The call comes at three in the morning. No name, just a local number that blurs before my eyes. I don’t think I can handle a ghost eradication on only two hours of sleep. But it’s December, and that brings out the worst in ghosts. I answer because—to quote Malcolm—it’s what we do.
“Is this Katy Lindstrom?” a voice asks, husky and feminine and completely unfamiliar.
“Yes.” I’m oddly reluctant to respond. Maybe it’s the hour or the woman’s tone. I blink and taste the air. I almost never end up with even a playful sprite, but something feels off kilter to me.
“And you’re the ghost catcher, right?” the woman says.
“I am, along with my partner, Malcolm Armand.”
“Oh, he’s the cute one.”
I haven’t conducted an actual survey of how many cute guys live in Springside, but I’m pretty certain Ma
