Chapter One

I felt so cold. It was the paralyzing cold that went to the bone and beyond, freezing you on the spot. And in a sense, it was like fear. Fear of messing up. I was trusting Tate to help me with the burial of Dylan Barlow, the forty-seven year old ghost who decided to bug the living hell out of me for the last eight nights.

As a mediator, my job was as much of a curse as a blessing. I couldn't tell anyone about my 'gift' because they would all probably assume I was crazy. Maybe I was, and everything I was seeing was only an illusion. But I doubted I was crazy, as much as the next unfortunate victim of this 'gift.' My arms were covered in goosebumps. The heavy polyester sweater I was wearing was far from enough to keep me from feeling the biting cold of the mid-February night. My toes were even starting to go numb in my fuzzy blue and black socks, and black leather boots. Tate was late, which was no surprise; maybe I could bury the remains myself. Especially since the sky continued to fade from navy blue to black. There were no stars in the sky to keep the cemetery decently lit. Excuse the pun, but it was as dark and quiet as the grave.

I had hardly any time to reconsider before Tate appeared, holding a shovel in one hand, a pair of gloves in another. His own hands were kept warm with his own pair of gloves. "Late enough, as always,"I commented dryly."So sorry I couldn't come to you any sooner, Callie. My time was required elsewhere." He had a slight accent I could never place, but I knew that he was from somewhere in Europe, originally. His eyes were as blue as midnight, his hair pitch black. I knew that personally, although I tried to not be close to him. It was uncomfortable for me to be around any ghost for an unusually long amount of time. Tate drove the shovel into the ground, and handed me the spare gloves. "You forgot them. You're probably freezing,"He muttered. He knew how forgetful I could be. It was kind of a bonus to live with a ghost, despite the uncomfortable times.

Of course, it's not like I put up a poster in some store saying I was looking for an undead roommate. He had died in the mid-eighteen hundreds, in the apartment I moved into a few months ago. For the most part, he was confined to the place. But there were rare occasions he could haunt other places (where I usually was.) Sometimes I had a nagging feeling he liked to follow me, but I never paid much attention to me. Besides, did a ghost really have anything better to do when they had eternity to pass on? I allowed myself another moment to pause on the thought, before grabbing the shovel and digging it into the fresh earth.

Dylan Barlow was a gangster when he was alive in the early nineteen fifties. Someone hired a hit man on him, and left his remains in an abandoned car lot near Preston Beach. I was just the unfortunate victim that happened to be able to see him, and hear his complaints non-stop. He was going bald (although he insisted he was only thinning.) He was a little over on the unhealthy side with his weight, but if you ignored almost everything about him, he wasn't all bad. I scoffed, causing Tate's head to pop up from his hole digging. "Are you losing your marble's over there, Callie?" An eyebrow quirked up in amusement, his dark eyes growing light.

I shrugged, my lips curving into a smile that I knew was more like a scowl of sorts. I wiped my hands on my sweat pants, and leaned against a headstone. It was probably considered disrespectful in some places to do such a thing, but I didn't care. "Nope. I still have all of my marbles. At least, I think so..." Despite the fact that he was from Europe, Tate was literal in an extreme sense. I found it to be a slightly enjoyable quirk about him, seeing as how he had so few. "You might want to check that when you have a spare moment. Can't be losing marbles... It makes a mess..." He went back to working diligently.

To any untrained eye, Tate could almost look human. He worked in a flannel jacket that almost seemed too small to contain the muscle in his biceps, and his faded blue jeans were torn at the knee. It reminded me of some kind of lumberjack in a way. As if feeling my eyes weighing him down, he glanced back up at me, blue eyes glittering like sapphire stones in the sun. There was a hint of amusement, and then something more, something unreadable. It was a look I knew he wore rarely. If he weren't a ghost, I wouldn't of hesitated to say it made him look undeniably sexy. But he was a ghost, and nearly a hundred or so years older than me. It made some subconscious voice kick myself for even thinking about it.

"I've been thinking, Callie." His words were short, and thoughtful. Tate usually didn't ever tell anyone -or me -when he was thinking something, let alone tell what he was thinking. I grabbed a hold of the shovel, trying not to sound too interested. "About?" My voice was muffled by the sound of the shovel hitting rocks underneath the soil. I glanced up at him, only to find him standing at the foot of the hole we had been digging. "Resting."

