“Thanks,” I said, because I felt as though I didn’t deserve that sort of praise—not in my current predicament. “I’m trying.”
“All anyone can do,” Seaburn replied, and then took a deep breath. “And speaking of trying something . . . I heard from Carver that you’re taking on the old man’s will alone.”
“No one else has time.”
“That’s not true.”
I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I can do it. Everyone else has things to do, and anything I can do to help out . . . I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve been kind of MIA for the last ten years,” I added sarcastically.
“The town ran you out. There’s a difference.”
“But I could’ve come back, right? It wasn’t like I was ostracized or anything. I was just . . .”
Bullied. Called ghoulie behind my back. My social media was bombarded, day after day, with memes and names and joking questions of “Can you solve the Black Dahlia next?” And “Do you commune with the devil?”
Or, more commonly, liar.
All because I helped a ghost solve his own murder when I was thirteen—too young to know better but too old to chalk it up to imaginary friends.
“No one who knows you faulted you for leaving,” Seaburn replied sternly. He reached over to my hand and took it tightly. My knuckles grated together, how hard he squeezed. “Especially not your dad.”
A knot formed in my throat. “I know.”
But it was still nice to hear.
“I just want to help my family,” I said helplessly. “This is the only thing I know I can do. Or at least try to. Carver and Alice . . .” They had been talking about finances with Mom before I came to breakfast this morning, and had changed the subject way too quickly to be inconspicuous about it. They had meetings today with Dad’s life insurance reps, and the budget for the funeral—and I wanted to do something, anything, to help. “They’ve already done a lot. A lot more than me. This is the least I can do, right?”
Seaburn sighed. “You don’t have to do everything alone, love.”
But oh, it was easier that way.
“Thank you,” I said instead, with a soothing smile I’d learned over the years of saying, I’m fine.
“All right, just as long as you know,” Seaburn said, and raised his glass. “To the old man. The weirder, the better.”
“The weirder, the better,” I replied, and we clinked glasses and drank quietly. When he’d finished his beer, he checked the time and figured he’d ought to start moseying home, so I thanked him for the conversation and went to give one last pat to the mayor—but he was gone.
“Now where did he wander off to . . .” Seaburn began to get up to look for him, when I said I would find the mayor. I needed to stretch my legs anyway.
“I’ll go find the mayor. Stay for another beer—on me,” I added, signaling to Dana, and went to go search for the mayor. He couldn’t have gone far. Dana pointed outside, and I followed their direction. “Fetch,” I called, clicking my tongue to the roof of my mouth, “here, boy.”
I searched around the side of the veranda. It was a warm evening, and it brought quite a few lightning bugs out of hiding. They blinked between the blooming rosebushes and the hydrangeas in the garden.
Outside, I found Fetch—and a friend.
Ben was sitting in one of the rocking chairs, and Fetch had gone up and put his head on the armrest. Ben tried to pet him, but his fingers passed through the dog’s ears, and he quickly jerked his hand away.
Fetch wagged his tail, anyway.