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  He nodded solemnly, not looking her way.

  “My brothers,” he told her. “There are three of us. Our parents visit us.”

  “Your parents are ghosts?” she asked.

  He cast her another one of his quick smiles—quite charming and seductive, really—and said, “They weren’t always ghosts.”

  “Ah, yes, but they died together, so tragically. When the chandelier fell.”

  “Yes. Doing a show they loved and loving the fact that they were working together.” He hesitated then. “They were theater people. They truly loved a live audience.”

  “I know. I think that’s why I always loved hearing about them,” Marnie said. “I mean, film is great. But it’s different. I guess I’m kind of like your parents. I love theater—and I love children’s theater. Kids are still so full of wonder, you know. They love to suspend belief, and... Wait! I’m getting off course here. So, your parents were killed tragically. And then...they came back. And you saw them. Dead. Or did you see dead people before they died?”

  “No, I never saw or spoke to a ghost until my mom and dad came back. And then my brothers—Bruce and Brodie—and I all tried to pretend that we didn’t see them. I know we all felt the way you did—that it couldn’t be possible. Then Brodie—the youngest—just hopped up and demanded to know if Bruce and I could see them, too, and we all had to admit that we did. Thankfully, there are three of us. Because, frankly, I think I would lose my mind if my mother had no one else to torment—er, haunt! She was quite the diva.”

  “I would have loved to have known her.”

  “Be careful what you say,” he warned.

  “Is she...here? Are your parents around? Do only certain people see certain ghosts?” Marnie asked.

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. Like I said, there’s a lot we don’t know. My mother and father believe they stayed behind to help their sons—we’re unfinished business to them, I guess. Except they seem to have gone on a mission, as well. They bring their friends to see us.”

  “They bring their friends?”

  He nodded. “Here’s what I think. Whether it’s right or not, I don’t know. The ability to see and speak with ghosts is something similar to an inherited ability to sing well, perhaps to paint or draw—to love math and science or excel in some kind of learning. Maybe even something like the way we inherit eye color. Like other traits, it may skip generations. So there’s our ability to see them, but there’s also the ghost’s ability to be seen. They can be shy. Or outgoing. If you go by the concept that we are souls and energy, it’s easy to imagine a ghost is the same person they were when they were alive. New ghosts have to learn to maintain their visual presence for those of us who sense it. Older ghosts often learn how to appear and disappear at the blink of an eye.” He looked her way quickly again and grimaced. “My parents now have that ability.”

  “You still see them regularly, your folks?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Cara Barton could haunt me...forever?”

  He laughed softly. “Maybe. But most of the time, ghosts stick around to right a wrong or help someone. Cara is trying to help you. Perhaps you might want to be a bit grateful.”

  Just when she was starting to—if not actually like him—appreciate him a bit.

  “You’re a jerk,” she said very quietly.

  He didn’t reply, and she was furious with herself, yet she couldn’t help but be defensive.

  “I am really a decent, nice person,” she told him.

  “And you might be alive simply by good fortune and accident,” he reminded her. “That Blood-bone character could have been coming for you—not Cara.”

  “Cara did make some enemies. Or it could have been a madman.”

  He was thoughtful. He shook his head. “Not a madman. That murder was well-thought-out. Blood-bone performed. He knew his positioning. He came to the booth, knowing you all would be game to play along with an impromptu show. He knew his target.”

  “Cara.”

  “No, his target as in someone among the cast of Dark Harbor. Anyway, sorry for being an ass. But for such a sweetie, one of America’s own princesses, you’re kind of an...ungrateful little witch.”

  He said it so pleasantly. She winced, really wishing she could escape him, not knowing why she wanted to get away—she didn’t want to get killed—and completely confused as to why she couldn’t just say thank you.

  She drew in a deep breath. He didn’t like her.

  She didn’t blame him.

  She wasn’t so fond of herself at the moment.

  “You know, I’m okay with being on my own. I know how to be careful and avoid people. You are not obliged to me in any way.”

  “Yes, actually, I am.”

  “Why is that?”

  “My mother was friends with Cara.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.”

  “And Cara is worried about you. And as long as she’s worried about you, I’ll be worried about you. I sure as hell can’t take being even more haunted by my mother.”

  Marnie didn’t realize that he had found street parking just off Sunset and that he’d turned off the engine—and was now looking straight at her.

  “Your meeting is there, right? The Asian restaurant?”

  “So it is,” she murmured.

  “Let’s go then, shall we?” He stepped out of the driver’s seat. She could exit a car perfectly fine on her own, but before she could do so, he had come around to her side.

  “You always wait for me,” he told her softly.

  “But—”

  “Safety 101. You always wait for me. Agreed?” he demanded.

  “Agreed,” she said, getting out of the car. “Okay, so, are you waiting for me in the restaurant?”

  “You bet. I’ll be waiting right at your table,” he told her.

  She had to admit she wasn’t surprised.

  And yet, neither was she dismayed, which was, actually, the surprising thing in the situation.

  It was ludicrous that anyone would want to kill her. That a comic-book character had killed Cara.

