“Katy, we should talk.”
Well, yes, we should, but it would only be one of those messy, emotional talks no one likes to have. I’m overflowing with feelings and hollow at the same time. But I can walk and think and investigate. I don’t want to spoil any of that. Because that? That feels right.
Having Malcolm at my side still feels right. He’s all Ivory soap and nutmeg, with a hint of the saffron that he uses in his tea. It should be a crime for a man to smell this good.
“We should take my truck,” I say, “in case we need supplies.”
I keep an emergency stash in my truck—coffee, sugar, percolator, a little camp stove for brewing. The only thing I don’t have is half and half. Some ghosts insist on it; trust me, you don’t want to see what they do when they’re presented with the powdered stuff
