Chapter Two

I froze in my crouch, but lifted my arms slooowly to the side, keeping my hands in full view. I'd had enough experience getting pulled out of line for extra scanning at airports to know a guy who looked like me, with my obvious Middle Eastern features and shoulder-length mop of black hair, shouldn't make any sudden moves around skittish people who may or may not be carrying weapons.

"I'm standing up now," I called.

"Drop whatever you've got in your hand. I've got pepper spray and a Taser, and I'm not afraid to use either one of them."

Well, at least he didn't have a gun. Unless he was saving that for later.

"It's only my keys." But I dropped them anyway. "I'm turning around now." Because, yeah, I'd rather not get tased in the back, and although the pepper spray might be an issue, no way was I not looking this person in the eye. So I turned slowly, edging sideways as I did to block Gil's carrier.

The guy at the foot of the sidewalk was about my age—late twenties, maybe early thirties—and good-looking in a sleek, expensive way that I'd never manage on my best day. One of those haircuts brushed back smoothly on the top, that only worked if you had straight hair and not corkscrew curls like me. He was wearing jeans, but they were clearly much newer than my faded 501's, his loafers were shiny, and his button-down had nary a wrinkle. The contrast to my battered Converse and sweaty PSU T-shirt couldn't be greater.

With his phone in one hand and the other digging in the leather messenger bag slung across his shoulder, he was obviously taking me in too, eyes narrowed in his clean-shaven face. Also obviously, he wasn't impressed.

"You have three minutes to vacate the premises before I call the police."

I pasted on a smile. "It's okay. I'm supposed to be here."

"I doubt that seriously. The house belongs to—"

"Me." I shrugged apologetically, hands still in the air. "The house belongs to me."

His square jaw sagged. "You?"

"Afraid so."

"But… But…" He took a step toward me. "What's your name?"

"Maz. Mazin Amani."

He blinked. "Armani?"

"Not Ar mani. A mani." Given his trendy clothing, I guessed that the missing R would have made a difference to him. "I inherited this house from my Uncle Oren." Well, second cousin once removed Oren, but even though I'd never known he existed, let alone met him, I wasn't about to look a gift house in the mouth. Er, porch. "And you are?"

He blinked again. "Oren Buckley was your uncle? I had no idea…" He withdrew his hand—thankfully Taser and pepper-spray free—from his bag and tucked his phone in his pocket as he strode up the sidewalk toward me. "I'm so sorry. I'm Carson Clemenson. Avi's cousin."

It was my turn to blink. "Avi?"

"Avi Felder." His eyebrows drew together. "Surely you knew about Avi."

"Sorry." I wiped my hands on my jeans. "I never even knew I had an Uncle Oren until the probate attorney called me."

"Avi and Oren were…" He sighed. "Well, if Avi hadn't died before the US passed marriage equality, I'm pretty sure they'd have been husbands. They were devoted to one another." The guy's eyes swam with unshed tears. He coughed out a half laugh. "Sorry. Avi and I were close. I still miss him." He gazed up at the house. "We had some times in this place."

At my feet, Gil made his opinion known with a snarly yowl. I winced.

"I'm sorry for your loss, but it's been a long trip, and Gilgamesh really wants his dinner. So if you don't mind?" I gestured toward the door.

"Oh. Of course." He screwed his mouth to one side, which didn't mar the perfect symmetry of his face as much as you'd think. "I'm afraid it could be a bit of a mess. Nobody's been inside since Avi's death."

I raised my eyebrows. "Really?" Not even second cousin once removed Oren? I glanced around the perfectly maintained yard and the pristine paint and woodwork. Somebody must have cared for it. "It looks incredible."

"Yes, out here." He nodded toward the house next door. "The same person who handles the neighbor's upkeep has been maintaining the exterior."

"For over ten years?"

The attorney hadn't mentioned any ongoing expenses attached to the estate. Surely, if someone had been doing this much work for a decade, there should have been mention of it. But then, she'd also told me that there were boxes of Uncle Oren's effects in storage that would be shipped to me here. Maybe the records for the handyman's payments were in them.

"It's been a couple of months since Uncle Oren died. I hope his bill isn't too much past due."

"Oh, I don't think he's paid for the work."

