No.
He walks inside.
“He’s here,” Sabrina whispers from her phone.
forty-nine
“You look different from your picture.”
“Do I?” Sabrina’s voice, low and throaty, is easy and light. “Better or worse.”
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “You know that.”
“It’s always nice to hear.”
“What can I get you?” A young male voice. A svelte waiter with slicked back hair and some artfully groomed stubble appears at an odd angle on the phone camera, which must be on the table.
The ghost, his profile name today is James Lowry, orders a Blanton’s bourbon on the rocks. Sabrina asks for a dirty martini, extra olives. Bailey hopes she doesn’t plan to drink it. When the waiter is gone: “Do you date often?”
Mentally, Bailey wills Sabrina to move the phone so he can see the other man better.
“Not at all, really,” says Sabrina with a laugh.
Finally, she shifts the phone just a bit. There he is. He looks huge, ghostly pale, big jaw and intense dark eyes. His nose his large, crooked. Not handsome. Not the kind of man you would think could lure women away from their lives. But maybe it’s not about looks. Maybe he offers them something else, something they crave but don’t even know it.
“So why Torch?” asks the ghost.
“My friend, she thought it was time for me to meet someone. And this is the way everyone’s doing it these days. Right?”
The music is a little too loud. Bailey strains to hear.
“Seems so. Don’t meet people at work?”
“No,” she says. “It’s kind of a small place. And that can get messy, right? Dating people you work with—not the best idea?”
“Researcher.”
“Hmm?”
“That was your job description.”
“That’s right. I do research for authors. And you’re in IT.”
“Right.”
The conversation is flat, uninteresting.
“He doesn’t like her,” says Jax. “She’s not damaged enough. He can sense it. Men like that, predators, they have a sense.”
“He doesn’t need to like her. He needs to leave so that we can follow.”
The drinks come, the conversation drones on. Where he lives, where he’s from. All lies probably. Sabrina is laughing too much, obviously nervous.
“Family?”
Sabrina bows her head, makes a not very convincing stab at looking sad. “All gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I—try not to dwell on the past. It’s gone. I’m all about the moment.”
It comes off too light, the throwaway sentiment of a person who’s read too many memes but hasn’t done the work.
“I see,” he says. “That’s wise.”
“Is that a scar?” she asks. “There on your throat?”
Bailey watches his eyes darken, his hand go to his neck.
“I don’t like to talk about the past either,” he says.
“I get that.”
“Then let’s talk about the future,” he says. “Should we get out of here?”
“Where to?”
“Just walk awhile. I love a snowy city night. Find another place that looks good.”
“Sure,” she says.
“What is she doing?” hisses Jax, gripping the dash.
“I have no idea,” says Bailey.
He puts a fifty on the table, then helps Sabrina into her coat. The connection falters as Sabrina sticks the phone in her pocket. Their voices become muffled.
“Shit.”
Then they’re on the street, moving uptown, the ghost with his arm around Sabrina’s shoulders.
“Can you drive?” Bailey asks.
“Of course I can drive,” says Jax, annoyed. “What am I, twelve?”
“Follow me.”
“Wait! What?”
Bailey exits the car to follow the couple on foot, jogging across the street and catching them just as they turn onto St. Marks. The connection on the phone is still live, but he can’t hear anything, just the city noise, the siren of the ambulance that passes them by, a shout, some music from a bar.
The couple comes to an abrupt stop and Bailey ducks into a doorway, but not before the ghost turns and their eyes meet, a shock of recognition passing between them.
The moment blurs and warps, as Bailey watches, then breaks into a run. The ghost pulls Sabrina close, a tight embrace, then pushes her away and backs up, his gaze still on Bailey, a slight cold smile playing at his lips.