“And this just hit you now?”
“Earlier. Something clicked, maybe after you mentioned Toni wasn’t happy after the paychecks stopped coming. God, if I ever got to that point, shoot me. I’d rather a hurricane come through and wash this all away than let money rule my world.”
My stomach flutters with pride and admiration.
Same team, Dakota and me. It’s like she’s been reading my mind.
She puts her head down into her hands, takes a deep breath, and says, “Ignore me. I shouldn’t be unloading on you like this. It’s just that I haven’t talked to anybody about something other than food or fame in so long.”
“No, I get it, definitely. And unloading? Please. It’s a conversation. It’s how normal people interact.” I hesitate to tell her that I’ve been feeling the same way about wanting to wipe the proverbial slate clean. That’s too close to the sun, Icarus. Save that conversation for some other time, like when she’s not in soul-baring mode. “Really,” I tell her. “It’s no big deal.”
“This is crazy. Cray-zeeeee. Poor, poor pitiful me, right? My multi-million dollar beachfront mansion is haunted. I literally sound like I should be on your show.”
“Yep. You’d make a perfect season finale.”
“It’s… Jesus, Mike, it’s been exhausting. I’ve barely slept, I’m eating like shit, and the only thing that’s keeping me sane is exercising.”
True dat, sister. “It’s a good thing. At least you’re doing that.”
Dakota sits up straighter in her seat, like she’s pouncing on an idea as she slaps her lean thighs. “Fuck it. You know what? I need to cook something. Let me cook you dinner tonight.”
“You’d do that?”
“If you don’t think your wife would care, yeah. It’ll be the most gourmet home-cooked meal you’ve ever had. That’s how I can pay you back! Does that sound good? Gourmet meal from the multi-season, not-humble-at-all winner of Yes, Chef!? Would that work for you? In exchange for bug-zapping the bad guys?”
Have I died and gone to heaven? Funny, it looks more like the inside of a BMW than I thought it would. “Abso-freakin-lutely. Are you kidding me? I’ve literally daydreamed about that, like, five thousand times. Deal.” Then, reluctantly, I have to address the situation because the smart, yet tentative, side of my brain understands that if this happens without Toni and the kids along, my bed for the next, oh, century or two, would consist of the rickety Adirondack chairs on our deck. I’d take up permanence residence in the doghouse.
I tell Dakota, “I have to invite Toni, though. She’d stab me with a butter knife in my sleep. A dull butter knife because it’d hurt more.”
“Sure, sure,” Dakota says, not entirely hiding the flicker of disappointment I can hear in her voice. “Of course they can come.”
“Come? Oh, you mean do it at your house?”
“That’s where all my supplies are.”
I chuckle. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to, but I don’t want you to be under any kind of impression that all we have to do is say a few magic words and your house is footloose and demon-free. There’s a chance it could take a while.”
“I know.” This comes with a narrowed glare that insinuates, dipshit.
“And you still want to do it?”
“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly. “That’s the whole idea. A big fat middle finger to that jackass in my house. I’d like to take my life back.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
I lift one shoulder. “I’m not, to tell you the truth. This shit is dangerous. If we’re focused on anything other than this floater, we could be in trouble. It takes time, and patience, and a lot of in-depth concentration, especially if it’s malevolent. Technically, I shouldn’t even have you around the house, it’s that risky. You could get possessed. You could be scratched, attacked… anything. As much as I’d love to eat one of your meals, time is a limiting factor here.”
“Mike?” She grins.
“What?”
“You do remember the format of the show, don’t you? Cook the perfect dish in forty-five minutes or less?”
“Right, but—”
“And who was the champion three years in a row?”
“You, but—”
“No more buts. We got this. You and me. And your wife, and your kids, and a ghost, and, hell, invite the whole neighborhood. Bottom line is, I feel safer with you there, and I need this little win. Does that make sense?”
“Oh, I get it, but I’m not bringing my kids to your house. And Toni”—I can’t believe Boy Scout Mike is actually going to say this—“what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“So just us then?”
“Yep. Ghost hunting on a full tummy. No better way.”
“Now you’re talking.”
I turn left, changing streets. The trees are green and lush this time of year. They sway in the breeze, casting early morning shadows on the squat buildings on either side of us; the surf shops and crab shacks, the banks and drive-through beer stations, they’re peacefully empty. The real crowds are at the restaurants where the tourists are filling up on pancakes and good southern grits before heading out to the beach to get bad sunburns and drink one six pack after another.
It’s a beautiful morning, really, and I have a crazy lady sitting beside me.
Determined, but crazy.
I like it.
This might be one of my most favorite investigations ever.
Tonight will be a good night.
What could go wrong?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ford Atticus Ford
Lauren takes a sip of her wine, staring at me over the rim with a hint of smug satisfaction in her gaze.
I cough and sputter a barrage of ums and uhs like I’m firing them from a Gatlin gun, then finally manage to squeak, “Married again? Me?”
“Why not?”
“I—it’s complicated.”
“You’re not a Facebook status, Ford. Give me words.”