Now I didn't want to try and sound uninterested. I automatically knew what Tate meant. The final rest, the 'no more haunting' kind of resting. He was thinking about finally going towards the hypothetical light, and meeting whoever he had left in his own time. It was surprising to hear it, and as much as I wanted to deny that it kind of hurt me in some way, I knew it was wrong to keep him from what he deserved. "Oh. What... what made you think about it?" He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, and sighed, taking a seat on the frozen, snow covered ground. "Well, to start, I'm just tired. I'd like to know first hand if there really is a heaven..."

He sounded wistful, and I understood. He was simply tired of roaming the world, and being stuck in the same place. Of course, it may have had something to do with the personal loss of everyone he loved, too. As far as I was made aware in the last month, he had died at the ripe age of twenty-four. He hadn't told me much more than that. We shared a look of honest understanding. Even though he was a ghost, in my nineteen years, he understood me better than anyone I had ever known. And it was the same way with him, save his younger sister Isabelle, who was several years younger than he was. At least, that's what I had gathered.

"Do you know what you have to do to move on?" I asked cautiously, not wanting to go further into the topic. To me, it was unnerving. I had no idea how long he had been considering it, nor when he wanted it to be done. "No, actually, I don't. But it can't be so hard that I can't figure it. Although I guess there are some things worth staying here for..." His voice got lower, just barely audiable for my human ears to hear, but I heard it. I refused to risk looking at him for the moment, and continued to dig. I could feel the cold no longer, since shoveling kept me moving, and kept my blood pumping. "You must be referring to our wonderful home cooked meals, right?" I asked, trying to seem joking. Tate cleared his throat, and replied,"Of course. What else could it be?"

I smirked knowingly, and stayed silent. What else could he be talking about? I mused at the thought that he had some ghostly girlfriend in the Land of the Dead, and they talked about running off together into the proverbial sunset. (Or the light, as we mediators call it.) I opted to keep my thoughts to myself, figuring Tate wouldn't find it quite as funny as I did. The digging continued, until the head of my shovel hit the coffin of Amelia Barlow, Dylan Barlow's wife. Perfect. Now all we needed to do was put Dylan's remains inside, and be done with the whole thing. I moved to the end of the coffin, Tate moving to the other end. We used our shovels to pry it open.

The mere smell alone was overwhelming; it was gruesome, pure death. It was enough to nearly make me vomit. I climbed out of the grave, and grabbed a hold of Dylan's remains. Did I need to take them out of the bag first? Or did I just dump it in with his wife? I couldn't help any feelings of amusement with how rude I was being. I had to consider what I would want if I were in his situation. And I was sure I would be, some far off day. I laid the bones out, so that Amelia and Dylan were both laying next to each other. Tate laughed quietly. "Feeling sentimental, Callie?"

I didn't exactly find any type of personal amusement for Tate, but it seemed like something he did, just to do it. I jumped out of the coffin, and closed the lid with the shovel. "No,"I murmured thoughtfully, tossing the shovel aside,"Not sentimental. I just did what I would want if I were in his place. To be buried with a loved one..." I sighed quietly, and rubbed my hands together, thankful that my apartment wasn't too far away. It was within walking distance, if I wanted to walk in the bleak, snowy night. But I didn't. I would drive home, take a bath, and go to bed. I knew there was no chance that I would actually be able to sleep, considering that I would have been thinking about my illegal activities. I yawned, and started to push the dirt we had dug up back into the grave, my mind wandering. It couldn't have been any later than midnight.

"Any ghostly business to do on the other side?" I asked Tate, trying to be conversational. Maybe it was just me, but the silence seemed to be almost more awkward, and louder, than our actual words. He smiled ruefully. "Not really. At least, nothing that can't wait until the 'morrow." I smothered a small laugh, and nodded politely. "Well, I'm sure that some one will be glad to see you when we get back to the house." I was thinking of April. She was the other ghost I just so happened to move in with, who had died committing the sinful act of suicide. April had actually been a close friend of mine before she passed. There had been many occasions that April had nearly thrown herself at Tate. And when he ignored her, she would hole herself up in the bathroom for hours, which sucked for anyone who was living and had a bladder. Namely, me.

April was eighteen, just barely, and she dressed in all grunge and Gothic apparel. But it suited her personality (or lack of) perfectly. She had her really rare days when she actually smiled, but most of the time she looked gloom and doom, wrecking about everything in her path with her cat Priscilla.

