3. Sekani Aelor

Chapter 3

Sekani Aelor

B eing a private investigator wasn’t all that different from being an actual detective: footwork, paperwork, and sitting around with our thumbs up our asses.

This morning I was going to waste a few hours sitting outside some douchebag’s home to find out if his wife was having an affair. It promised to be brain-leaking boring—shit like this always was—but the paycheck was too nice to pass up and if she was cheating, the guy deserved to know.

I had zero reservations about informing him—I had a special dislike for cheaters. It was the worst thing you could do to a person short of physical and emotional abuse.

I’d parked in the perfect vantage spot and the wife never closed the blinds; if there was anything to see, I’d get it all on video. Plus, the client often returned at three. I was free to leave after that—it wasn’t as if his wife would be fucking someone else while he was in the house.

I kicked my seat back, stretched my legs out and settled in.

“How long do you have to stake out here?” Ghost Boy asked.

I glanced at him. “Client paid for the month.”

If by the end of his thirty-day contract I had no proof his wife was cheating, she probably wasn’t, but he was free to re-up and pay me for another week. I wasn’t going to say no to his money—not when I could still take on other jobs in the afternoon.

“So what do you do on a stake out then? Stay quiet the whole time?” He turned in the passenger seat to face me.

I shrugged. “Sit. Observe. Try not to die of boredom.”

He pulled one of his feet up and rested his chin on his knee. His dirty blonde hair flopped over his ears as his storm cloud eyes searched my face. “You used to have a partner, right?”

“I did as a detective.” It had been a few years since I left the force but I still went to dinner at her place from time to time, always showed up for her daughter’s birthday parties. She called, at least once a week, to update me on . . . everything.

“Was it like one of those cop shows and you had to quit the force because you and your partner fell in love and there was a huge scandal?” he asked, words slamming together, trembling out of his mouth as he started to vibrate.

“Uh . . . no. Barnet is married, for one.” My gaze slipped to the window so I could watch the house. No change. The wife was in the kitchen, organizing the cabinets. She wasn’t dressed for a visitor either. Or, I assumed she’d dress up for a meeting with a lover. The fluffy pink robe wasn’t exactly appealing. “And I was engaged at the time.”

“Engaged?” A furrow appeared between his brows; he grinned and shook his head. “I almost feel sorry for the woman who had to put up with you. You’re so mean all the time.”

“Man. And he liked me just fine—” or so I thought.

Turns out he didn’t like me enough considering he’d fucked my brother.

“You’re gay?”

“Is that going to be a problem?” I asked. He wouldn’t be the first homophobic ghost I’d encountered. As it turns out, dying didn’t make anyone less of an asshole. Sometimes, it turned them into bigger assholes, in fact.

He shook his head, blonde hair flapping against his cheeks and chin as his eyes widened. “No. I don’t mind. So why aren’t I harassing you and the Mister?”

I shrugged. “He’s dead.”

“Oh.” His voice dipped. “I’m sorry.”

“So, paint.” I glanced back at the house. The wife had moved on to the upper levels. She was yanking the blankets and sheets off the guest bed. Probably to wash them. “Do you know what kind? Was it the kind you’d paint a house with, or a canvas?”

“It was on my hands—smudges of it,” he said, looking down at his hands. His nails were painted a pale blue. Maybe he wasn’t straight either? “Canvas, I think.”

If he wanted my help, he needed to remember . . . something useful. Paint wasn’t much to start off with. “We can grab some supplies on the way home, see if anything triggers your memory.”

“You think that might work?” he asked.

“No clue. It’s worth a shot.” We had nothing else to go on other than the possible location of his death. If slapping a paintbrush in his hands didn’t help, we wouldn’t be any worse off than we were right now. But if he did remember something, we’d be one step closer to finding out who he was and how he died so he could move on.

Ghosts weren’t meant for this world. The longer they stayed, the worse their situation became. Some of them got stuck—doing the same thing over and over, like he had been. Others become angry—poltergeists, seeking only pain and suffering.

“Eventually, you’ll have to pass on. With or without your memories,” I told him.

“The door thing, right? But I don’t remember ever seeing a door.”

“To be fair, you don’t remember anything.” His door could have appeared and he just didn’t recall. Or maybe because he didn’t know who he was, his door didn’t come for him. Except . . . as far as I knew, doors always showed up for their spirit.

“So is the door like the gateway to heaven or hell?” he asked, resting his cheek on his knee.

He was pretty—pretty in that soft way I’d always liked my men to be. Too bad he was dead. I was a spirit medium—with a touch of my hand and a little willpower, he could be as solid as any living person, temporarily at least—but I didn’t sleep with ghosts.

I turned my gaze back to the house. No one had arrived yet. The wife was still occupied with her chores.

“Depends on the door and who’s walking through it.”

Ghost Boy wrapped his arms around his legs and blinked away tears. His eyes were so sad. “I just . . . I wish I knew how I died,” he whispered. “Or why.”

I sighed. “I’ll do my best to help you.”

“Thanks, Sekani,” he said as he smiled. His gray eyes softened and I looked away. If I could help him remained to be seen, but I was going to try.

Even something small about painting might be a clue. Maybe he had talent. Maybe if I asked the right questions— “So you think you’re any good with a paint brush?”

“Umm . . . yeah.” When I glanced at him, he was looking down at his hands again. A smile played on his lips. “I think I might be. When I think about painting I feel like I just want to gush about every detail I could put down on a canvas. So I’m either really good at it or delusional.”

I chuckled. “Which is it?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” he said. I looked at the house once more. To be fair, most cheating spouses didn’t bring their illicit lover to their home. The chances of getting caught were higher.

“Do we start stalking her when she leaves the house?” Ghost Boy asked.

“You should be good at that considering the last three weeks.”

“I didn’t stalk you,” he huffed. “I haunted you.”

“Same difference,” I retorted.

“You should be happy. Now you have a cute ghost as eye candy.”

“One,” I held up a finger. “You’re assuming I think you’re cute. Two,” I held up a second finger before he could smart off. “Even if I thought you were cute, you’re dead. I’m not into spectrophilia. If that’s your kink, might I suggest solo masturbation?”

“You’re a pervert. Ghost’s can’t masturbate.”

I lifted an eyebrow; my lips twitched. “How do you know? Have you tried?”

“N—no,” he stuttered, shaking his head. His hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away. “I just . . . I’m dead. Why would I? Are you trying to say there are ghost orgies going on?” His gaze flickered around, dancing to the house and back to me. “I never even saw another ghost.”

I frowned. “You haven’t?”

How was that possible? Ghosts were everywhere in this fucking city. Right now, one of them was jogging down the sidewalk on their morning run without a care in the world. Chances were, they didn’t realize they were dead yet. It was only a matter of time.

“No.” He shrugged. “I guess they all know to stay away from you.”

I scoffed. They’d learned there was no point in bothering me—I wasn’t going to help them no matter how much they begged, pleaded, and went full-out poltergeist on my ass—but stay away? No. Plenty still followed me around, hoping they’d be the one I acknowledged. None had succeeded in gaining my attention, not until Ghost Boy.

Lucky him, I guess.