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Beachfront
Avenue, carrying a bottle of my best red wine, and spending the evening with
her while she cooks Toni, the kids, and me some of the most delectable food
we’ve ever tasted.
    Then I allow
myself to be evil for a second and wonder if it’s necessary for my family to be
there, too. Dakota Bailey and I alone in a kitchen…
    Dakota says, “Okay,
I think I’m good. I don’t know how familiar you are with all the neighbors.”
    “Not much. At
least not that far down.”
    “I bought this
house about a month ago. White with dark blue shutters? You know the one?”
    “Didn’t the guy
who owned it sell all of his Internet companies and buy his own island? Crazy
money. You like it there?”
    I realize this is
sort of a bullshit, throwaway, small-talk question, because something has to be
wrong since she’s calling me before the sun is fully over the horizon.
    “This place is
haunted, Mr. Long.” Her voice is muffled, like she’s holding her hand over her
mouth, trying to say something without being heard. If it really is haunted,
keeping her voice low won’t matter. “I’ve hardly slept in three days, but I
refuse to give this place up. It’s my—it’s a long story. Would you—is there any
chance you could come check things out for me? Or… if you can, maybe get rid of
whatever is here? I don’t know if you can actually do anything about it. I
swear on my mother’s grave, there is something evil in this house, and I
can pay you whatever you want—oh, God, no. There it is! Get away from me! Don’t
touch me, you—Mike, can you come now, please?”
    Click.
    I had already
decided that I would be helping Dakota Freakin’ Bailey, no question about it,
but after hearing that, and before I have time to grab any of my paranormal
investigation equipment, I’m down the wooden stairs and sprinting south along
the sand, cordless phone still clenched in my fist.
    The sound of true
terror in a person’s voice is unmistakable.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ford Atticus Ford
    “The hell are you
doing here, Coeburn? Are you following me?”
    Her thrust, my
parry, it’s the only defense I could come up with because I’m for damn sure not
ready to say a single word about that documentary, much less to this woman with
a mouth like a bullhorn on steroids.
    “ Sheesh , enough
with the hostility. One, that was a long time ago; two, you earned it; and,
three, you admitted that you deserved it. I’m not gonna backtrack on
something you’ve already publicly apologized for. Just accept it and move on.”
    “No.”
    Yeah, I’m pouting.
So what?
    She takes a sip of
her coffee. Her exquisitely manicured nails match the color of her pumps. “Grow
up, Ford. And no, I’m not following you. If I were, you wouldn’t know it.”
    “Bullshit.”
    Lauren leans back
in her chair, one arm propped on the backrest, nonchalant, confident in her
smugness. “The press release hit early this morning, and I shit you not, absolute
truth , one of my producers sent me a text right before I walked
through the door. And, woohoo, wonder of all wonders, wouldn’t you know it,
here you are. The stars aligned. Like, literally.”
    Look at that self-righteous
smile. She’s proud of her pun. To be perfectly frank, it was a good one, and
I’d congratulate her if I didn’t want to take the remainder of my scone and smash
it all over her face.
    “So you just
happen to be here, in Nye Beach of all places, dressed like you’re ready to
walk down the red carpet?”
    Lauren lifts one
shoulder in a pronounced “meh” gesture. “Local morning show wanted to do a profile
on me. Been up since four thirty, and let me tell you something, it’s not easy
to look like this before the sun is up.”
    She’s not
forgiven, by any means, but now I’m slightly intrigued. “You came here ? What
was it? Like one of the public broadcast things filmed on a cheap set? Couple
of thrift store loveseats and a coffee table?”
    “That’s the one.”
She crosses her arms,