  That this man’s dead diva mother was telling him to watch out for her...

  But she wanted to live. She had seen Cara slashed apart, felt her die in her arms.

  She was afraid. Very.

  And she wanted to be grateful.

  It was just so hard to be grateful to...ghosts.

  * * *

  Marnie Davante had a reputation for being one of the nicest people in the business.

  To Bryan, as they walked into the restaurant on Sunset, he was finding it hard to believe. So far, she wasn’t being particularly nice or grateful to him. Hired security—God only knew how good—cost an arm and a leg, especially in Hollywood where many stars were convinced that they needed protection from deranged fans.

  Some did, as history had shown.

  But supply and demand made bodyguards an expensive acquisition.

  Especially those who would really take a bullet for you.

  Of course, Marnie had to be completely off her usual mode. Her friend was dead, and that same dead friend was talking to her.

  Not many people would do well with that scenario, he imagined.

  The only friends—other than his brothers—he had who spoke with the dead were long accustomed to them walking about and talking now and then. But those friends had made their talents pay.

  He’d just been working with Jackson Crow to find a kidnapped child, and they’d been helped along on that quest by the ghost of a Revolutionary soldier who had led them to the buried shack in the woods where the little boy had been taken.

  Jackson headed a special unit of the FBI. His direct boss was Adam Harrison, a theatergoer who had once been very good friends with Maeve and Hamish McFadden; he was also a philanthropist who had lost his be
loved son, Josh, when the boy had been a teenager. He had always had some kind of a special ability, and when he had died, he had passed it on to his best friend, Darcy Tremayne. Darcy had then helped out a sheriff because she’d gained Josh’s abilities of the paranormal or “special” sight.

  Adam Harrison, in his quest to see his son as that young lady had seen him, had become obsessed with those who could see and speak to spirits. He then went on to become equally obsessed with having those people help out law enforcement, since it seemed so many of the dead came back because they sought justice or because they were worried about someone left behind.

  Jackson Crow had been Adam Harrison’s first recruit when he’d determined to turn his prowess for finding the right man—and/or woman—for any particular unusual case into something more official. With Jackson Crow, Adam had relied upon his years of association with lawmakers and law enforcement in Washington and taken it up a notch, creating the FBI unit that had become unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters.

  Bryan’s last case had a happy ending. Kidnapper arrested; child safe in his mother’s arms.

  It didn’t always happen that way. But Jackson had known how well Bryan knew the area and had called on him.

  That morning, Bryan had put through a call to Jackson, explaining all the details of this case as he knew them. He knew help would arrive—important, since he couldn’t offer his body as a shield for Marnie Davante and explore all options of investigation at the same time.

  In spite of the incredible way they were getting along—jerk, witch—he was discovering he was fascinated by Marnie Davante. She wanted to be independent, and she certainly wanted to go through life being a decent human being. She was a mess over the situation—who wouldn’t be? She was also capable of looking at him with very steady—and beautiful—eyes, and giving him her real attention.

  Of course, he didn’t have it at this moment.

  He was leaned back in a wooden chair at their table in the corner of the restaurant near the back exit—his choice of seating. Seth Smith and Marnie were involved in a passionate discussion. She wanted to work out a situation where she could rent to buy. Seth Smith was skeptical she could pull off her business plan.

  “Thing is, with programs for children,” Smith was saying, “there’s usually some kind of a benefactor—a large nonprofit corporation financing some of it. You know—for the betterment of humanity or whatever. Kids don’t pay to go to plays. Kids don’t even like plays. They like video games. Like that new one that’s out, with that Blood-bone—Oh, man, sorry! I am so sorry. I know you were close with Cara Barton. Naturally.”

  “It’s all right,” Marnie said, her voice flat, something in her eyes turning a bit cold for a moment. But she swallowed and went on. “I believe you’re wrong. Kids love interaction. And children’s theater can be wonderfully interactive. I also have a plan that will bring the adults in while the children are working. See...”

  Marnie produced her cell phone. She had drawn up a decent floor plan of the Abernathy Theater, showing the different areas that might be utilized. “This area, a coffee shop for the parents. We’ll show old movies here, offer readings by authors and maybe have small or solo music artists appearing now and then. It can be open to many things. Here, the black box or smaller theater—classes and experimental plays. The main stage we’ll keep for the plays that will bring in the largest audiences. I’ve already started networking with LA schools.”

  She was earnest; she was sincere. In Bryan’s mind, she put forth an excellent argument proving she’d manage to create not just a wonderful experience, but a sound business enterprise.

  “They don’t even teach history anymore,” Smith said, shaking his head, “and you think the schools will help you get kids out in an arts program?”

  “Yes. Teachers still know and value the arts. They will help,” Marnie said without hesitation. “I can make it happen. I know that I can. I have every friend known to man in the business. Actors, set designers, lighting designers... I have the right people behind me.”

  “Along with a bodyguard,” Smith said, glancing Bryan’s way. “How many people are going to send their kids to a place where bodyguards are needed?”

  Smith just might have caught her by surprise there; she had obviously expected to get hit with the fact Cara Barton was dead somewhere in the conversation, but Smith’s last comment threw her.

