Hey, y'all! Happy Pi Day! And just for that, here's another chapter.

Ash belongs to Renaissance Pictures. Now let's read.

I wasn't sure how to respond to this.

First time for everything, but ghosts weren't exactly covered in Jewish culture. VLADJI had certainly never dealt with this sort of supernatural problem. But it was clear this was what the apparition in front of me was – the ghost of Jethro Stein, lost in the warehouse fire to Starr's callousness and his own decision to abandon Starry.

As Jethro's outline became clearer, I noticed his outfit – a red baseball cap, blue striped shirt, blue jean shorts, and white Converses. (This would be before they became Chuck Taylors. This ghost was entirely 90's, no mistake.) His hair would have been the same dark brown as mine – though it was a little hazy and hidden under the ball cap, and thus hard to see. No sign of the star necklace, though – which didn't surprise me. I was carrying it now, after all. And it had evidently renounced Jethro, as he had renounced it.

Jethro glanced at me and chuckled – a faint sound, not unlike my own laughter. His voice even sounded a little like my own when he spoke.

"That chainsaw guy was right, Amos," he said to me. "We do share some resemblance."

Horzvedt froze. I thought I saw tears running down his face as he saw Jethro's ghost. His expression was hard to read, but his eyes bore a mix of happiness (at seeing his old friend again) and pain (at seeing his old friend in this state). Ash just shook his head, either confused by the whole exchange or miffed at being referred to as just the chainsaw guy. (I could understand either possibility.)

"Dad?" Charlie asked. No Horzvedt, no Jasper. She was addressing him the way a child would address her father when he was distressed – calm, but a little worried. She didn't seem to notice Jethro's presence. "Are you all right?"

"Jethro," Horzvedt whispered softly, "I am so sorry I couldn't save you."

Jethro tried putting a hand on Horzvedt's shoulder, but him being a ghost, his hand only passed through Jasper. "No, friend," he said quietly. "I should have listened to you. I was in the wrong. It was my fault."

"Amos?" DJ asked. "What's going on here?"

They hadn't seen the light morph into Jethro, I realized. No one except me, Horzvedt – and Ash, apparently – could see the ghost. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Had Jethro intended it that way?

"I'll get back to you," I whispered to her. Then I turned to face Jethro. "Why can't they see you? And how do you know my name?"

Jethro glanced at me. His expression looked a little… well, haunted. "Jasper was my oldest playmate," he told me. "He'd know me well enough to see me. And I thought it would be nice if he could say farewell to his old friend. I never got the chance in the fire. And Ash… I imagine experiences with supernatural threats were embedded in his code – what was left of it. Enough for him to be able to see me or at least sense my presence."

I caught Ash flinching at Jethro's addition of what was left of it. The code that defector avatars spawned from was usually either corrupted or damaged, something they were incredibly sensitive about. (Knuckles had almost punched me into a wall the first time I brought it up with him – although I didn't bring that up intentionally.) I imagined Ash would've run Jethro through with the chainsaw hand if he could reach it. And if Jethro wasn't already dead. Or intangible.

"As for you," Jethro continued, "you've had an up-close-and-personal experience with me." He gestured toward my necklace. "Through that necklace. It used to belong to me."

Until you threw it away, I thought, but I didn't say that out loud. I figured I'd have to tread carefully with a ghost, like I did with any of the avatars. I couldn't hurt either one of them, after all – Jethro had proven that when his hand passed through Horzvedt's shoulder.

"I threw that burning vase, by the way," Jethro said quietly. "During your Hulk-Out moment."

Of course, my memories of the whole temper-flare incident were hazy, but I vaguely recalled a burning vase falling from the pottery shop onto the debris pile that became Starr's pyre. I was a little surprised Jethro even could manipulate the vase into falling from that many stories, given how his hand had passed through Horzvedt's shoulder, but the bigger question here was–

"Why?" I asked.

"I am a Jew myself, Amos. And I didn't want you wholly responsible for Starr's death. We wouldn't want that on your conscience. On the other hand, it was a fitting end for him. Destroyed by the very people he fought to eliminate."

"Unsuccessfully," I added. Imira was right – we Jews were like cockroaches. No matter how hard you stomped on us, we always kept coming back.

But why stomp on us when you can help us out? DJ had always been right about one thing – subverting the plans of God and nature never works. Perhaps they shouldn't view us as cockroaches, but as survivors. We'd survived all sorts of trouble – the Babylonian exile, the destruction of the temple by the Romans, the pogroms of Russia, the Holocaust – and we'd come back swinging. They really should get a hint.

"You had a lot of anger, didn't you?" I pressed on. "Being stuck for thirty years in your own necklace – that has got to suck."

I probably shouldn't have asked that question, but I supposed that thirty years cooped up in a pendant could really wreak havoc on your emotional health – even on a dead person. I imagined Jethro had been damaged by his time spent in stasis, thinking about what might've been, just as Horzvedt had been damaged pursuing the creep who'd caused Jethro's condition. Now with Starr finally gone, maybe, just maybe, they could both finally find some peace of mind – and Jethro could be put to rest.

