Page 54 of The Ghost and the Graveyard (Knight Games 1)
My Jeep waited for me in the third row where I left it. No one was there. I even squatted to look underneath. Shaking my head, I pulled my keys out of my pocket and reached for the door. The stench of Gary's cologne wafted over me and I whipped around. Nothing.
I climbed behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life. Stupid Gary. Stealing my money wasn't enough; now he wanted the car too? If it was him, he'd better hope I never caught him near my stuff again, or there was a very real possibility I'd make him disappear again, permanently.
My Past Haunts Me
Logan didn't come out that night, probably avoiding another confrontation about Prudence and the scrapbook. In fact, my house was pleasantly devoid of ghosts. I went to bed early thinking about our last conversation. Logan's words kept repeating in my head. "Ask your father. Ask him for the nurse's name. That's your clue."
The next day, I decided follow up on Logan's clue and call my dad over my lunch break. Across the street from the hospital is a restaurant called Valentine's. St. John's employees love it, because if you're wearing scrubs they serve you first. It's nice when people recognize a long lunch could mean someone's life. Plus, the food is better than the cafeteria, and they serve a yummy cappuccino. After 7:00 p.m., they open a bar in the back with a small dance floor surrounded by dartboards and pool tables. It's a great place to hang out.
I found a quiet booth and ordered a sandwich from an annoyingly perky waitress. Then I dialed Dad on my cell. It was a hard conversation to start. How do you ask a man about the day his wife bled to death? The topic was generally avoided in our family.
But when I thought about backing down, I thought about my ghost. Logan had hinted that this story would help me understand why he was in my attic and what I needed to know about Rick. I wanted to solve the mystery of my haunted house, but I also wanted to help him find peace. Not everyone would take a knife in the gut to help a friend, ghost or not. Logan was a good person, dead or alive.
"Hello," my dad said in his real estate agent voice, like he pooped sunshine and rainbows. It was why he was so good at what he did.
"Dad, it's me."
"Hi, sweetie. Everything okay with the new place?"
"Sure, yeah. It's great."
"What's up, then?"
"I need to talk to you about when I was a baby. It's just something I've been thinking about, and I have to know. I want you to tell me the whole story, everything you remember about when I was born."
Silence. I checked to make sure the call was still connected.
"What brought this on?" he finally asked.
"Well, now that I'm a nurse myself, and I'm working at the same hospital where I was born, I just feel the need to know. I'm only twenty-two, and some of the staff here has been around for thirty or forty years. What if I run into someone who was involved with my birth?"
"There's no chance of that." My father's voice sounded grim.
I was sorry for ruining his day by digging up ancient memories, but I needed to know. "Why?"
"Listen, I'll come over tonight. We'll talk about this in person. This isn't a conversation for the phone."
"Okay." The word came out of my throat like a cough.
"I'll see you tonight."
"I get off at seven."
We ended the call, but words that needed to be aired pressed themselves against the phone. I wasn't sure how my ghost knew, but my dad had something to tell me. I both welcomed and dreaded his visit.
* * * * *
Robert Knight, real estate agent, walked up to my house minutes after I arrived home. He wore a tailored gray suit with a black leather satchel strung across the shoulders and only became Dad when I opened the door and my hug broke his professional demeanor.
"Hi, Dad. Thanks for coming."
He kissed the top of my head. With a full coif of short black hair and only a slight pattern of gray above his ears, people often mistook him for ten years younger than he was. His movie star good looks and athletic physique added to the illusion of youth. Growing up, neighborhood women and house-hunting clients were always making excuses to flirt with him, but he never seemed interested. I never really thought about why. As a kid, my innocent mind just assumed he was happy with our family and didn't need another wife.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
He followed me into the kitchen and took a seat on a stool at the island. "Yeah. Scotch, straight up."
I laughed. "Scotch? Sorry, I don't drink the stuff."
