tell us how you and Natalie met?—"

"Liam is fine, and I'm not sure why I'm here. I told you I'm not doing the show."

"Yes, you did. But you're an important part of the story in connection to Natalie so if you could tell us how it was that you two met." The producer smiled at Liam who let out a soft huff.

"She stepped in a puddle that contained a downed live wire and got—" He glanced at Natalie as if he was reluctant to put into words what had happened. "Electrocuted."

"It's okay. You can say it," Natalie said to him before turning back to look at the producer… and then the camera. "I was dead. My heart stopped for three and a half minutes—there's video and everything—and Liam started it again. He's a real-life hero."

Natalie reached out and squeezed Liam's hand, who rolled his eyes. "It's nothing anyone else wouldn't have done."

"You were the only one there, so… No one else was coming to save me," Natalie pointed out.

"Jules was there to take the cell phone video. She could have performed CPR."

"I don't think so?—"

"So you saved her life," the producer prompted, interrupting the on-camera bickering between Natalie and Liam.

"He did," Natalie said, staring at the camera.

"Miss Chase, if you could avoid looking directly at the camera, please."

Natalie cut her gaze to the producer. "Of course." But then found it was impossible to not glance at the camera again. It was like an irresistible urge now that she'd been told not to do it.

"I said don't look at the camera," the producer reminded.

"Sorry. I'm really horrible at this." Natalie cringed.

Hopefully they wouldn't pull up that WBNG footage and see exactly how horrible.

"You're doing fine. So that was how you two met?"

"Well, not exactly. We kind of met at the bar right before then," Natalie began. "He was there alone eating dinner and I was with my two friends having margaritas and he was of course the topic of conversation."

"Why was that?"

"He was new in town. And there were the rumors."

"What rumors were those?"

"That he was a serial killer… He wasn't, of course, but he kept to himself so much. And then there were the bodies…"

"You had to tell them that," Liam grumbled beside her.

"It's fine. I'm sure they'll edit it out," she whispered.

"I'm sure they won't and you do know whispering doesn't work when you're wearing a microphone. Right?" Liam asked, brows raised.

Natalie glanced down at the mic pinned to her collar and then at the ecstatic looking crew and said, "Oh. Oops."

"Ms. Mudd. Can you tell us about when you first became aware of Doctor William Walsh moving to town?"

"Doctor McHottie? Oh, sure. Everyone else thought he was a serial killer, because of the bodies. But I never really bought into that theory."

"Why not?"

"He didn't look the part. Didn't have those crazy eyes. You know, like Charles Manson had. I met him once at a party."

"Doctor Walsh?"

"No. Charles Manson. I could tell right away he was one to steer clear of."

"So back to the doctor…"

"Oh, yeah. So I figured he was probably doing wet work for the government. Black ops. Assassinations. Hit man type stuff, you know? He just looked the part. The handsome leading man action movie type. Like James Bond. Now him I've never met but I'd sure like to."

"Doctor Walsh?—"

"Liam."

"Liam, can you tell us about the bodies?"

"Jeezus— There's nothing to tell. I'm a researcher. I've done work with cadavers…acquired legally and officially through the Albany Medical College Anatomical Gift Program."

"What kind of research are you currently working on with your cadavers?"

"You really want to hear about this?"

"Definitely."

"Okay. Until very recently the military believed low level blasts to be harmless. But through recent studies on the brains of troops whose MOS exposed them to repeated low-level blasts during training across a twenty-year career, a definite connection can now be drawn between the cognitive issues reported by the subjects while alive and an unusual pattern of brain damage pervasive in all of those same subjects after their death—by suicide. And it wasn't, as originally assumed, CTE?—"

"CTE?"