I fill up my wine glass and drain most of the chardonnay before I reply, “Tell me why you’re asking.”
“I don’t know. Just curious. I heard about your, uh, issues. With your ex, I mean.”
“Oh you did, huh? Issues? Like what?” Obviously, I know exactly what she means and my past infidelity problems weren’t really a well-kept secret, considering loose lips are great for making out and sinking ships. Tabloid fodder, I was.
Given the troubles with Chelsea and my infidelity, I’m surprised people didn’t throw rotten vegetables at me in the streets.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve seen your ex, dude. She’s gorgeous. What were you thinking?”
“As if I was thinking at all?”
“Good point.”
“I have a lot of soul redemption that needs to happen for reasons other than Chelsea Hopper.”
“At least you’re owning up to the fact. And, I’ll admit, you sound reasonably sincere.”
“I am,” I insist. “I was an idiot.”
“Is that on the record?”
“Coeburn—”
“Relax, Ford. Kidding. Besides, it’s kinda refreshing.”
“My dad always told me that honesty is like a sugar-coated razor blade, real sweet until it cuts you deep.”
“Smart man.” Lauren moves away from the bay window and over to the couch. She sits, picks up a cracker, and studies it before putting it back on the tray. Can’t risk the extra carbs, I suppose. “So what made you do it?”
“It?”
“Cheat.”
I turn my focus back to the rainy world outside. The feeling that this entire shitstorm is a setup comes hurtling back, and I’m now positive that I’m on some kind of interview. I’m severely tempted to go exploring for the digital voice recorder that she probably has stashed behind a throw pillow. “Coeburn, am I gonna end up on your show again, or are we here to hunt some fucking paranormal shit?”
“We’re talking. That’s it. You said you didn’t know how long we’d have to wait, so here we are. Old friends telling stories.”
“Why aren’t you acting more scared?”
“Of course I’m scared.”
“That’s not what I asked. I swear, if you’re setting me up—”
“Setting you up? For what?”
“Asking me about marriage, cheating on Melanie. Feels to me like you’re trying to get a scoop.”
“Jesus H., Ford. Stop with the paranoid bullshit,” she says, eyebrows pinched together as she slaps an arm of the couch. Her offense seems genuine. Then again, everyone in Hollywood is an actor, so…
“Really,” she insists.
“Then don’t be so glib when we have some of the least-researched paranormal beings out there stalking us. I have no earthly clue what we’re getting ourselves into.”
“Look at me.”
I feel exposed with my back facing the window, but I look anyway. Lauren pats the couch beside her, saying, “Yes, I’m freaked out. You’re here though, so it’s not that bad. I trust you.”
“You probably shouldn’t. The last time someone trusted me, I lost my show, my friends, and my life.”
“Fuck that albatross around your neck. Let it go.”
“I can’t—”
“For now. Forget it, just come sit. We’ll have some wine, and we’ll wait.”
I glance down at the empty glass in my shaky hand, the chardonnay’s finish sitting sharp and tangy on the back of my tongue. “I shouldn’t be drinking anyway. Dangerous to go up against something nasty when you have dulled senses.”
I’m partly talking about her, partly talking about the black-eyed children.
“The doors are locked, right? Front door, back door? Garage? Nobody is getting in here. And besides, didn’t you say we would actually have to invite them in before they could come inside? It’s just the two of us hanging out. Mano a womano, if that’s a thing.”
“That’s not exactly what it means, unless we’re in direct conflict.”
“Then it seems about right to me.”
I’m pretty damn sure this is an attempt at an interview now.
Ass.
Hole.
Both of us, actually, because I fell for it. When will I ever learn?
Moron.
I tell her, “We have to be insanely careful. Most of the evidence we have is anecdotal. Pure hearsay.”
“Whatever. The doors are locked. Come sit. Tell me more about the almighty Ford Atticus Ford while we wait.”
“You are relentless.”
“Nervous, actually. I get chatty and excitable when I’m on edge. Talking helps. Why do you think I do it for a living? I’m never more anxious than when I’m in front of a camera filming, and yet it’s when I’m on top of the world.”
“Funny thing.” I know precisely what she means, and I’m not going to admit it to her. I don’t want her to sink her claws into some flimsy psychological bond we might share.
I pour myself another splash of wine and plop down on the couch beside her, then get an idea.
I might as well get her drunk, throw off her game, and then make my escape.
Sometimes I’m a genius.
Sorta.
“More?” I ask, holding up the bottle.
“Absolutely.” Lauren holds out her glass, and I listen to the glug-glug of a heavy pour. “Whoa, cowboy,” she says.
I lean back against the soft cushions of Ellen’s ancient couch. This is what I love about old furniture—the fact that it’s broken in. Just when you get used to something, get it right to where you want it, it’s time to throw it away.
Reminds me of Graveyard: Classified. I’ve always wondered if I didn’t somehow subliminally self-sabotage my life when my screw-up happened. Maybe it was my brain trying to tell me it was bored with the routine and needed to shake something up.
Yeah. You just keep telling yourself that, Ford. Shattering ratings and sealing your place in television history didn’t have anything to do with it, did it?
