I ignored her, filled my tank in under a minute, then straddled my Harley again before giving her my full attention.

  She stood glaring at me as a soft breeze filtered sunlight through her silky blond hair. Hair that brushed her face like it craved the touch. When I continued to stare—partly in belligerence and partly in awe—she went off again, shouting at me about fucking manners and fucking motorcycles and fucking morons from New Mexico. She’d probably recorded my plate to report me to the gas pump police. So, I started my engine and revved it to drown out her curse words. I have sensitive ears.

  My actions only fueled her rage. Every time she opened her mouth—the pretty one with lips like overripe peaches—I revved the engine again, not even trying to hide the smirk I wore as I adjusted the strap on my helmet with my free hand.

  If not for the tears shimmering in her eyes, threatening to spill over remarkably dark lashes and slide down smooth, flushed cheeks, I wouldn’t have given up the game so soon. But she was clearly disturbed, so I put the bike in gear and started to drive off.

  The massive red truck behind me, waiting for the spot I was about to vacate, gave me pause. She was seconds away from losing the pump again, and despite her mental state—or maybe because of it—I didn’t want to see that happen. I hooked a thumb over my shoulder, indicating the dually, then pointed an index finger, half-shrouded by a black leather glove, toward her pickup.

  She caught on quickly. Her eyes widened with realization, and she hurried back to her single cab. As she eased it forward, I backed away from the pump, blocking the red truck’s entrance until she’d staked a solid claim.

  The bird I got from the other driver for that maneuver sat better with me than the tears I’d gotten from the woman, so I left the station baffled, agitated, and oddly satisfied.

  I’d laugh about it later. Much later. For now, I prayed there wasn’t an actual video. Surely, people had better things to do.

  It took Jason crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair to assess me in more depth for me to snap back to the present. I glanced at the kid again, checked my watch, then questioned my friend with a gentle arch of my brow. I was sophisticated like that.

  Jason’s expression was both curious and cautious. He squinted and circled an index finger at me as he went through a mental checklist. “Same dark hair with the requisite bad haircut.”

  “Bad?” I asked, only slightly offended.

  “Same shifty eyes.”

  “Shifty?”

  “Same stubborn jaw.”

  I lifted one corner of my mouth. “Some would call it strong.”

  “Even with all of that—”

  “Masculine.”

  “—you’re different.”

  “Rakish, even.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  I picked up the beer, downed it, and set the bottle on the table before tossing the guy a reassuring smirk. “You haven’t.”

  He scoffed. “You might be surprised.”

  I gestured toward Betty. “Besides the fact that you’ve upped your game, that is.” I studied the brunette, who was several years older than Jason, and peered into a moment nobody had a right to see. Nobody in their right mind, anyway.

  Sadly, I’d never been in my right mind, even as a kid. But a traumatic event five years ago made me even more of a freak, and over time I learned to do things that would challenge even the most open of minds.

  And this instance was no different. I relaxed and let the moment drift into my mind. Decades from now, Betty would lay in a hospital bed, surrounded by the diverse family she’d accumulated. A ragtag collection of castoffs, children she and her husband had taken in, a surrogate aunt here, a lost-and-found grandfather there, and a small but tight-knit army of bikers, the most loyal people on Earth. And by her side, holding her fragile hand, was her husband, Jason, aged yet somehow still handsome. Fucker.

  I gestured toward the brunette with a nod and looked back at said fucker. “She’s a good person.”

  “She meets your approval?” Jason asked, surprise registering in the barely perceptible rounding of his hazel eyes. “That’s a first.”

  It was, indeed. “Maybe you’ll actually listen this time.” Three failed marriages were enough for most people to swear off the age-old tradition. Not Jason Vigil. The man was nothing if not determined. “There’s just one problem,” I added.

  Jason made a resigned hissing sound and sat back in his chair. “Here it comes.”

  “She’s too good for you.”

  After a long, contemplative moment, Jason nodded. “I’m very aware.” He watched me, his gaze glistening and sharp as though he were trying to see into my soul.

  Good luck with that. It was as black and murky as a thunderhead at midnight. No amount of staring could penetrate that much swirling darkness.

  “Someday, you’re going to have to tell me how you do that,” Jason said. “How you always know.”

  I made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “Someday,” I lied.

  I’d grown up with gut feelings about people. Everyone has them, but my instincts were never wrong. So much so my friends accused me of being psychic. But after an ancient demon who wanted to take over the world possessed me five years ago, before a sassy, godlike creature from Albuquerque ripped it out of me—with the help of a Rottweiler named Artemis—my powers of intuition had multiplied tenfold. They’d morphed into an actual supernatural ability, for lack of a better phrase. A sleep-depriving, morbid, nightmarish ability. One I was still trying to come to terms with.

  I glanced at the kid yet again, then at my watch, growing more anxious as the time drew near.

  “You got somewhere to be?” Jason asked.

  “Not yet.” I took note of the kid’s dirty hair and torn denim jacket, which looked three sizes too big. “What? You don’t card people here?”

  Jason followed my line of sight. “Zachary Church. He’s a kid from the neighborhood. Looks younger than he is.”

