“Maybe,” I say. “She certainly seems to have her own personality.”

  “And what’s her personality? Please don’t say driven.”

  “Tough. Scrappy. Protective. Adventurous. Energetic.”

  “Wow, you put some thought into this.”

  “It’s occurred to me over the years. Why do flesh and blood get souls? Why not machines, too?”

  “Okay, now I know you’re messing with me.”

  I glance at her, smiling. “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Except, I’m not. The thought occurred to me a few years ago, back when I considered getting rid of the Momvan for a new crime-fighting vehicle. Then I dreamed of the Momvan, and in it, she asked me to keep her, that she loved fighting crime with me and protecting me. I know, weird. Welcome to my life.

  From my peripheral vision, I sense Allison staring at me. I give her a wink and continue driving.

  With our Coffee Bean coffees down to pools of tasteless spittle, we find ourselves on a side road just off of Carbon Canyon. The stadium is lit up brightly. I’m pretty sure I hear voices inside. Nancy has a skeleton crew working around the clock. After all, her first big event is just a week. That it happens to be my daughter’s graduation is just another way the Universe winks at me. Or so I’ve heard.

  The thing is, I get the hidden meaning: I’m supposed to be working this case for some reason. What that reason is, I don’t know. Help a woman with bullfighting in her blood get her stadium up and running? Or is there something else going on?

  I guess we’ll see.

  Having been given full access to the arena by Nancy herself, I drive right up to the main entrance. The doors under the archway are wide open. For size comparison, the stadium is a cross between a minor league baseball stadium and a college football field. Side aisles angle down toward the dirt field, which presently sits in darkness. Lights, I know, have been installed all around the field proper.

  As we pass the bronze statue of the bullfighter, both Allison and Millicent stop next to it.

  “Do you feel that, Millie?”

  The ghost nods. “I do, child.”

  “Feel what?” I ask.

  “There’s energy coming off it,” says Allison.

  “Too vague, dear,” says Millie, shaking her head. “There’s a spiritual attachment to it.”

  “Is the, um, spirit attached to it now?” I ask.

  “No,” says Millicent. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if it had just been here.”

  “It’s veritably crackling, Sam. You can’t feel that?”

  I touch it. “Not really, no.”

  “What about using your psychometry?”

  “I have no control over that, and it generally only works when an item is imprinted with a lot of emotion. Human emotion. Not ghost emotion.”

  With the statue still on our minds (after all, what was attached to it and why?), we continue on. There is indeed construction going on, though construction might not be the right word for it. There is less building going on, and more finishing up. With the sound of tools whirring, music playing, and a few conversations going on here and there, it’s obvious the crew will be here all through the night.

  We move down the same passageway I’d followed earlier today. Bowl-shaped, the stadium is one of those single-level deals, with a steep walk-up steps to the upper seats. Unlike pro football stadiums, this one isn’t multi-tiered. We come across a guy winding up what looks like miles of cable. He crisscrosses it over his arms in a manner that suggests he knows what he’s doing. He nods at us as we go by, never suspecting he’s nodding to a vampire, a witch, and a ghost.

  “I’m not seeing any ghosts, Sam,” says Allison when we’re out of earshot of the guy.

  “Neither am I. Then again, I didn’t see anything earlier, either.”

  “That is because she’s not here, girls. She prefers darkness and solitude. Come, this way.”

  Allison and I look at each other as the fully solid ghost brushes past us, her ectoplasmic skirt swirling around her ankles. Luckily, there are not too many people here to question why one of us is dressed in old-timey garb.

  We follow Millie around the curve of the stadium. She moves surprisingly fast. No, she’s not floating over the ground. She can’t in her present solidified state, which has actual weight to it.

  She hangs a left down a side aisle, and for some reason, I’m not very surprised when she points to a door that says ‘Storage Room.’

  “She’s in there,” says Millie, crossing her arms.

  As I grip the doorknob, the small hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.