Yep, that's me – Amos Darvosky, paranormal psychologist.

Jethro frowned. I hoped I hadn't upset him. "The first few years, I was angry, yes. But not at Starr. I was angry at myself for not seeing the spirit inside, not acknowledging it. And it kept me there, as punishment for not seeing it as a being of its own."

I'd guessed as much about Jethro's living (after-living?) situation but hearing the story from Jethro was a whole other level of awful. I felt sorry for him, being stuck in that pendant for that long. I also imagined it would have hindered the pendant from developing properly. Maybe with Jethro gone, it could fully reach its potential.

He glanced longingly at Starry. "In that time, too late, I learned to see the spirit for what it was – a preserving force of good. I came to regret my choice. Still, I thought I'd never see the outside of it again. But it has chosen a better master for itself. Don't shut it away as I did."

The pendant pulsed, as if telling me, listen to him, boy.

"I'll keep that in mind," I muttered. "And it was given to me, by the way. By the Vortex."

Jethro nodded. "He spoke in my mind when he retrieved me," he spoke to me. "He said only the rage of a boy wronged by Starr could give me an escape. And it did. I thank you for letting me go on."

"Wait, go on?" I wasn't sure what Jethro meant. And I suppose the comment about the rage of a boy who'd been wronged rubbed me the wrong way. It was true, but that didn't mean I had to like it.

Jethro frowned at me. "I have been here too long," he said. "It is time I passed."

He turned to face Horzvedt, a kind look coming over his face. "Farewell, my friend," he said to the con man. "I am sorry this has been our fate. But you now have a daughter to attend to. She may need help, after what Starr has done to her."

He turned to face me. His body was already starting to fade, but I could still just catch the smile on his face. "Keep up your job," he said. "Whatever Vortex called you here, he called you for a reason. And take good care of my pendant for me."

I nodded. "I will," I said.

He smiled again, then turned back into a light, which started ascending and growing brighter until I had to turn away to avoid getting blinded. When I turned back, the light was gone. Jethro had finally passed on.

I glanced at my pendant. It was now pulsing healthily. No jerking, no shaking. Just regular necklace activity. I could catch a light pulse, though, as if the pendant were letting out a sigh of relief.

Horzvedt glanced down at his shoes. I could catch the tears now, freely running. I caught him mouthing, goodbye, Jethro. You were good.

"Amos, come on! Let's go!" Imira. Why was she yapping at me–?

Then I looked around and realized, oh, right. We were still in a disaster zone. I reckoned the police would be in the area right about now. Given that there was a stiff in the building (several, actually – even if Starr was right about killing off half his guard, there were still those who'd been caught in the falling debris), we wouldn't be able to explain all the damage to the cops very easily. We'd have to leave right now.

But there was one thing I wanted to do before we left.

I turned toward Horzvedt. He still looked unsure of what to do – scanning around helplessly, expression blank, eyes scared as heck. Getting visited by the ghost of your childhood friend after a skyscraper-destroying battle can do that to you. And now that Starr was gone, he had no reason to stay in pursuit. No reason to stay here, moreover.

"You could always find work with your charms," I said to him. "There's a pretty good demand for door-to-door salesmen."

Horzvedt smiled – very faintly. "Are you suggesting that I find a job?"

"Hey." I settled a hand on his shoulder. I remembered Jethro's parting words – you now have a daughter to attend to. She may need your help. "Charlie's been through heck and back working with Starr. The guy fricking went into the unmentionable. She's a wreck. And I don't recall seeing her mother around. So who's she going to run to? Which parent do you think?"

Horzvedt flinched. I stared him down. "She needs her father, Horzvedt," I told him. "Just be there for her."

His right eye twitched. I thought he'd disagree. But then he sighed.

"You must be very different from Jethro," he said quietly. "For as much as he played around with James Bond, I don't think he would have asserted himself like this."

I remembered how Jethro had tried to destroy the pendant because his parents had told him to. Even in his teenage years, he'd been quite obedient. Horzvedt's guess was right on the money. Unfortunately, I'd never been like that. And I'd had to be assertive – it was part of my job. I reckoned Jethro's only dealings with monsters were his final moments.

I continued to lock eyes with Horzvedt. I wanted to be 100 percent sure he'd hold to his promise. Con men and whatnot.

"Very well," Horzvedt said at last. "You'll make a fine crime fighter, Amos. Even better than James Bond, I reckon."

I quickly noticed he wasn't finger tapping, indicating he meant what he said. I just smiled and nodded. "I was thinking more like Teen Titans. I have other teammates doing this with me, you know."

"And don't you let them get away," Horzvedt said. "It's clear you choose good friends."

He then headed over, setting his arm around Charlie. "Come on, Charlotte," he said softly to her. "Let's go."

Charlie nodded. I guessed Charlotte was her birth name. Huge surprise.

The two then left, just silently talking while Charlie cried on his shoulder. Yep, bittersweet father-daughter talks.

"Now," Imira said to me when I rejoined my friends, "how do you want to spin all this mess to the cops?"

Well, one more to go after this. Maybe we'll see how they spin it.

Verse for the update: Sirach 21:2. Stay tuned!