  “There is no way that baby-faced punk, who’s about two shots away from puking his guts out, is twenty-one.”

  “As of last week.”

  “Ah.” I reached for the second bottle of Corona, but Jason swiped it from under my nose and downed half the contents before I could utter a single protest.

  “What?” he asked when he paused for a breath. “You were taking too long.”

  Realization dawned. “You just did that so you could call that cute server over again.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Not in the least. I was thinking about asking for her number.”

  Jason’s jaw went slack seconds before he slammed it shut so hard the muscles jumped in protest.

  “You know, a test of sorts.”

  His hand tightened around the bottle.

  “Make sure she’s really into you.”

  His other hand curled into a fist.

  I let my second-best grin, the slow and calculated one, spread across my face. “That’s what you get for drinking my beer, asshole.”

  Jason held onto his irritation for a few gloriously tense seconds before letting the agitation drain from his body. Good thing. The guy punched like a sledgehammer. He drew in a deep breath and chose his voice over violence. “Does that mean you’re actually going to pay for your drinks this time?”

  “As long as I get the ninety-seven percent friends-and-family discount.”

  It was Jason’s turn to arch a sophisticated brow. “And you think you qualify?”

  That hurt. I grabbed my chest, hoping to generate some Oscar buzz, and whispered, “Ouch.”

  Jason scoffed and ordered two more beers while I returned to my drawing. He gave me a minute before clearing his throat.

  I ignored him.

  “Now that I have your undivided attention—”

  He didn’t.

  “—I have a confession to make.”

  Getting closer.

  “And a favor to ask.”

  Intrigue won out. Damn it. I put the pen down. My drawing sucked, anyway. “Don’t tell me that rash came back. That was a one-time deal, buddy.” I held up an index finger to drive my point home. “I smelled like menthol ointment for three days.” That stuff would not wash off.

  “What? No.” Jason scooted closer to shush me. “My invitation wasn’t one hundred percent altruistic.”

  I blinked at him, waiting for more info.

  “I have a friend in trouble.”

  Dread slithered up my spine, leaving a trail of ice in its wake. Jason was the most down-to-earth guy I knew. He didn’t have a manipulative bone in his body. Why would he invite me to Idaho without giving me the real reason unless he was certain I would flat-out refuse? And there was only one reason I would do that.

  “Your kind of trouble.”

  Oh, hell no.

  I was done. No more dead people. No more hellhounds trying to cuddle in the middle of the night. And no more asshole demons attempting to worm their way into my brain. That was the plan, anyway, and I was sticking to it. Through sheer force of will, I held the fact that my abilities followed me no matter how far I ran at bay. Swimming in a luxurious state of denial. And I would’ve stayed there if not for the kid.

  I glanced at him again, wondering how many shots he could take before getting intimately acquainted with the floor. Apparently, he wondered the same thing. He downed yet another shot, coughed up his left lung, then raised his hand for another.

  Thankfully, the bartender cut him off with a warning shake of his head.

  “Vause,” Jason said.

  “Vigil,” I said back.

  He sighed loudly enough to be heard over the din. “Eric.”

  “Jason.” He would run out of names soon. Then where would we be?

  “I’ll never understand how you do what you do.”

  “I’m on vacation,” I lied. I wasn’t on vacation. I was done. Canada was calling my name, and I had every intention of answering. Right after I saw to the kid at the bar.

  “It’s just…the stuff you said the other night when I called...”

  I started drawing again, desperately trying to get the shading right. “I’m still on vacation.”

  “Can you really see that shit?”

  “Yeah, but I’m on vacation.” It would help if I knew what I was drawing. And if I wasn’t drawing it on a napkin.

  “Ghosts and demons and hellhounds?”

  I stopped and put all my frustration into a single accusatory glare. “When you called, I was about six bottles too many into a really rough night. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “But seriously. Hellhounds?” He looked around to make sure no one was listening before continuing, his tone conspiracy-theory soft. “Like, they’re a real thing?”

  “They’re really quite sweet once you get to know them.”

  “And the grim reaper is real? ’Cause I’m not gonna lie, I haven’t been able to sleep since you told me.”

  “Right? And you haven’t even met her.”

  He reared back in his chair as if I’d told him the world was about to end. Or that he had a hair out of place. “Her?”

  “She’s a peach. No, wait.” I squinted in thought, then amended my statement. “She’s like a deadly peach. Like a peach with a claymore inside.”

  Jason chose that moment to get offended. “All this time, dude. All these years, and you never told me what was going on.”

  I decided to give him something to actually be offended about. “You were busy getting married. And then divorced. And then re-married. And then divorced. And then—”

  “I get it,” he said, his tone razor-wire sharp. “Fucker.”

  The redhead glanced our way and smiled.

  “Like I said, I have a friend—”

  “About time.” I raised my chin in greeting.

  “She’s actually my partner’s daughter.”

  Skintight Jimi Hendrix tee, camouflage shorts that left little to the imagination, and army boots.

  “She has a problem.”

  I could definitely see myself standing at attention in front of her. “Is it that you’re her friend?”

