Sitting in the tiny Subaru, Jax texted Reuben. The nerd was ensconced in the utility van at the other end of the parking lot, monitoring activities and probably wreaking whatever havoc he and Evie had concocted. Jax wanted to disassociate himself from illegal activities, but his curiosity and anxiety—and itch to act—were intensifying.
Reuben sent him a video of a dark room with ghostly writing on the wall and old people shrieking. Evie’s camera must be working. Jax knew she was committing fraud right now, but it wasn’t as if she were charging for it. Any haunted Halloween house could produce those effects with glue sticks and black lights.
What he worried about was her contact with real spirits.
Roark wasn’t answering his messages. He texted Reuben,wheres cajun?
Reuben’s reply was sufficient excuse for Jax to slip his licensed Glock into his shoulder harness, don his blazer, and haul out of the car to enter the building. Roark incommunicado meant nothing. Mostly, Jax couldn’t take being left out any longer.
Lucy Murkowski was at the reception desk, her posture stiff and her smile frozen. She gestured for Jax to wait while she answered the ringing phone. Her frozen smile turned to puzzlement as she swung her chair to watch the elevator.
Oh good, he was in time for the show.
The elevator door opened, and dancing lights bounced out. Reuben had explained how he’d created that effect, but Jax hadn’t paid attention. Evie had wanted rainbow auras, but apparently the techno-geniuses hadn’t been able to invent anything suitable in the time allotted. So Tinkerbelle lights bounced along the walls and floors as Evie stepped out—leading a parade of old folks.
Barouche was in the procession. What kind of moron named himself after a horse-drawn carriage? Jax suspected even the old crook’s birth certificate was fake.
Jax performed a cursory inspection for weapons, but most of the people marching into the lobby were wearing sundresses or T-shirts and shorts. Afternoon attire on a summer Georgia afternoon didn’t lend to coats and long sleeves, especially when the a/c wasn’t cranked up. Even Barouche wore a short-sleeved white shirt, half tucked into his pants. If he had a weapon in his waist band, he’d have to struggle to reach it. Maybe the old con had actually retired.
Evie was performing her mutter/whisper routine that might or might not mean she was communicating with Marlene. Overhead, a modern chandelier swung, and Jax tried very hard not to imagine a plump, gray-haired ghost up there, laughing down at them.
The bouncing lights led toward the office wing—of course. A cadre of bad guys were meeting in the conference room, and Evie was leading a parade straight toward them.
At the front desk, Lucy panicked. She rushed to head them off, but there had to be nearly two dozen residents marching determinedly after Evie. Something had their backs up. In the interest of observation, Jax followed Lucy across the lobby. The parade filed into the hall. He watched as Evie tilted her head in front of one of the office doors, nodded, and turned to the resident manager.
“The spirits are... uneasy,” Evie said. “They wish to check on Mrs. Stanislaus. Could you unlock the door and verify that all is well?”
Oh, that was rich. Jax held back and watched as a panicked Lucy Murkowski—and Evie no doubt was reading Lucy’s terror—pulled out her key ring and unlocked the door to the Human Resources office.
Evie shoved in without invitation. Jax had thought Reuben had directed her to the VP’s computer. He’d told her precisely where to plug the transmitter so they could start hacking passwords. Maybe they’d decided HR was easier.
Jax didn’t want to watch whatever sleight of hand Evie performed. He understood that her family had learned to protect themselves and their weird abilities over the ages, but he didn’t have to like their magic tricks.
What he did watch was Mr. Charles Bernard Barouche. The old man was frowning furiously, trying to elbow through Evie’s audience, but they were all eager to watch the performance. They formed an impassable senior-citizen knot in the doorway.
Not liking the way Barouche pulled out his phone, Jax stepped up and jostled the older man as he tried to peer into the room. “What’s happening?”
“Your girlfriend is a con artist,” Barouche grumbled. “She shouldn’t be in there.”
“I’m her lawyer,” Jax corrected, in his best we’re-all-in-this-together voice. “She’s pretty good at what she does, so she needs reliable witnesses. Have you seen her do anything illegal?”
Barouche didn’t answer but glared at his phone. “Battery’s dead.”
That tended to happen around Evie and her ghosts. Maybe she really was on to something—
A shriek of horror accelerated that fear.
Without an ounce of civility, Jax shoved his way through the throng of senior citizens and their walkers. Evie had an unpredictable tendency to go into overload and drop like a rock.
If phone batteries were draining, she was on overload. He didn’t bother checking his phone but used his greater height to see past the crowd.
Looking pale, shocked, and as if she really were seeing beyond the veil, Evie staggered backward into her league of followers, who were unhelpfully shrieking and backing away at the same time. Jax tromped a few toes, elbowed a few ribs, and reached her before she dropped.
There, at her feet, lay the drunken nurse. She wasn’t snoring.
Jax was pretty certain she wasn’t breathing either.
He reached for his phone to dial 911 and swore. The battery was dead.