I brought my thoughts back to Tate, and smiled at his grimace. "I have no idea why she insists on trying to throw herself at me, Callie. Any person with sense in their mind would think she belonged in a brothel..." I resisted smiling, and patted the freshly put down dirt with the shovel, turning his words over in my head. "Oh, be fair, Tate. She finds you attractive. So few people can see that, so you sort of have no right to pick and choose, do you?" I picked up the shovels, and headed back towards my cherry red, four door Jeep. Tate frowned slightly, his gloved hands now resting in his pockets. Right, like he needed to try and stay warm.

"Really? You think I should... give her a fair shot?" There was an elongated moment of silence, but I nodded. Somehow I just knew that if something went bad between April and Tate, that I would be the one blamed. "Are you getting in, or not?" I asked quietly, adjusting my mirrors. I had put the shovels in the trunk, assuming that he was going to ride with me. But why should he, when he could just poof back to the house? He shook his head as I thought he would. "Okay then... See you back at the house..."

I found myself heading further away from my apartment, and closer towards Phillipe's coffee shop on the corner of Twin Avenue and Parish Road. Living in Oakley Park, Georgia wasn't all a bad thing. It was a decently sized town, with a population of three thousand or more. The detour to the coffee shop had been unexpected, but I just couldn't seem to bring myself to go home like I thought I would. Coffee sounded like the last thing I would want. And that was even if the shop was open. Some nights, Phillipe kept the shop open much later than usual, just for late night workers.

The light was on inside, but it was dimly lit. I parked, and knocked on the glass door, waiting for Phillipe himself to come to the door. Phillipe was born in Paris, but when he was three, he moved to Chesterfield with his dad. He had pale green eyes , light blond hair, and a body most muscle heads would kill for. But he wasn't into showing off. If anything, he was more shy than anyone I had ever known. Today he was dressed in a pair of tan khaki pants, and a white polo shirt. I knew it was from the dress code the local high school had, and Phillipe only had to deal with it for the rest of the school year. Then he moved onto college. I had graduated two years ago, right before my eighteenth birthday.

He greeted me with a pleasant smile only I could bring, and unlocked the door. "Well hi there, stranger. What brings you here?" I smiled, and allowed myself to be hugged. I hadn't seen Phillipe in nearly eight months, thanks to everything going on with my secret ability. Ghosts keep you busier than you would think. "I was just out on the town, and figured I would come see how my favorite guy was doing." My words caused his smile to grow wider, and he headed behind the counter. "I remember what you like." French vanilla cappuccino's were the only type of coffee I would drink. It was up for debate with some people I knew if cappuccino's were even actually coffee. Then again, those people also liked their coffee black- something that just the thought of made me blanch.

"How are you?" I asked, sitting in one of the many stools that lined up at the counter. He shrugged, ready to respond with what I assumed would be the usual banter of,'Im fine, how are you, blah blah blah.' But a glass fell from the counter, and shattered on the ground into a million little pieces around his feet. "I'm sorry. I've been knocking things over all week,"He grumbled, almost in annoyance. But I knew he didn't knock the glass over. It was too far out of his reach. And the woman standing behind him didn't help very much. She looked angry; her tear stained cheeks made her look like she was just barely keeping her composure. "Where's my baby?!" Her screeching hurt my ears, but that wasn't the only thing it did. It was enough to cause the whole room to start shaking. More glasses fell from the shelves, and one of the window's shattered. And then the shaking stopped. Phillipe was staring in astonishment, trying to piece things together in his mind. An earthquake? Not nearly. An angry ghost screaming for a baby she had lost? Way to hit the nail on the head.

"Does that... happen often?" I asked, regarding the ghost with a nod. It was almost immediately that she seemed to calm down. Maybe it was the fact that maybe someone could actually see her, and hear her voice, to hear her plea for her baby. Phillipe shook his head, now trying to think straight. "No- no, that's the first time that's ever happened."

Now I was going to try and help a friend out. "Hey, Phillipe? What happened to people who owned this place before you?" I asked curiously. I could have just asked the lady, but I was pretty sure that it would've seemed weird for me to start randomly talking to an empty space as if it were a person. I decided I would just get the first person story from... well, the first person. Also known as the lady. Phillipe shook his head, grabbing the broom from a closet in the back.