  “It’s…well, it’s in your line of work.”

  “Did I mention I’m on vacation?”

  “I’m actually a little surprised you haven’t spotted her yet.”

  That jerked me out of my lecherous thoughts. “Her?”

  Please be the redhead.

  Please be the redhead.

  Please be the redhead.

  “Everyone else in the bar has.” He pointed to the area behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder, spotted a blonde sitting in the corner booth, then turned toward her slowly, my jaw going slack as recognition sent a shockwave rocketing through my body. “That’s her,” I said, disbelief softening my voice. “That’s the undermedicated gas pump lady.”

  I turned back to see Jason wearing that same shit-eating grin. “Yeah, I thought you might have been talking about her.”

  “You knew I was talking about your partner’s daughter?”

  “Not at first,” he said, offended.

  “Wait, you have a partner?”

  “The blond hair and black Chevy single cab clued me in.”

  “When did you get a partner?”

  “She’s been through a lot.”

  I gave up trying to distract him and decided to take a more proactive approach. “Does she always come unhinged that easily?”

  He stared at me to make sure he had my attention, then said again, “She’s been through a lot.”

  Fucking hell. I turned back to her. She sat in a corner booth bathed in sunlight, head down, nose buried in a book, impervious to the hustle and bustle around her. Men cast interested glances her way while their dates glared.

  Betty set a cup of hot tea on her table, a tell-tale string and tag hanging over the side of the thick mug. She followed it with what looked like a pastry, as though the woman were sitting in a coffee shop and not a rowdy, testosterone-filled bar.

  But it didn’t take long for me to glimpse a flaw in the picturesque scene or notice her shaking hands. Her chewed nails. She set the book down and picked up the tea, and I thought for a moment she might drop the mug.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, hating myself for it. I was the last person on Earth who could help someone. Most of my attempts at heroism failed. Miserably. This would be no different. “And what does my particular set of skills,” I continued, managing to keep a straight face, “have to do with it?”

  “If I were saying this to anyone else…” Jason began but paused, so I turned back to him. He tapped an irregular rhythm on the table—his nervous tic—before trying again. “She’s being haunted.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Has been since she was a kid.”

  “Are you punking me right now? Because I swear to God—”

  He held up a hand to stop me. “I know how it sounds. But you, of all people, should understand.”

  “I of all people?” I resisted the urge to grind my teeth to dust.

  “Come on, man.” He collapsed against the back of his chair. “You know about this shit. You can see things others can’t.”

  I released a long breath and stated a simple fact. “She’s not being haunted.”

  “I didn’t think so at first either.”

  “She’s not being haunted,” I reiterated.

  “I’ve seen the evidence. There’s no other way to explain it.”

  “She’s not being haunted,” I said yet again, dropping my voice to a dangerous level.

  “Why?” he shouted, alarming everyone around us.

  Betty looked over in concern.

  He shook his head at her, but he also caught the blonde’s attention. She looked up from her book, a delicate line forming between her brows as she tried to figure out what was going on.

  I turned my back to her and ducked my head, hoping to avoid her wrath. She was like a demon in sheep’s clothing. I scowled at Jason.

  “Why?” Jason asked, softer this time.

  “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I rubbed my eyes with one hand—it had been a long two days—and refocused on him, wrangling my patience and putting it to good use. It wasn’t Jason’s fault that he didn’t understand my fucked-up world. Few of the populace did. “I’m not saying people can’t be haunted. Departed are pretty much everywhere, and poltergeists are straight-up assholes, but the departed don’t generally fuck with the living. Most of them couldn’t even if they wanted to.” I didn’t mention the fact that poltergeists pretty much lived—metaphorically—to fuck with the living. Mostly, because the odds of her having an actual poltergeist were astronomical. When he frowned, trying to process my meaning, I explained further. “Whatever is going on with her, it’s most likely not supernatural.”

  After all, I’d seen her temper. She’d proven her stability issues to me only an hour earlier. Not that one thing couldn’t lead to another or vice versa. Could her genuinely being haunted lead to other problems? A decline in physical and mental well-being? Of course. It just wasn’t likely. Most often, the person was delusional to begin with.

  It was nothing to be ashamed of. I knew more about mental disorders than most. I also knew more about the paranormal underworld than most, hence my plan to run for the border.

  “I saw a video,” Jason said as if that cleared everything right up.

  “Because those can’t be manipulated.”

  “Dude.” He scrubbed his face and growled in frustration. “Why would she even do that?”

  “You forget, I’ve seen her Jekyll and Hyde routine.”

  “Yes, but why?” he pleaded. “What would she have to gain? She lost her shit when she found out I’d seen the video.”

  I nodded. “That, I can believe.”

  He jolted forward, hope alight in his eyes. “You believe me about the ghost?”

  “No, I’ve seen her lose her shit. I believe that part.”

  He collapsed again. It was like watching a soap opera. “She doesn’t want anyone to know, so why create a video proving she has a ghost? Or a poltergeist. Or whatever you call it.”

  “Fine,” I said, giving an inch. “Let’s say a departed has attached itself to her. Or to something she has. What am I supposed to do about it?”