Chapter Twelve

My hips complained strongly about sleeping on the floor a second night running, but after Avi's remarks about saving the bed for his and Oren's first night in the house, I didn't want to take the chance that might trigger him. Yeah, there were other beds, but I wanted to keep my footprint in the house as small as possible, at least until Avi and I had another chat or two and I had a chance to ask him what would make him happy.

Unfortunately, I suspected I was completely incapable of providing what would truly make him happy: Oren.

I took a shower in the bathroom in the hallway, which seemed to have the fewest personal touches. No ghost stuck his head through the door, so I counted that as a win, but it was still one of the shortest showers of my life.

I shook out my curls—I'd learned early in life not to comb or brush them unless I wanted to resemble a tumbleweed—and dressed in my least-worn black jeans and a dusty blue pinstripe button-up, which was about as formal as my clothes went at the moment. When you worked from home in a practically invisible job, you didn't have a lot of occasions to go out on the town. Which was another thing Greg objected to, along with my composure in the face of his escalating efforts to provoke an argument: "My gawd, Maz, can't you see how serious this is?"

He broke that one out for any topic from our precarious relationship to the lack of almond milk in the fridge. " What will it take to get you to engage for once in your life?"

I couldn't help that—my mom had also been relentlessly calm, claiming that panic never solved anything but to breed more panic.

"Congratulations, Greg, and sorry, Mom," I muttered to my reflection. "I'm living in a haunted house. I might have finally found something that'll push me over the edge."

Gil watched me tame my scruff with my beard trimmer from his perch on the counter next to the sink with his usual judgmental expression, occasionally licking a paw and swiping it over his ear as if to show me his clearly superior grooming method.

Crap. Gil .

Even though he didn't seem unduly disturbed by Avi's presence, I didn't know if the reverse was also true. I couldn't leave him alone in the house, not until I was certain he'd be safe. However, I couldn't inflict Gil on the Manor, even if Saul understood the reason for my worry, because the museum was a public place. If any visitors were allergic to cats, it would be a problem.

He batted the water as I rinsed off the trimmer and weighed my options. Ricky's Tia Sofia had seemed to like Gil, and—what was more important—he seemed to like her. Would she be willing to cat-sit for me? Couldn't hurt to ask, as long as I made sure to emphasize that no was a perfectly okay response.

"Come on, big guy." I turned off the water and scooped him up. "Let's see if our neighbor is willing to put you up for the day."

I put him back in his carrier—earning a glare before he circled around to present his very judgmental butt. "Yeah, yeah. I know. But it's for your own good."

His tail twitched twice. He never believed me when I said that about the vet, either.

I crept downstairs, peering into the library from the landing. It didn't seem like any other literature had launched itself overnight. I scuttled down the rest of the stairs and through the family room, where all the throw pillows were neatly in place. The kitchen, too, was just as pristine as it was last night. Except…

I set Gil's carrier down and edged toward the counter, where a single piece of white paper lay. The hair on my neck prickled, because the paper contained one typed word:

sorry

I cleared my throat. "It's okay. But if, you know, you're the one who's been stuffing the keyholes with sawdust? I'd really appreciate it if maybe you could not do that today?"

I waited, my gaze darting around the room, but nobody appeared and nothing moved. I wasn't sure whether that constituted agreement, or whether I'd just been talking to myself.

I pocketed my keys, and as I stowed my laptop in my messenger bag, my gaze caught on the paper once more. Saul and Professor DeHaven would probably swoon with this evidence, along with details about my chat with Avi, so before I could second-guess myself, I carefully slid the page into the outside pocket of the bag. They'd probably have preferred to see it in situ , but it was just lying on the counter, something I—or anybody else—could have done.

I glanced over my shoulder as the phantom spiders returned for their daily Zumba warmup. A ghost was one thing. But this house was really big. Could there be secret passages? Crawlspaces? Gaps in the walls? I'd heard stories about intruders living inside their victims' house for months before going on a rampage. But the house was quiet except for the hum of the big refrigerator. And it had been empty when I arrived. Could someone live in a house undetected without leaving any trace?

"You know what, Gil? I think I prefer the ghost, so let's go with that, huh? You're still not staying here alone, though."

I grabbed the reusable bag with Gil's cat food and toys, and my hand was on the garage door handle when my doorbell rang. I checked my watch: 7:30. Who went calling at this hour?

Like, for instance, I'd been about to do to Sofia.

"Talk about glass houses," I muttered as I schlepped down the hall, messenger bag, cat carrier and all. I perked up a little when I spotted Ricky through the glass.

I opened the door with a smile I couldn't suppress. "Hey."

His smile faded a little when he saw my all my luggage. "Are you leaving?"

"What? Oh, no." I chuckled and patted my messenger bag. "Just heading over to the Manor to start my new gig."

He lifted one eyebrow. "Does Gil assist you in your work?"

I huffed a laugh. "No. But given the, uh, events here yesterday, I didn't feel comfortable leaving him on his own here. As a matter of fact, I was planning to ask your Tia Sofia if she'd mind if he hung out with her today. But then I realized it's a little A) last minute and B) early to impose."

Ricky grinned and held out his hand for Gil's carrier. "Not at all. She'll be delighted. She hasn't had a cat since she lost hers about five years ago." He shook his head. "Princesa lived to the ripe old age of twenty-two and was pampered every single day."