"Chronic traumatic encephalopathy—like is found in football players. But it wasn't. Six out of eight samples of brain tissue taken from Navy SEALs who'd all died by suicide revealed a microscopic pattern of brain damage. Interface astroglial scarring—scar tissue not found in civilians—unique in the brains of troops and caused by repeated blast waves. And two of the eight displayed a severe mutation to the astrocytes caused by the vacuum that every blast creates in the brain. It literally explodes the brain liquid causing cavitation… Anyway, my grant is allowing me to study a wider sample of brain tissue to further support the initial study. Now that we know the problem, we can find solutions that will lead to safer training practices and a reduction in veteran suicides. Not to mention accurate diagnosis and a new understanding of these affected troops while they're alive."

"So your research is to study the brains of military personnel."

"At the most basic level, yes."

"Can we get a tour of your lab?"

"No."

"Miss Lowinsky?—"

"Actually, could we use Harper Lowry on camera? That's my pen name. It's the name I use publicly."

"Of course. Can you tell us how you came to suspect your house was haunted?"

"It's actually my Great Aunt Agnes's house but I've lived there with her for a while now. And recently I heard footsteps and a voice. The same voice that Liam—Doctor Walsh—recorded on the equipment he brought into our house."

"Doctor Walsh. Let's switch gears."

"Please do."

"It's my understanding you are the one who recorded the voice of what appears to be a spirit inside Miss Lowry's residence."

"Um. Uh. Yes. I guess I did."

"And what do you think about it?"

"About what?"

"The voice you recorded. As a researcher you look for evidence to prove a hypothesis or theory. Would you agree with that statement?"

"Yes."

"Do you consider the voice recording proof of the existence of ghosts and the theory that they do indeed want to communicate with us?"

"Uh..."

"Let me repeat the question. Do you, Dr. Walsh, believe in the existence of ghosts?"

"Um…"

"Doctor—

"Yes. I heard you. And yes. Based on the evidence, it would appear that the existence of ghosts is possible and that some are capable of communicating with the living."

"Go, McHottie! Do you think this means he'll do the show?"

"Shh. Alice. They're recording."

"Natalie, would you agree with your fiancé?"

"My fiancé— Oh. No. Liam's not my fiancé. Harper's the one engaged. To Stone. Liam and I are just… dating."

"I stand corrected. Then would you say you agree with Liam that ghosts exist?"

"Yes?"

"Is that a question, Natalie? Are you uncertain about your answer or about the existence of spirits?"

"Um… No…"

"Miss Chase, in your opinion, definitively, do ghosts exist?"

"She's not going to say it."

"Hush up, Gabe. She'll say it."

"You want to put some money down on that? A little friendly wager. Harriet? Gabe?"

"Shut up, Ricky."

"Seriously, Rick. You know I haven't had money in my hand since the nineteen-seventies when I died. What an absolutely silly proposition."

"It's just an expression. Jeez. You two need to lighten up."

Natalie drew in a breath, tuned out the ghost chatter, raised her gaze to meet that of the producer and said, "One hundred percent, ghosts do exist and are both willing and able of communicating with the living."

"And have you ever personally communicated with a spirit?"

The dead silence in the room, even from the three ghosts assembled, had Natalie swallowing hard. Finally, she nodded.

"A verbal answer if you could, please, Miss Chase."

She licked her lips, though it didn't do much good since her mouth felt as dry as cotton, and said, "Yes."

"Whoop! Good on you, doll."

"About damn time. Jeez."

"Stop grumbling, Gabe. I told you two gentlemen she'd do it."

"You should've taken that bet."

Natalie would have liked to watch the producer's face for a reaction to her statement, and she would have if the ghost bat hadn't swooped back inside and straight at her head.

With a yip she couldn't control, Natalie ducked and threw her hands up over her face.

"Are you all right, Miss Chase?"

"Mm-hm. Fine. Just dodging a mosquito. I hate those things." She flapped her hand around her head again for effect.

The producer's brows rose high.

Yup. They already thought she was looney-tunes. And since there was probably nothing she could do to change that, she might as well lean into it.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"And while we're on the subject of communing with the dead," Natalie began. "Madame Letisha is a liar…"