"It was owned by some married couple... Carter and Hannah Thatcher. All I know about them... they were going to turn this place into a daycare after they had their first child. But when the time came, Hannah had to give birth in the back, since no one was here to drive her to the hospital. I think even if someone even had been there, she would've given birth in the car. But she died during child birth... Carter gave the baby up for adoption, and moved. Remarried even, I think." It was harsh, even in my eyes. I wondered what April would have thought about the story. I knew how the lady- who I assumed was Hannah- felt about it from her wailing in the corner of the shop. "So, you're telling me that she died? And her husband just gave up on everything?" I asked in disbelief, not understanding why he would give the baby up for adoption.

"That's the thing though," Phillipe started again, running a hand through his hair in a habitual way. My interest peaked more, and I waited for him to continue, pulling my chestnut brown hair into a ponytail that reached the middle of my back. "There isn't a record of any sort about Carter Thatcher giving his kid up for adoption. But there is a record of a Becky Rose-Anne Thatcher passing away a month after she was born." So if what I was hearing was right, then the baby passed away not long after her mother. "Do you know where they're buried?" I asked suddenly, my mind moving quicker than even I could keep up. He nodded and finished sweeping up the broken glass before he put the broom back. "Up in the towns cemetery." I barely heard him before I ran through the door and into my Jeep. I needed to head home before I did anything. Sleep was majorly lacking, and I was sure April and Tate would be wondering where I was by now.

I drove home, thinking about Hannah Thatcher, who grieved heavily for her lost child. Most people who are quiet during their lifetime ended up being very violent when they were stuck in the Between Land, haunting unfortunate victims. Another easier term to call them? Poltergeist. But I doubted they appreciated that term as much simply being called a ghost. Was Hannah angry over losing just her child? Or was she angry over her child, her life, and her husband who didn't seem to care either way that both his wife and child were dead?

The thought weighed heavily on my mind as I pulled into my driveway and parked. Before I turned off the ignition, I watched the neon green lights that flashed the time. Two seventeen A.M. I had been up for nearly forty eight hours straight, and my mind was longing to shut down. I grabbed my keys, and went inside.

My apartment was big enough for a whole family to live in, but it was only me. It was pitch black, save the bathroom light that illuminated into the kitchen and my own room. I was amazed that April wasn't hiding somewhere, ready to give me hell that I knew I didn't deserve, probably about staying out so late. I headed towards my room kicked off my boots at the closet, shedding my sweater for a light blue tank top that went with my grey sweat pants and socks. Without another thought, I slipped into my bed, pulling the comforter around my shoulder, tucking my knees into my chest. I barely closed my eyes before I was interrupted. "You know, you really should check your house before you sleep. An intruder could get in and slit your throat in your sleep. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" It was April's sultry voice, coming from the other side of the room. I knew she lit up one of her habitual cigarettes by the glowing orange light, and the smoke that gathered around it. I turned on the lamp by the side of my bed, only to be surprised that April was smiling. My day honestly could not get any weirder.

I kept from questioning the smile, and sat up against my head board, only observing. "You never know, April. Just maybe I secretly long to be like you- a ghost who can wander the earth at her whim, and haunt people. Maybe getting murdered in my sleep is exactly what I want. What do you think?" I asked, my voice sounding dark and quiet. April had no chance to answer, considering another voice came into the conversation. "I don't want that for you, Cassie. It's hard enough for the rest of us, but to actually think it's better? Aye, then you really have lost your marbles, haven't you?" Tate was sitting at the edge of my bed, tossing around a small stuffed bear I'd had for years.

Maybe it was just me, or maybe I was imagining, but he almost sounded hurt. "I was... joking, sort of,"I grumbled. He nodded, accepting my answer. Sleep. That was all I wanted. "Okay, I know you probably want to give me hell, right?" I asked April. She shook her head, and stood. I couldn't be sure what Tate wanted, but it didn't matter right then. "Can I please- please- get a decent night of sleep? I'm down right exhausted, and having you two badgering me doesn't quite help that,"I muttered, sliding down under my blankets. April muttered something sounding suspiciously like,"Living people are so needy," and left the room. I was already dozing, but Tate came over and turned off the light, kissing my head and left the room. I gave into the darkness, and let sleep over come me.