  “Oh, yeah,” whispers Allison, rubbing her bare arms, despite the night being quite warm. “Here be ghosts.”

  As I step into the room, I feel as if I’m walking through an electrified fog. A strange feeling, for sure. The room is cavernous. We are below a section of the stadium. Light from the stadium proper splashes down through various gaps and openings. This is an ancient building, after all—or as ancient as we get out here in southern California. Also, it wasn’t made to be waterproof. It was constructed a few hundred years ago to watch bullfights. I can only imagine how much work went into making sure this thing now passed California building codes.

  The room is packed with power tools and bigger woodworking equipment, most of which are under tarps. It’s quieter in here, as we are far away from much of the work going. It’s also colder, too. Perhaps even too cold.

  “I was thinking the same thing, Sammy,” says Allison.

  My night vision is seeing the hell out of this storage space, just not revealing what is giving off these supernatural sparks. Both Allie and I fall into step behind Millicent, who leads the way inside.

  About halfway into the space, Millicent stops and points up at the rafters. “She’s up there.”

  “I don’t see her,” I say.

  “Me neither,” says Allison.

  “She doesn’t want to be seen and probably doesn’t know how to manifest very well.”

  “Is she the only ghost here?” I ask. “Well, besides you.”

  If Millie is offended, she doesn’t show it. “She’s the only ghost I’ve seen, Samantha, though the space is filled with a lot of energy. I believe others come to visit, though they do not stay.”

  “And she stays?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Can you talk to her, Mills?” asks Allison.

  Our ghostly friend shakes her head. “With each step I take, she moves that much further away.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you?”

  “I believe not.”

  “Any reason why?”

  “I believe she is afraid of me.”

  “Wow,” says Allison. “A ghost who’s afraid of ghosts.”

  “Yes.”

  I say, “Can you speak to her, you know, telepathically?”

  Millie shakes her head. “It’s possible. But she is not allowing it. She is afraid and wants us to go. That much I do know.”

  “Can you make out any details?” I ask.

  “She died young. And she doesn’t speak English. Oh, and she’s wearing a white dress... with blood on the front.”

  “The front, where exactly?” asks Allison.

  “Over her heart, child. I believe she was shot.”

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, I’m recharging at a Starbucks.

  Not in an electronic and caffeinated way, but in an energetic way. I know, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. People are here looking for their own caffeine boost, and here I am, siphoning what little energy they scrape together. First off, I don’t take that much from them; plus, they’re filling up anyway, right? Second, Starbucks is usually packed, so it’s one-stop snacking for me. Third, I get to have an iced breve afterward.

  Fully recharged and drink in hand, I wave a slightly confused-looking Nancy over to me. She nods and hurries over. As she slides in, I ask if she wants a drink. She shakes her head and says there’s still lots to be done before their first big event.

  “Then I’ll get right to the point. I don’t think the stadium is as haunted as you think it is, but it’s definitely haunted.”

  She cocks her head, confused.

  “Meaning, there don’t appear to be the sheer number of ghosts you might think a place like that might have, due to the degree of the loss of life your arena has seen. I’m guessing most of the aggrieved souls didn’t make the trip across the pond, so to speak, and stayed in Spain, undoubtedly a place they hold special.”

  She nods. “Makes sense. But you did say it is haunted, correct?”

  “I did. But you’re not surprised.”

  “No. We have all seen things, felt things. Something scared Ricardo off the scaffolding.”

  “We went through the entire stadium, top to bottom, and we can only report one ghost, though you might have the occasional fly-by, but I wouldn’t call that a haunting. Ghosts pop in and out all the time. Sitting here in Starbucks, likely a few have already popped in and out on their way to god knows where.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I used to see them,” I say. “Like, all the time.”

  She looks skeptical, and I don’t blame her. And since I’m not here to convince of her anything, I give her a quick prompt to take my word as truth, and she does.

  “Wow, that must have been scary, Sam.”

