Of course, we did as the letter asked. Lockwood and I had put in mournful suggestions about taking a smidgen of the money and using it to fix up our garden (the iron line was getting wobbly, and the brick path was crumbling, and there was the washing machine, too, that was beginning to break down . . .), but George had stood up, all no-nonsense. The fortune had eventually sailed, completely untouched, out of our reach.

After we'd delivered the money, Lockwood had dragged us off to go look at Italian rapiers. They were light, swishy things, and I practiced a bit with them on the store's dummy. At the end, I still favored my French rapier more, with its shell-shaped guard and leather grip. Thus, while Lockwood and George argued with the shopkeeper over prices (Lockwood had wanted to order a box of them, and the shopkeeper had named a sky-high price), I waited outside.

Bored, I soon found myself thinking of him again. Matthew Callahan. That poor dead kid . . .

And as fate would have it, the moment my colleagues emerged triumphantly from the store to flag down a cab, I felt someone staring at me.

I turned slowly.

Meredith Watson looked back, seated stiffly on a wooden bench. Her arms were folded. A fuzzy red scarf was tied loosely around her neck, and her caramel hair was pulled back into a low ponytail.

She wasn't smiling.

When she noticed me staring right back, Meredith held out a hand gestured for me to come over. It was a demand, not a request.

I don't do demands.

But she probably knew something about the case.

Lockwood and George were climbing into the cab. George was clambering in one limb at a time, and Lockwood was folding his own lanky limbs like a crane, settling into the passenger's seat. They chattered away, about the rapiers and prices and good bargaining.

I took a step back and slammed the door shut behind George.

Lockwood's window rolled down. "What are you doing?"

"There's . . . something I need to do, Lockwood."

He followed my gaze to Meredith, who had her head turned to the side and was studying a small flock of birds pecking at seed. She threw another handful down, and the smallest bird rose up, hopping onto her index finger to get at the bag in her lap. Meredith's eyes softened; she settled it onto her knee and the bird eagerly swallowed seed after seed, his feathery brown wings shifting.

I bundled my coat firmly around myself. "I'll meet you back at the house later."

"No."

"How long do the—I'm sorry, what?" It wasn't that I hadn't heard. It was that I hadn't wanted to hear what I had heard. "Did you just say no?"

Lockwood turned to the cab driver and said something quietly; the driver nodded and turned the key in its slot.

The car rumbled to a halt. Lockwood got out of the car, and his brown eyes were melting. The firmness was getting soft around the edges, like chocolate in the sun.

"Just come home, Lucy. The case with that boy . . ."

"Matthew."

" . . . It's over."

Meredith was still casting the birdseed, pointedly not looking our way.

"I have to talk to her," I said quietly. Lockwood paused. His eyes were healing now. Getting harder.

"No, you don't."

George got out of the cab and stood beside Lockwood, looking pained. "Stop being a bloody brat and just come home."

"Bloody brat?" My voice rose, along with my temper. "George, you have no idea."

"Now you've done it," Lockwood said under his breath, glowering at George.

"She needs to hear it." George put his hands on his hips and sneered at me. "All you've done for a week is complain, complain, complain! Mooching around the house, head in the clouds, in your own little daydream! Just snap out of it! I'm sorry that the case traumatized you so much—"

"I'm not traumatized."

"—But the thing is, you just have to deal with it and move on. Lockwood moved on after he was ghost-touched. I moved on after that incident with the flying jars. So why can't you? Is your strong sensitivity to the paranormal such a liability? Huh?"

"You don't know what I'm going through!"

George blanched for a second. "Er . . . is it . . . you know . . . girly things?" he asked uncomfortably. "Because, then sorry if Lockwood and I can't be there on that topic for you—"

"Heck, NO!" I exploded. "Not that! It's just . . ."

The nuisance. The idiot. He knew nothing. Nothing.

I told him so.

"I know for sure that you two are making a scene." Lockwood grabbed us by the arms; both of us tore vehemently out of his grasp. "George! Lucy!"

"Admit it, Lucy. There's a problem. That case affected you. So why don't you just come home and tell us what's wrong with you! We're here, and we can help! Just let us. Stop being so fussy!" He glared. "Were we wrong to take you on the team?"

Lockwood stiffened. "George, you don't take it there."

I snapped.

"You don't know anything about me, George, because you're an insensitive boy who cares about nothing other than FOOD! I haven't seen you do anything that benefits the agency. You're practically useless. Yes, you are, George—useless! It wouldn't make a difference if you were gone! Lockwood and I would be able to manage JUST FINE! So just GET OUT OF OUR LIVES! You and your insults, your scathing comments, you never say anything nice. I've disliked you ever since we first met! You're as charming as a toe-rag, George. I can't stand you anymore."

I was furious out of my mind, bellowing the most hurtful things at him that came to mind. Tears were rising to my eyes; emotions swirled underneath, barely hidden. All the times George had interrupted Lockwood and I, blundering in and ruining the moment . . . the way Matthew Callahan's death would remain a mystery, unless I did something . . . George's usual obnoxiousness . . . the way he thought he knew everything . . . a lump was in my throat that wouldn't go away.

George looked like he had been slapped. Then he turned and brushed past Lockwood to step into the cab, slamming the door behind him.

Lockwood looked oddly strained. He ran his hands through his hair. He looked very tired. I was too angry to care.

"You both hurt each other. I'll talk to George, but . . . this isn't all entirely his fault." He lowered his hands. The tone of his voice was still strange. "He was right, you know. You've been acting oddly, mooching around a bit. You should have talked with us. Not bickered with George. Again.

"You can go talk to Meredith if you want. Be careful." He slid into the cab and closed the door. A moment later, it eased out onto the street and disappeared.

It hit me, later, what that strange tone in Lockwood's voice had been.

Disappointment.