It was a field of wild flowers that were beginning to wilt in the chilly fall weather. They were the true definition of beautiful, with their bright colors, and the way they perfumed the air. It was a place of true tranquility and peace; on such a level that it was almost on overload. There was yelling not far from where I stood in the field, and a gun shot echoed through the tree's of the forest that played with the edge of the wild flowers. I tried to ignore the yelling, the gunshots, and focus on the field. I wore a dress of deep auburn, lined with the best satin and lace in all of Paris. But I was no longer in Paris anymore, and it bothered me. I missed Paris, and the fine air, with all of the lovers who seemed to dance to their love. It was a thing I had used to be jealous of, but leaving Paris made me yearn for the jealousy. Why were they allowed to be happy, when I was stuck with my sister on a low class level of society?

"Isabelle! Please, come back. We meant no harm, my love. We only wanted you to have some fun!" The tranquil state of the flowers was replaced by a city, the Eiffel Tower leering in the distance. Men were surrounding a young girl on the edge of an alley way. She was beautiful, with her porcelain skin, raven black hair that fell to her hips in a long braid. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue that reminded me of someone. I felt drawn to her, but she could not see me. Her voice was almost softer than you would have expected it to be, but it sounded perfect to me. "Leave me alone, Francis, please. I do not play games anymore. My brother needs me- now go. Maybe Ill play your games another day." She smiled coyly, and traced a ribbon around her wrist out of nervousness. She had a feeling that the men wouldn't let her go to her brother, that they would keep her there in the alley to have their fun.

Stepping back, she felt a brick wall underneath the tips of her white satin gloves. "Please go, Francis." Her voice had gotten somewhat shaky, and Francis only laughed, brushing his finger tips over her cheek, caressing it like they were long time lovers. Years ago, I would have thought they were. But that was no more. "Isabelle, I believe we have unfinished business. You see... At some point, you had all of us wound around your finger tighter than your brother. We would have done anything for you. But you wasted us, and tossed us aside as if we were nothing better than a rag doll." Francis stepped back, and one of the taller, more broad men bowed in front of her. She recognized him, but only slightly. It was her brothers best friend since child hood. She had courted him, but only shortly. No one could ever keep her interest. "Mason, please let me go." He glanced at Phillipe, back to her, until he gripped a hold of the lace that bound her corset closed, and tore it away, heaving Isabelle away from the wall.

Her voice trembled when she spoke, fear creeping in. "Please just let me go!" Mason and Phillipe frowned, and another man slipped behind her, covering a paw like hand over her mouth to silence her. Slowly, he bent down enough to trace his hand over the back of her thigh, until he could get a decent hold on the under skirt of her dress, tearing it away as if it was nothing. She was shaking, now knowing just what fun Francis had been speaking about. She had given them nothing, and they wanted everything. They would take away her innocence, one by one, until she finally gave into them. But there was no chance for it to happen. A man who resembled the young girl was speeding down the alley, punching Francis so hard that blood flowed freely from his nose, splattering the cold Parisian ground with its color. Francis growled, throwing himself at the man. "Tate-" Isabelle couldn't finish her sentence as Mason kissed her mouth, harder than the gentle kisses she was used to receiving. It lit a fire inside of her she had never felt before, but it wasn't going to go anywhere. From her view, Francis was laying on the ground, having been knocked out. Mason was ripped away from her and thrown into a wall. Tate was so angry that it seemed he had transformed into a storm. No harm would come to his sister, not on his watch. "Isabelle, go. Now." The young girl nodded and ran, her feet barely hitting the ground.

The view faded out once more, before I found myself face to face with Tate. He was holding out a glass of champagne, smiling. I had never really seen Tate smile before, but it made love swirl in my chest all that much more. He was so wonderful to take care of his little sister after his aunt passed away. He was unlike any other man I had known. But our dream would last only shortly; he had to return to Paris in three days. Georgia was no place for him, but he would find a way to make it last. He had said so. "Lorleigh, I tell you that I will take you to Paris with me. My sister will love you, Im sure."

It was a once in a life time chance, to be courted by someone you actually loved. But I couldn't go. I had to politely refuse the offer. I had been to Paris before, having had some scary experiences. "Oh, Tate, my love. I wish I could, but you know I have my work to do here. Please understand." I let my arm slip around his neck, wishing he could only know how I felt. He frowned at my response, but nodded in acceptance. The champagne was forgotten about as the glass fell from his hand, shattering on the ground as he moved in to kiss me. It was a slow burning fire, the kiss. It burned my heart, and scorched the one part of me he would ever truly touch. I leaned into him, heart racing, wanting more than I physically knew possible.