Lauren wiggles around sideways on the couch and pulls her legs up in a criss-cross position, getting cozy.
It’s strange, her vibe. Her level of familiarity feels like we’re maybe somewhere between the third and fifth date, and this is the precursor to the first time. Meaning, that fumbling, awkward, pathetic attempt at whoopee when you have yet to uncover the other’s natural rhythms, favorite positions, or hot spots.
Feels like it. Ain’t happening.
The reality is, this is probably the interview right here.
There should be lights and cameras strategically placed around the living room. We’re supposed to pretend as if we’re simply relaxing like two old friends while she grills me about my love life and what the real Ford Atticus Ford does in his downtime.
Lauren says, “So. Marriage? Again? Ever?”
I close my eyes and gently press on my temples. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I might as well get this over with, at least until she passes out, and I can sneak away. “I don’t know, honestly. I had my time with Melanie, and I screwed it up. I’m—maybe I’m afraid I won’t ever be able to handle monogamy.”
Which is a total lie, but it plays into what Lauren is looking for in her “scoop.”
The low-down dirty of it all.
“What made you do it?”
“You tell me. What makes anyone stray?”
“Boredom. Lack of respect. Sex addiction?”
“Are you asking that about me?”
“Maybe?”
She allows a slight gotcha grin to slip through when I lie and say, “Oh, definitely. I couldn’t keep it in my pants. I was horrible.”
“That poor girl.”
“She’s fine now, though. Probably the best thing she could’ve done was to get away from the likes of me.”
“Oh, stop. You’re not so bad.”
“More wine?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. Melanie isn’t someone I want to be thinking about right now.
Why?
Hurts too much.
After Mike got my hopes up, and she used a pin to pop my hope bubble once I got back home from the Craghorn case, I have yet to get over it. I could’ve taken a monster step toward redemption, and then, whoosh, there went the rug, right out from under my feet.
Lauren looks down at her glass. She’s only taken a couple of sips so far. “I’ll have a little more, sure.” I refill it, and then before she takes another sip, she asks, “Here’s something I’ve always wanted to know, Ford.”
I hold up my palm. “If it’s about Chelsea and my reasoning, that’s off the table. I don’t have any new responses to that question.”
“No, no. I wasn’t going to. The ratings and fame were obvious motivators.”
“Then what?”
“In all those years doing Graveyard, did you ever actually get scared?”
“Hell yeah, all the time.”
“Like pee your pants scared?”
“I might’ve dribbled a time or two.”
“Gross.”
“You asked.”
Lauren leans back against the armrest both hands cradled around her chardonnay held close to her chest. “If that’s the case, then here’s what I really want to know. If you got scared, if you dribbled pee-pee into your panties like a big boy, then why the fuck did you constantly tell those families that they had nothing to worry about, that whatever was in their home couldn’t hurt them?”
She’s pointed out something that always bothered me, too. I had to do it. The data from The Paranormal Channel’s test audiences suggested that the viewers loved seeing that our clients were going to be fine once the white knights rode out on their equally white horses.
That’s not something I want Lauren to know. It’s too much juicy insider info that’ll make its way out onto the Internet. Instead, I say, “Because more often than not, they were fine. If somebody’s grandma passes away—take Ellen, for instance—if
she steps over to the other side but sticks around to haunt this place, it might be freaky at first, but you’d get used to it, and you’d understand that she wasn’t going to do anything to harm you. Maybe the spirits were too weak to do anything physical and yes, the families would be okay.”
“But what if they weren’t? What if it was one of the times where you really were scared shitless? I watched Graveyard constantly—I had to, because you were such good fodder for Weekend Report—and yet, I can’t ever remember an instance where you told some terrified family, ‘Hey, you need to pack your shit and get the fuck outta Dodge.’”
“True, but at the same time, you’re forgetting that faith is a powerful weapon.”
“Don’t feed me that bullshit, honey. I know better. If you were scared, the greatest ghost hunter who ever lived, then yeah, those people had every right to know that they were in extremely real danger.”
I break away from her gaze and study the loose button on the couch cushion beside me.
“I think, maybe, that might’ve been one of the reasons I was so hard on you when Weekend ran that piece. I’d been holding onto a lot of this, I don’t know, distant anger. Like you deserved what you got because you weren’t always this bastion of good vibes. Don’t shake your head. You know what I’m talking about. The Keenes, the Richards family with the lighthouse, those poor nuns down in New Mexico.”
“Good memory.” That’s a partial list of investigations where I was definitely scared out of my mind. Guess I conveyed more than I intended during filming.
“I saw the look in your eyes in each one of those episodes, then you sat right there and told them they had nothing to worry about. Then Chelsea happened, and I… It pushed me over the edge. I wanted to hurt you.”
“You succeeded.”
“Truth time. I mean, yeah, the producers pushed me toward it, but it was mostly me. I felt like, a couple of years ago, if karma’s a bitch,” she says, holding out her hand to shake, “then hi, nice to meet you. I’m Karma.”
The White Night Page 13