  I shrug. “You get used to it. The point is, a fly-by ghost does not a haunting make. That said, you have one ghost deeply attached to your structure. She does not appear likely to leave of her own accord.”

  “The lady in the white dress.”

  “She would be the one,” I say, sipping from the opening in the cup’s lid. Even with degenerative taste buds, the coffee still tastes rich and strong. “Question: any idea who she is? We couldn’t get a read on her, other than it appeared she had been shot.”

  Nancy nods. “The rumor is, she took her own life. Wow, I forgot to mention her last time. Even more death! Granted, her suicide is only a rumor.”

  “Why did she take her life?” I ask.

  “Well, nothing’s been documented, but supposedly, it has to do with the matador statue out front.”

  I sit up a little. “Okay.”

  “Well, legend has it that the model for the statue was her fiancé. Young love. Both in their teens. But I really don’t know for sure about that. The bullfighter is real, though. His name was Juan Carlos and, at the time of his death, he was generally considered the greatest bullfighter in all of Madrid, despite only being sixteen-years-old. People came from all over to see him fight. It is said each step was poetry in motion. He seemed unstoppable, until he fought the white bull. After a bloody and protracted fight, both were killed at the same time. One got stabbed, the other got gored.”

  “This is a true story?”

  “Oh, yes,” she says. “All of Madrid mourned his loss. Legend has it that he left behind a fiancé, who was found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in the stadium the very next day.”

  “Where in the stadium?”

  “One of our storage rooms—which, coincidentally, is where we get the most paranormal activity. That and around the statue.”

  Okay, now it’s making sense. Most of the ghosts didn’t make the trip here from Spain. But one did, attached to the statue of her one-time fiancé.

  Nancy looks at her phone and half stands. “I’m sorry. Got to get the place ready for your daughter’s graduation.”

  “Of course, no problem.”

  Nancy asked, “Will you get rid of her? The Lady in White, I mean. Or at least ask her to stop causing so many problems and scaring my workers?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you. And Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you seen any sign of curses? Did your witchy friends pick up on anything?”

  “Nothing yet,” I say.

  “Do you believe in curses?”

  “I’m on the fence about that.”

  “Same here, but hard to deny the stadium has seen its fair share of tragedy. Remember, I’ll pay you extra to remove any curses, too.”

  I make plans with her to again swing by the stadium today, this time with a psychic medium who can speak to the dead. She tells me again that I have free rein of her stadium. And with that, we say adios.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m at my son’s gym.

  Yes, my son’s gym. It had been willed to him by an Irish ex-boxer and former badass; Jacky had been my longtime friend, boxing coach, and confidant. The ‘gym’ features a center boxing ring with a few ancillary rings around it. Sometimes real boxers, kickboxers, or MMA fighters show up here. Been hearing some good things about a couple of young grapplers. Apparently, Josiah and Tommy only spar each other, which is probably a good thing. According to my son, they just might be a vampire and a werewolf, respectively. Both have asked my son to join their practice matches. So far, Anthony’s refused. Not sure how an angel-in-training would fare against immortal warriors.

  My son’s been working out here more and more. I think it’s part of his secret angel training (which I know next to nothing about). Getting his physical body stronger seems a waste of time, especially if he’s going to just phase into an angelic body. But my son won’t tell me anything about his training.

  This morning, however, he’s doing more than working out.

  He’s sparring with his mother.

  At Kingsley’s suggestion, more weightlifting equipment has been added to the space, and now Jacky’s advertises itself as a complete gym with something for everyone. It still doesn’t have a pool or spa or racquetball court, but who’s complaining? A childcare wing did open, which I found adorable. That my son owns all this is nuts.

  Anthony and I try not to show off, but sometimes, we can’t help it. Keep in mind, we’re only going at about half speed. Like good boxers-in-training, we both wear protective headgear and training gloves, which are thicker. The gloves are for show, same as the headgear.

