Page 40 of Mourner for Hire
“I’ll bet,” Sully huffs and leans back in his leather chair.
My mouth dries, and I attempt to swallow anyway. “I’m not a bad person.”
“I don’t think you are, especially if Annabelle vouched for you.”
Vouched for me?I met her once. She found my ad on social media. She hardly has any inkling of who I am, and yet, she is ready to bulldoze her son when he’s grieving and alone, sifting through her things and life, trying to savor every last piece of his mother. She’s actually a pretty awful person if you think about it. She should be ashamed of herself. Forget resting in peace. I hope she rests in shame—whenever she finally leaves the purgatory of haunting me.
I clear my throat, feeling petty. “Was Annabelle really all that great of a person? It seems a little inconsiderate, to say the least, that she died and left such a confusing will for her son to execute. I mean, what did Dominic do to deserve this?”
Sully leans back, the leather squeaking in a way that lets me know it’s fake. “Now, Ms. Daughtry, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.”
“Exactly,” Annabelle snorts. I ignore her.
“Well, no one likes to, but sometimes, we need to be honest.”
His eyes shift around the room, a visible flush creeping up his neck.
“Oh, come on, everyone has a secret. Was she adealer? Is this her way of washing the money? Was she a serial bride?” I pause and lean forward for dramatic effect. “Did she hurt Dominic?”
“I would never!” she shouts and stands with enough force that the chair next to me shifts half an inch. Sully’s gaze snaps to it.
“Did you see that?” he asks, suddenly curious but no less concerned.
Annabelle sits back down, her eyes wide with fear.
“What did you see?” I ask.
“The chair—it moved.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He steps around and touches what he thinks is the seat of the chair but what I know is Annabelle’s knee. “Cold as ice.”
I make eye contact with Annabelle.
“I’m new to the spirit realm. I didn’t know I could do that…”
“Could have been the wind,” I suggest.
Sully looks at the closed window.
Point taken.
He paces over to the window and back to the chair. “Do you smell that?”
I make a point of looking like I’m inhaling, but shrug. It smells like an office.
“Lilacs,” he says softly—almost a whisper. A look of whimsy pulls over his eyes. Empathy settles over me as I glance between him and Annabelle, now with tears in her eyes. “She smelled like lilacs.”
Realization washes over me. “You loved her.”
“Vada, don’t—” Annabelle says just as Sully says, “There are some words we don’t get to say before we run out of time.”
I nod, preparing to stand. “Well, I should get going?—”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
I clear my throat, wagering my response. “Do you?”
