Nothing but the Ghosts

Chapter 2-3

Again, I pause outside the living room entrance and soak in the quiet. Any other time, I’d say the space was empty. Except this silence feels spiteful. I glance at the cups in my hands. Kona blend can solve a multitude of problems.

I’m not sure it’s up to this one.

Malcolm is at the fireplace, elbow propped on the mantelpiece, fingers rubbing his temples. Darien Armand is standing in the center of the room, his backpack at his feet.

I don’t know what to make of this. I never knew my parents; they died before I was old enough to have even a fleeting memory of them. I don’t understand the intricacies of a father-son relationship. I really don’t know how to bridge the gap between these two men.

I know ghosts and coffee, so I will start there and hope something happens along the way.

I offer the extra sweet to Malcolm’s father. “It’s Kona blend,” I say.

He takes the cup and inclines his head in what might be an acknowledgment.

“It’s a favorite of ghosts.” I cross the room to Malcolm and hand him the second cup. When I do, the pained expression leaves his eyes for a moment, but it returns far too quickly.

I turn so I can keep both men in my sights. “We use it on all our eradications—well, most of them. Some ghosts like tea, but you probably know that. Malcolm makes wonderful tea.” The words pour from me like sugar might pour from an upturned canister, and I can’t seem to stop them. They sound loud—and a little bit desperate—in this space. “We own a business together. Did you know that? K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists.”

“Really?” Darien takes a sip of the coffee.

No face scrunch, despite the amount of sugar I dumped into his cup. Instead, he presses his lips together. His expression is deliberately bland as if he doesn’t want to betray even a hint of admiration.

“So that would make you business partners,” he says.

It’s not his words so much as his tone that rankles. Malcolm lifts his head and stares at his father.

“Yes, we’re partners,” Malcolm says, and there’s a force to his words I’ve never heard before. “Katy’s my partner.”

“I see.” Darien takes another sip, and in that simple gesture is a world of condemnation.

Then it hits me. I remember Malcolm telling me about the Armands, how they’ve always been free-agent necromancers, how not so long ago, even Malcolm and Nigel were in competition with each other. Could that be it? Could their father disapprove of our partnership—and of me?

“You’ll forgive my confusion,” Darien continues. “I could’ve sworn it was your brother who was on his honeymoon.”

A flush invades my cheeks, hot and unrelenting. Something flashes in Malcolm’s eyes, something fiery and unforgiving—and flinty. In this moment, the two men are so alike that I’m scared of what might happen next.

“That’s enough.”

The measured tones come from the living room’s entrance. I turn to find Nigel standing there, framed by the threshold, hands tucked in his pockets. I gape, wondering at his prescience, when I see Belinda over his shoulder.

She’s holding up her cell phone and gives me a little shrug.

Nigel and his father stare at each other.

“You could offer me your congratulations,” Nigel says.

“Yes.” Darien lets the word hang in the air. He takes another sip of coffee before adding, “I could.”

Are all father-son relationships this fraught? The air is thick with unspoken accusations. Beneath that, something else simmers, not so much anger, but a deep and relentless hurt. There are wounds here that haven’t had the chance to scab over.

The racket from the kitchen makes me jump. I hear the timbre of Sadie’s voice, and I know she’s followed Nigel and has just commandeered my kitchen from Jack.

“Katy has graciously offered you her hospitality,” Nigel says. Again, it’s his tone that catches me.

It catches Darien as well. His skin is too weathered to truly show a blush, but his posture shifts, he nods in my direction and almost looks contrite.

“And my wife,” Nigel continues, and when he says wife, his eyes light up, and he can’t hide his smile. “My wife is a wonderful cook. Let’s talk over breakfast.”

I want to point out that, technically, it’s brunch, but I suspect that those are only more nonsense words that won’t help this situation. Before I can make things worse, Belinda darts into the living room and grabs my hand.

“Come on,” she says.

We slip past Nigel, who raises an eyebrow and then winks.

“Trust me,” Belinda says as we head up the stairs. “It’s always better to meet the parents when you’re fully dressed.”

“And you know this how?”

She merely laughs and when we reach the landing, shoves me into my room.