It was my turn to goggle. "Not paid? But clearly—"

"I don't know anything for certain. But the guy worked for Oren and Avi when they both lived here, from the time he was a teenager. Maybe there was some provision." His expression darkened. "Or maybe he thought Oren would leave the place to him if he kept it up."

"Uh…"

Carson showed his palms and chuckled. "Oh, not that I think there's anything nefarious going on. But people get funny when money and property are involved. I'm a real estate agent. Trust me. I know all about that."

I glanced at the house. "If nobody's been inside for a decade…"

I shuddered to think what the interior might be like. Spiders. Mice. Rats. Gah ! Taryn said she'd have the utilities turned on. But what would the inside of a refrigerator that hadn't been opened in a decade smell like?

I added new appliances to my mental list of More Things On Which to Spend Money I Don't Have .

This inheritance had come through in the nick of time, though, so maybe I'd get lucky again. Maybe Uncle Oren—or his apparent boyfriend—had just upgraded the entire house. Heck, ten-year-old technology was practically Star Trek compared to what I was used to. Before I'd moved into Greg's condo six months ago, I'd lived in a seventies-era apartment with orange shag carpeting, and I still drove an '81 Civic hatchback.

But unless I could actually get into the house, I'd never know about the conditions inside, and I'd probably be sleeping in the back of said hatchback, because the town of Ghost—and seriously, who named their town Ghost?—was noticeably lacking in reasonably priced motels. Or any motels, for that matter.

I peered at the keyhole again. It looked like it was jammed full of… sawdust?

"Seems this lock is non-functional." I dangled the key chain—which contained a single key—and gave Carson my best smile. "I don't suppose you know any other way in, from your days here in your youth?" His brow wrinkled and his lips thinned. Ooops . "Not that you're not youthful now. I mean, all kids know the secret ways into and out of the house, right? How else could you sneak out when you're supposed to be doing homework?"

His expression cleared a little, but still held a shadow of disapproval. "The back door is keyed the same as the front. But other than the windows—which you'd have to break to get in—the basement bulkhead doors are the only other means of egress, and they're bolted from the inside."

I eyed the windows—beautiful double-hung panes with the wavery reflection that denoted vintage glass which, if not downright irreplaceable, would be very expensive to repair. Besides, it was way too soon to start breaking things—this might legally be my house, but until I released Gil to prowl the place, it wouldn't seem like I'd taken full possession.

"Back door, huh?"

He nodded, checking his watch. "Yes. I'm sorry, but I have an appointment at two and it'll take me twenty minutes to get to my office in Richdale." He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. "Here. Feel free to give me a call if you have any questions. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee sometime. There aren't many options for that in Ghost, but Richdale is a college town." He flashed his own smile, which I had to admit was damned attractive. "The students would riot without a reasonable assortment of coffee shops and cafes."

"Thanks." He was pinging my gaydar like crazy, but his brand of good looks screamed high maintenance and was way out of my league. But hey. New house, new town, why not a new me who wasn't so quick to judge? "I might take you up on that."

"I hope you do." He backed up a couple of steps and lifted a hand. "Nice to meet you, Maz. Welcome to Ghost."

He strode down the sidewalk and tossed his bag inside a shiny silver— Wait. Was that a freaking Porsche?

Yep, way out of my league.

I peered into Gil's carrier, but he was favoring me with his furry butt, the end of his tail twitching in full-on kitty diva mode.

"Not much longer, Gil. I promise."

I hefted his carrier, trotted down the porch steps and around the side of the house. No fence, not even of the traditional white picket variety that kept nothing in or out, including nosy neighbors.

Speaking of which…

As I passed a neatly trimmed hydrangea bush, its purple flowers a nice contrast to my house's— my house! —dove-gray paint, I caught a glimpse of a pale face and the glint of glasses behind the window of the bungalow next door. I raised my hand in greeting, but the curtains twitched and the face disappeared.

I sighed, wondering when the police would show up and assume, like Carson had, that someone who looked like me couldn't possibly be up to any good.

On the other hand, the homes here along Iris Lane weren't jammed together like they were in Portland or its suburbs. Maybe I'd imagined the face.

I chuckled. "Heck, Gil, maybe it was a ghost."