Amanda Stevens - The Restorer

Sensing his presence, I turned to find him in the doorway, one hand beneath his khaki jacket as if reaching for a weapon. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

Quickly, I set the frame back on the desk and backed away with my hands in front of me in a manner I hoped was non-threatening. “I’m looking for Tom Gerrity. I have some information for him.”

His brows rose at that. “And what information would that be?”

I was pretty nervous by that point, but if anyone knew how to conceal fear, it was me. “Are you a colleague of his?”

“You might say that.” He let his arm drop to his side as he walked slowly into the office.

Now that he’d apparently decided not to pull a gun on me, I breathed a little easier. “Do you happen to know where I can find Mr. Gerrity?”

“You’re looking right at him.”

I stared at him in bewilderment. “I’m sorry. I’m looking for Tom Gerrity.”

“I’m Tom Gerrity. Leastways, last time I looked.”

I didn’t see the slightest resemblance between this man and the Tom Gerrity I knew. Could there be two private investigators in Charleston with the same name?

Then I glanced back at the photograph and felt a strange sense of destiny again.

“Were you hired by Hannah Fischer’s mother to find her?” I asked slowly.

“That’s privileged information,” he said. “Unless you want to tell me why you’re really here, I think we’re done.”

“I’ve been working with John Devlin on Hannah’s case.” My gaze dropped briefly to the photograph. “I assume you know him.”

His contemptuous smirk made my skin crawl. “Oh, I know him all right. What’s he to you?”

I didn’t like the way he looked at me. Nor the way he spoke about Devlin, but I was careful to keep my disgust concealed. I didn’t want to upset him. Not yet at least.

“I told you, Detective Devlin and I have been working together.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“No. I’m a consultant.”

His gaze flicked over me in a manner that told me just what he thought of that revelation. “So what is this information you have for me?”

“I’m afraid there’s been a miscommunication. This is the man I’m looking for.” I picked up the photograph and pointed to the man who’d been masquerading as Gerrity.

His eyes flared and he took a menacing step toward me. “What is this…some kind of sick joke?”

I held my ground. “No, not at all. As I said, there appears to be some sort of miscommunication—”

He grabbed the picture from my hand and lay it facedown on the desk, as if my having seen it, let alone touched it, was some kind of affront to him. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re after, but you tell Devlin the next time he sends someone to snoop around in my office, he’d better watch his back. I won’t bother filing a complaint. I’ll handle the problem myself. And as for you…” His eyes narrowed menacingly. “You want to find Robert Fremont? Then I suggest you try Bridge Creek Cemetery in Berkeley County.”

“Robert Fremont?” Where had I heard that name? Then I remembered. Robert Fremont was the name of the cop killed in the line of duty. The one whose grave I had promised Gerrity—rather, the man pretending to be Gerrity—I would pay special attention to.

Cold fingers curled around my spine.

How could I not have known? It seemed so obvious to me now.

Fremont was dead and I was his conduit…between this world and the next.

I sat in my car for the longest time before I dared start the engine and drive off. My hands shook so badly I didn’t trust myself behind the wheel.

How could I not have known he was a ghost?

How could I not have felt the cold breath of death down my collar? The chill of his otherworldly presence?

A ghost masquerading as a man had entered my world and I had no rules to deal with such an entity.

I glanced at the sky. The sun was still shining, but that slow westward glide had already begun. Dusk would fall in a matter of hours. The light would fade, the veil would thin and the ghosts would slip back through. I had no protection at all now except for the walls of my home.

When I got there, I locked myself inside. Not that a bolt would keep them out, but I also had to worry about a killer.

How had my life come to this?

Trying to control my jitters, I made a cup of tea and walked through the silent house, alone and more lonely than I had been in years. Was this the way it would be from now on? Just me, here, locked away from the ghosts?

I thought of Devlin and wondered where he was. He hadn’t tried to contact me all day, but then…who could blame him? All he knew was that I’d pushed him away and run out of his house like a madwoman. He’d followed me home, begging for an explanation, and all I could do was keep him locked out, too.

As I allowed myself a wallow in self-pity, Clayton Masterson slipped from my mind entirely. And that proved to be a very grave mistake.

I’d gone to the front window to glance out, and as I turned, a dizzy spell struck me. I stumbled and spilled my tea. The house was completely still so I don’t know what made me look up. Daniel Meakin was there at the top of the stairs, a timid, wary shadow staring down at me. Behind him, the bolted door that separated my apartment from the second story stood wide open.

Something came back to me then—Macon Dawes in the garden telling me he’d just come off a seventy-two-hour shift when I’d heard footsteps in his apartment two nights before. Someone had been up there walking around that night. Someone else had loosened those bolts, opened that door, and now I blinked to bring that someone into focus.

The room started to spin and I clutched the wall for support. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t rush me, but eased down the stairs in a half crouch.

I knew I should turn and try to make it to the front door. Escape was only a few steps away. But I couldn’t walk without holding on to the wall. Now my gaze fixated on the spilled tea. Had I been drugged?

With an effort, I lifted my head. “What—”

“It’s just a sedative and a muscle relaxant. Nothing that will harm you,” Daniel Meakin offered helpfully. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

I didn’t want to obey him, but I had no choice. My knees folded and I collapsed to the floor.

“Oh, dear,” he murmured, hurrying to my side. “That was much faster than I expected.” I tried to get up but he placed his hands on my shoulders and pressed me back. “Lie still now. You’ll hurt yourself if you try to move around. I suspect that’s impossible right now, anyway.”

He was right. My arms and legs had gone numb.

I lay back against the floor, trying to still the rotating ceiling.

“Here,” he said. “Let me make you more comfortable.” He bustled about, cleaning up the spilled tea and fetching a pillow from the parlor, which he carefully placed beneath my head. “Better?”

“Why?” I tried to whisper, but the sound came out thick and garbled.

He seemed to understand what I meant. He sank to the floor with a deep sigh, cradling his legs against his chest and resting his chin on his knees. “You have no idea how much I hate this,” he said. “You were one of the few people who ever saw me…really saw me, but you saw him, too, didn’t you?”

I shook my head helplessly and tried to speak.

“Shush,” he soothed. “It’s okay. I know about you. I know about your ability.”

How was that possible? Unless…

I thought of Tula Mackey’s description of the other boy:

…quiet, scrawny little thing. I used to see him out wandering the streets at all hours. Or just sitting alone on the front porch. I reckon that’s why he took up with Clayton Masterson. Poor kid was lonely.