The door to his parlor was shoved open, and a gun shot sounded the air. It startled us, and I knew it angered Tate. It was a man, who was holding a gun. I couldn't recognize him, but I knew Tate did. "Francis." The man smiled wryly, and closed the door as he entered the room. "No, Tate. You interrupted my fun, now Im going to ruin yours." A shot echoed from the gun, and before I knew what was going on, Tate was falling to the ground, blood seeping from the wound in his chest. It matted the black suit to his chest, and I wanted to stop the bleeding. One last shot ran through the small room, and I felt agonizing pain, falling to the hard marble floor. My heart was bleeding, just as Tate's was. We would die together, as the man Francis left the room. I loved Tate. I loved him, and in death, that would not change. Tate's hand reached out, searching for mine. Or so I thought. It closed around a picture frame that had fallen when he had. He closed his hands around the picture, holding it to his chest. Somehow I knew- I just knew that Isabelle would be in that frame. Her beloved brother, dead. His beloved, dead with him. "I love you,"I whispered weakly, finally feeling the effects of the blood loss. Tate nodded, and with the same drama as a curtain call, I closed my eyes.

I didn't have to try and wake up because I was instantly alert. Every cell in my body was alive and on fire. Anger was the first thing I felt. It was in such passionate hate that it left a red haze in my sight. I wanted to punch something, and hard. But a hand tracing over my calf stopped me, cooling down the hate like water putting out a fire. It was Tate, and it was comforting. I tried to find my voice to speak, to ask him about his sister, and Lorleigh, but I couldn't.

"Were you having a nightmare?" He asked quietly, dark eyes filled with worry. I considered it for a moment, not sure how to answer. Had it been a nightmare? I tilted my head, sitting up and grabbing for his hand as Lorleigh had in her last moment in life. "No, it wasnt a nightmare, Tate. Tell me about Isabelle and Lorleigh." Tate let go of my hand, and I frowned slightly. Knowing my luck, I had touched on a sensitive subject.

He sighed softly, and leaned back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. "We shared a dream last night, Callie. I played the role I did when I was alive, and you were a bystander... for the most part." His voice became quiet, and I knew why. I had touched a part of him people would never know about. The part where I was one of the most important people in his life, but still second to his sister. I was his lover, in a sense, and I had known everything she was thinking about when she died. "I was Lorleigh, yea. I know, Tate. I knew how she felt when you kissed her. Hell, I knew what she was thinking when Francis shot the two of you. It was always about you. Always, Tate. She loved you until her last breath left her lips."

Tate nodded, frowning now. I had no idea if he felt bad for not saying that he loved Lorleigh back when she did, or if he was regretting thinking of Isobelle before he passed. An uncomfortable silence settled between us, so I took the opportunity to grab a pair of jeans and a heavy purple long sleeve shirt to wear to work. I was sure it would be just as cold as it was yesterday, if not worse with the coming rain. I wouldnt change with Tate in the room. Even with a ghost, I still had my decensy.

The place I called work was the size of a three story library, only the book store owned just the middle and bottom floor. Compared to Barnes & Nobles, or Borders, it wasn't much, but it was something. My boss Terry remained forever optimistic about more customers, and eventually, he would be proved wrong. There was a bonus to working during the grave hour, despite all of the unfortunate sacrifices to keep the job. For a bookworm, I got to read all I wanted since basically no one came in any later than ten.

Inside Turning Pages, Rylie was relieved when I stepped inside, bracing myself from the ice cold wind, swearing that the snow storm that ripped through Georgie would be the death of us all. Rylie was a red head, with a petite figure, and dainty size 5 shoes. Sometimes she had an attitude to kill on some days; most of which were spent with the staff trying to figure out if she was ragging or not. We eventually came to the conclusion that it was just how she was.

"Callie! Thank god you're here. I thought I was going to have to cancel my date-" I held up my hand to silence her. It was just a thing she had a habit of doing, relieving everything sh had ever thought since she last saw someone. It was slightly annoying, but a person lived to deal with it. "Go, Ryley. Have fun." She nodded, and wasted no time in leaving me to my seven hours of heaven.

As soon as she was out of site, I took my seat behind the counter, checking and double checking how much was in the register. The bell above the door jingled, and I assumed it was Rylie coming back because she forgot something. My mind wandered back to the ghost in Phillipe's coffee shop. There was no way she could harm Phillipe unless she somehow managed to get enough energy to make an herself appear by manifestation. It was a simple idea, but for Hannah, it would take most of her strength for a long while.