I sit cross-legged on the reception desk of K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists. It’s far too early to be open for the day, but it’s also far too early to visit Malcolm, which is the only item on my agenda. The only other business open at this hour is the Springside Pancake House. I have a takeout container of pancakes and a large orange juice, courtesy of Belinda.
And I have coffee, courtesy of my own kitchen. I will use the time to think, to plan, to strategize. That black Mercedes is still sitting outside the bed and breakfast. I’m starting to loathe the sight of it, its presence a dark, malevolent thing.
I’m five minutes into strategizing—with not much to show for it—when the bell over the door chimes.
Orson Yates walks in, black wool overcoat dusted with a few snowflakes, a fedora gi