"Why didn't she get another one?" I asked as I passed Gil over.

His smile faded under an expression of disgust. "Liam."

"Who's Liam?"

"Her grandson.

"She has another one? She mentioned Guillermo, but—"

"That's Liam. He decided Guillermo was too ethnic and started insisting everybody call him Liam back in high school. He claims to be allergic to cats, which is the excuse he gives for not visiting Tia Sofia more often—or at all, since he left for college."

"If her cat's been gone for five years, though—"

"What can I say? The guy's a tool. But Tia won't hear a word against him. Still thinks he hung the moon." He patted Gil's carrier. "She'll be thrilled for Gil's company, trust me. I was heading over there anyway, so I can drop him off."

"Thank you. Really." I handed him the bag. "These are his essentials. I've got a spare litter pan too, if—"

"No need. She still has Princesa's stuff. She never could face giving it away."

I studied him, my head to one side. "Somehow, I don't imagine you stopped by this morning because your super-secret ESP powers told you I needed a babysitter for my cat."

That rosy pink glowed along his cheekbones again. He set the carrier down and retrieved a blue and white striped paper bag from beside the door. "No. I, um, just wanted to give you this. I wasn't sure you'd be up, so I was just going to leave it, but then I saw you through the window, and, well…"

Warmth sprouted under my heart as I took the bag. "What's this?" I opened it up and the heavenly aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted out. I peeked inside to see a plump, golden brown muffin resting in a nest of tissue paper. "Wow."

"Isaksen's signature pumpkin spice muffin." He dropped his gaze and scuffed the toe of one Converse along the whitewashed porch decking. "For your first day. I figured it would either be for luck before you started or a reward for making it through, so you'd have something good to snack on, even if you don't have time for dinner tonight."

Okay, can I say my heart melted? Because my heart melted. Heck, Greg had never brought me breakfast. Or lunch. Or a freaking takeout dinner, for that matter. That had always been my job— "Because I have to go to the office and you're at home all day ."

I was home all day working , so going out was actually an interruption when he could easily grab something on his way home, but that's not how he saw it.

"This is fantastic. Thank you. Truly." I leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

News flash: It was just as smooth and warm as it looked.

He ducked his head and… was that a giggle? Whatever, it was ridiculously cute. "Have a good day." He stooped to pick up Gil's carrier. "And don't worry about him. Tia will dote on him."

"Uh oh. He probably won't want to come home with me then." I raised a hand in farewell as he walked down the porch stairs. "I'll call you about dinner."

"Great. Talk to you then." He turned and actually skipped a couple of steps as he crossed the lawn toward Sofia's house.

Seriously. So cute.

I ducked back inside—making sure the door was locked—and made my way through the house to the garage, mentally kicking my butt all the way.

Yes, he was cute. And nice. But could I really impose my baggage on a nice, cute guy? Greg had always cited my failed relationships: "What's the common denominator here, Maz? You! " He'd claimed I was selfish and emotionally unavailable—usually when I was in the middle of my work day, or when he'd made another stab at getting me to ghostwrite his ridiculous espionage thriller.

Here in this new town, I might have a chance to remake my image, but I still couldn't categorize myself as much of a catch: Recently homeless. Mostly unemployed. And oh yeah—living in a haunted house.

"Who wouldn't want to sign up for that?" I muttered as I slapped the garage door opener. I slid into the Civic and set my bag on the passenger seat, where the foam stuffing was peeking out from the split upholstery. I'd found the remote opener in a basket on the workbench that lined one side of the garage, so at least I could close the door behind me without climbing out and entering the code.

I'd decided to drive to the Manor the first day because I wasn't sure how far it actually was to the doors. Saul had told me to follow the fence along Main Street to the first right, so I did, nibbling on the truly fantastic muffin along the way.

Making the turn onto Violet Road, I wondered briefly whether all the roads in Ghost were named after flowers. The Manor's iron gates—thankfully wide open—were at least a quarter of a mile from the corner, and once I passed through, the gravel driveway snaked through the trees for at least another quarter of a mile. When the Manor finally came into view, I had to brake for a moment, because wow.

I'd thought my house was big, but this place was huge .

"No wonder he called it a manor," I murmured.

My house had two turrets. This one had at least five that I could see, red-shingled with decorative metal toppers that seemed too short to be lightning rods, but its massive facade was clearly the tip of the Victorian iceberg.

There was at least an acre of grass—a little shaggy and dotted with the occasional dandelion—sweeping from the drive to a boxy hedge that framed a fountain circled by four marble statues. The wide porch that spanned the front of the mansion was backed by tall windows, ensuring very nice views of the statues' bare backsides, and the massive front doors were juuust off-center enough to look unsettling.

A big wooden sign in the same style as the one in front of the library stood at the edge of the lawn. It read Richdale Manor in giant gilt letters, and underneath in smaller font, Museum and Gift Shop . A more discreet sign attached to its bottom by black chains directed me to Parking , so I followed the arrows for another quarter mile—jeez, the footprint of this place had to be bigger than the entire town—and swung into the gravel lot that was at least as big as my back yard, Professor DeHaven's, and Sofia's put together.

And totally empty, except for a single dusty Nissan LEAF.