Page 49 of The Ghost and the Graveyard (Knight Games 1)
"I have no idea." He materialized as he spoke.
Flipping open to a spread that included six photos of six-year-old me with my first dog, Nigel, I held it up in the direction of his glowing orb.
He sighed. "I can't talk about it. I literally cannot. Prudence has forbidden me to, and since she's the senior ghost, I must obey her."
I slapped the counter. "Why can't you tell me anything? You still haven't explained how you ended up in my attic."
"I told you, I'm not supposed to talk about that, either."
"Why not? What possible reason could Prudence have for not telling me why you're living in my attic? Or why she kept pictures of me under her bed."
"It's for your protection, to keep you safe. The secret must be revealed in a certain way."
I groaned, exasperated. "Can't you give me a clue? Anything?"
He placed his hands on his hips and hung his head.
"Logan, come on," I said.
"How did you get the name Grateful, anyway?"
Way to change the subject. I hated talking about my name, but people were naturally curious about it. I decided I'd try to use it as leverage. "I'll tell you, but in exchange you need to tell me what I want to know." I crossed my arms and tapped my foot.
"I told you-"
"I know you can't say it straight out, but you can give me a clue. That's all I'm asking for."
"Deal."
"My dad named me Grateful because my mother died in childbirth and he was grateful to have me."
"That must have made for a difficult childhood."
The comment caught me off guard. "Not really. My dad has always been there for me. I mean, there were times I missed having a mom, but it's not the same as missing a person you actually knew. I'd never met her."
"Has your father ever told you the full story of how it happened?"
I considered his question. "I guess not really. I mean, I know now that she bled out. There's a medical term-disseminated intravascular coagulation, or DIC. No one was to blame. I work in the hospital where she died. Every year on my birthday, my dad used to send a card to the nurse who helped with my delivery."
"What was the nurse's name?"
"You know, I don't remember. I just know my dad thought the world of her."
"Ask your father. Ask him for the nurse's name."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because that's the clue I promised you."
"Oh, you can't be serious! What possible connection could there be? You made this up."
"That was our deal. Take it or leave it."
I sighed. "Take it."
He blinked out of sight and the omelet he made me slid across the table in my direction. "Eat."
I tucked the scrapbook in the cabinet under the island and took a seat on the barstool. "Thanks, Logan," I said, forking eggs into my mouth. I was usually a Pop Tarts-for-breakfast kind of girl. I wondered what my body would do with these newfound vitamins and minerals.