  Hey, we have to at least give off the impression that we spar with some semblance of safety.

  Still, we attract a small crowd. Every now and then, someone wants to film us, but I send out a quick suggestion to forget the idea. Ant and I don’t need to go viral on TikTok. Meanwhile, most of our sparring is punch, block, duck and weave, sidestep. Jacky taught us all of it. Doing it at half speed takes almost as much concentration. Had Ant and I really been sparring, I suspect our movements would be a blur to the naked eye—and gather a lot more unwanted attention.

  “Slow down, Ma,” he says behind his gloves. “You’re speeding up again.”

  I bounce back, shake my gloves, hop from foot to foot. I’m sweating a lot. He is, too. It’s a great workout. I count ten women and a few men watching us. No phones out, thank goodness. The building is one of the oldest in downtown Fullerton. Big windows reveal a busy street beyond, both cars and pedestrians. The gym never has to advertise. New signups just walk right in, straight from the street.

  Someone—a young man—is pulling a phone out near the chest press machine and is about to point it in our direction when I shut it down with a suggestion to leave the gym and eat a much-deserved bagel. The guy nods, grinning as if he’d just had the best idea ever. He shoves his phone in his shorts pocket and marches out of the gym.

  “He’s going to gain back everything he worked so hard to lose today, Ma.”

  “Naw, he’s fine. Hey, how did you know...?”

  “No, I can’t read your mind,” he says behind his gloves, just loud enough for me. “But I am... aware.”

  “Aware of what?”

  “General attitudes, impulses, intentions. Nothing too deep.”

  “Sounds deep to me.”

  “Well, I’m learning as I go,” he says, and launches a super-fast jab that hits me under the eye.

  “Whoa, mister. You said to slow it down.”

  He grins, his hands up like Jacky taught us. “That was a love tap.”

  “That’s sweet that you love the woman who gave birth to you,” I say, and unleash a flurry of ‘love taps’ of my own: body blows, uppercuts, overhead roundhouses. He blocks most of them, one of the few people who could. But a straight right hits him in the jaw and sends him staggering.

  “Mom! Sheesh. That was too hard.”

  “Really? I’m so sorr—”

  A ploy. He steps right, ducks, and lands an uppercut that I literally didn’t see coming. Half speed. Not even full force. But it’s enough to lift me up on my toes and damn near bite off my tongue.

  “No mas,” I say, the famous Roberto Durán quote from when he fought Sugar Ray Leonard. Yes, I’m that old.

  “Sorry, Ma.”

  I raise my gloves. “Don’t be sorry. I literally don’t feel it anymore.”

  He wraps an arm around me. He sports a white tank top, displaying his wide shoulders. He hasn’t filled out all the way yet, but I know in the years—or months—to come, those shoulders are going to be massive and round.

  We step out of the ring as another trainer steps in with his female client. She’s wearing headgear, he’s not, though he’s wearing practice target pads on his hands. As we settle in near some rolled mats, wiping our faces with towels, I ask Ant if it still feels weird knowing that he owns all of this, and literally employs about a dozen employees, never mind the independent trainers who use the space for a small fee.

  “It’s still a little weird, though it’s definitely really low on the weird scale in my life.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, I can see that. Do you ever blame me for starting all the weird stuff?”

  “For getting attacked in a park and turned into, well, you know? No, Mom. No one would. I guess maybe you shouldn’t have been out jogging late at night, but who would have ever thought that would happen?”

  “Well, I was on their radar, even if I didn’t know it.”

  My son knew the story of my turning and how Elizabeth and company had chosen me to be her host, and how my sire had stepped in to at least foil part of their plan. Though I had been attacked, I had not yet been turned, thanks to his vanquishing of the vampire who had surprised me in Hillcrest Park. Staring down at his mortally wounded one-time daughter, he had made the decision to save me; thus, he had been given full access to my thoughts (something I had not been aware of). Better him than the monster that had attacked me.