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hurried along the side of the property and headed straight for the back door of the cottage. I shoved the key into the lock, but didn’t need to twist it.
    The door creaked open.
    I hesitated, looking for a spider web, or some sign that someone had been there. Birdie had taught me long ago—and I had since learned it was laser beam accurate—that a spider’s web netting a doorway meant an uninvited guest had come into your home.
    Ivy whispered, “Did you forget to lock it?”
    I put my finger to my mouth and shook my head. After years of living in the city of Chicago, I would never leave a door unlocked.
    She cupped a hand over my ear and whispered again. “What should we do?”
    I stood perfectly still, listening to my body, trying to decide if I had nausea or just a gut feeling that something wasn’t right.
    Nothing.
    Quietly as I could, I told Ivy to wait on the stoop and entered the cottage.
    The back door emptied into the kitchen, which spilled into the living room. There was one bedroom to the left and a bathroom to the right. I didn’t have a flashlight and I was afraid to turn on any other lights because I didn’t want to alert Birdie or the aunts to my presence.
    What to do?
    I decided that if there were someone in the cottage, the Geraghty Girls would be the least of my problems.
    Just before my hand hit the switch, Ivy whispered loudly, “Stacy.”
    I turned and she tossed me a pen light.
    The kid reminded me of Inspector Gadget.
    I gave her a thumbs up and turned it on, pointing it around the cottage from where I stood in the kitchen.
    “Son of a pussbucket,” I said softly.
    “What, what is it?” Ivy asked.
    “Fiona re-decorated.” I didn’t bother to hide my irritation.
    When I first moved into the cottage it looked like the inside of a genie bottle. Slowly, I had given the place a more scaled down decor thanks to the clearance sales at Pier 1 Imports.
    Now, it looked like a club on the corner of a red-light district. Red and pink velvet everywhere, a leopard print sofa shaped like lips and more beads than a topless drunk girl at a Mardi Gras parade.
    What the hell did she do that for? It would take weeks to get the scent of jasmine out of the carpet.
    “Is it okay to come in?” Ivy asked.
    Fiona probably just forgot to lock the back door.
    “It seems to be. Come on. The book should be in my bedroom,” I said.
    We crept quietly and I wondered where Moonlight could be. He was my little white cat I brought with me when I moved back to Amethyst. Fiona said she would care for him while I was “out of town” but I doubted that meant he could stay at the inn. Maybe he was on the prowl.
    Ivy was right behind me as we made our way toward the bedroom door. I couldn’t help but notice that my desk, my chair—even the sword Birdie had given me—was gone.
    “Where is all my stuff?” I muttered.
    The handle on the bedroom door squeaked then. And rotated.
    That’s the problem with my “gift”. The dead never show up when you need them.

 
     
     
    EIGHTEEN
     
    Ivy clutched my coat behind me and I said, “Go!”
    She turned and catapulted forward so fast she was airborne. I followed, but being the sister with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, I tripped over the stupid sofa and landed face first in the carpet. My consolation prize was a rug burn across my chin.
    The door flew open hard enough to bang against the wall. I was sure there would be a dent from the impact. “Who the hell are you?” A man’s voice. Deep. Angry. Like a volcano that had swallowed one too many virgins and had a serious case of indigestion.
    I was on all fours, ass poking the air. Not exactly a good first impression. Especially since my legs were my best feature.
    I lifted my head and noted that Ivy, thankfully, was nowhere in sight.
    “John? Honey?” A woman’s voice.
    Crap.
    I could pretty much piece together what was going on at that point. I started to get up and heard a soft click.
    Then again, I’d been