  “Ah, well, Mr. Smith,” Bryan said. “You have to realize this is just for a few days.” He slipped an arm around Marnie’s shoulders, pulling her closer to him. “I’m really an old family friend, and you know family—I’m hanging around so the rest of the family doesn’t drive us all crazy!”

  That was about as true as it could get.

  “But they haven’t found Cara Barton’s killer yet,” Smith said. He frowned. “Mr. McFadden, are you a part of the police or another law enforcement agency?”

  “Private investigator, Mr. Smith,” Bryan said, forcing a smile. “PI and family friend. And I can absolutely assure you, the killer will be found.”

  Smith studied him and then looked back at Marnie.

  “I like you,” he told her. “It’s a massive commitment you’re asking us to make, renting to you with the option and perhaps rent-to-buy steps being taken. You are aware of the pitfalls that might come your way. You’re a bright young woman with a steady vision and not just a dream.” He hesitated.

  “So...?” Marnie said. Her shoulders seemed as cold and frozen as an ice block beneath Bryan’s arm.

  Smith looked at Bryan. “How do I say this... I feel we must wait.”

  “Wait for what?” Marnie asked.

  Smith cleared his throat. “There are all kinds of rumors swirling around out there. Some say the cast of Dark Harbor is cursed. That the creatures of the current time are forming together to kill off the rest of the cast.”

  “What?” Marnie said incredulously.

  “Creatures aren’t real,” Bryan said, leaning forward. “Blood-bone is a creation. He can be played by anyone. By a killer.”

  “Hollywood can be a superstitious place,” Smith said. He sighed deeply. “I won’t rent to anyone else. But let me meet with some of my peers and, of course, Mr. Wexler. I’d like this to happen for you. Frankly...”

  His voice trailed again. Bryan could feel Marnie growing frustrated—and angry.

  “Frankly?” he asked quickly.

  “You’re a bit of a business risk right now. We just want to make sure you’re...alive,” Smith said.

  “I am alive. I’m in front of you. Flesh and blood!” Marnie said.

  “We need you to stay that way,” Smith said. He glanced at Bryan and then at Marnie and grimaced. “Let me talk to Mr. Wexler. Let’s see how the police do. If all is well in a few weeks, we’ll look at making this a go. How’s that?”

  “I guess it’s a win for the moment,” Marnie said. “And thank you. Thank you so much for your time.”

  “I’d like to see it work, young lady,” Smith said. He rose. Bryan quickly rose as well, as did Marnie.

  Bryan realized he dwarfed Smith; Marnie was a few inches taller, as well.

  But at least Smith didn’t seem to have a Napoleon complex. He hadn’t tried to make anyone miserable to make himself taller in his own mind.

  He had just been honest.

  “I’ll see the waitress on my way out,” Smith said.

  “It’s all right. I’ve taken care of it,” Bryan said.

  Smith surveyed him. “A bodyguard who pays. Now, that’s new in Hollywood. We may just work this all out, Miss Davante!”

  Bryan wondered if Smith was aware Bryan had been studying him all the while as well, making his own observations and decisions. And one thing was in Smith’s favor—the man might be playing the game, hedging his bets.

  At least it didn’t seem that he was out to hurt Marnie Dav
ante in any way.

  But who the hell was?

  Someone from Marnie’s life?

  From the cast of Dark Harbor? Maybe. He’d start with them tomorrow, and with the producer who wanted to get the show going again—and then with anyone close to or invested in the revamping of the series. Possibly someone who didn’t want it to happen?

  When he had called the Krewe offices and talked to Jackson, asking for help, he knew the man would get his team working on bios of everyone involved, down to the nitty-gritty—things that couldn’t be learned from the star magazines that proliferated the grocery store racks.

  They watched Smith leave, and then Bryan turned to Marnie. “That didn’t go so badly, right?” he asked her, his voice soft.

  She looked up at him and gave him a real smile. It was weak, but it was real.

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  “I didn’t do anything, really.”

  “Yes, you did, and you know it. You stepped in at the right moment.” Her gaze at him then was slightly amused and slightly sardonic. “I hadn’t thought of humility as being one of your virtues—or faults,” she told him.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not,” he assured her. “So...what now?”

  “Bridget, and our new dog, of course,” she said.

  “Ah, yes, how could I forget?”

  He had given their waitress his credit card on their entry to the restaurant; she saw them standing and came quickly for his signature and to return the card.

  Bryan took Marnie by the arm, keeping her close as they left the restaurant and headed for his car.

  “You didn’t have to pick up the bill,” she told him.

  “If it will make you happier, I can total up expenses,” he said.

  “Oh, no. You can pay the bill. I’m just saying you didn’t have to.”

  They’d reached the car. He shielded her as she slid into the passenger’s seat. He walked around to the driver’s side, stepped in and revved the engine.

  They moved onto Sunset with no incident.

  * * *

  It had all seemed so simple at first.

  He’d really believed that he was just making the only move possible for the future to fall in as it should. For his future to fall in as it should, really.