Zach grunted, then decided that a phone call needed more than a sour expression, like words. “All right.”

“Keep Aunt Barbara away from Whistler. We don’t know who he is or whether he’ll get violent if the deal goes bad.”

“Right.”

“And walk in with that cop arrogance, use that cop gaze on him.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. Your whole attitude is ‘cop.’ One of the reasons I hired you. Most of my men can really intimidate—you know they’re bad dudes the minute they step into a room—but you have the cop style. Better for scaring the crap out of some people.”

Zach laughed, and didn’t hear much bitterness lacing it.

“You are a deputy sheriff, a peace officer, Zach. You always will be.” A pause. “My business . . . and my guys need you.”

Zach’s mouth fell open. He had no doubt that Rickman had some ex–special forces men in his business. He respected those men—well, those not associated with his father, the Marine.

Silence hung, then he heard Rickman’s huffed breath. “Different approaches to problems. Just take care of Aunt Barbara tonight, all right?”

“You got it,” Zach said, and Rickman cut the call.

A hard ball of tangled emotions loosened a little in Zach’s chest, unraveled a little more. The first thread had come undone when Clare Cermak had looked at him with appreciation in her eyes for a man she might like to have sex with.

Now Rickman had actually said Zach was needed at a business.

Just as he was, bum leg and all.

He leaned back on the couch, letting the cushions prop him up. A thin gray line of exhaustion edged his vision. He didn’t want to nap, to fall asleep. To be lame.

Because if a healthy and well-functioning Jackson Zachary Slade could screw up his life so badly, what could a lame one do? Not only to himself, but others?

He let his eyes drift shut just for a few seconds.

And he was sucked back into the darkness of nightmares. Again.

 • • •

Clare and Enzo were only a little early to the auction, about twenty minutes before the event took place, and more people than she expected milled around the room.

Enzo led her directly to the box and it looked even more scratched and battered than the picture on the website; not at all impressive.

This is Slade’s box! Enzo sounded thrilled. He nosed at it, but the dampness on his muzzle didn’t smear the light yellow-tinged wood. Touch it, and you will be able to tell!

“Yes?” she said doubtfully, then snuck a glance around to see if anyone had seen her talking to herself. So hard sometimes to not answer Enzo. Surely a box that had existed since before 1864—the year of Jack Slade’s death—should have looked more valuable. In fact, someone should have recognized it as more valuable. Apparently not.

Touch it!

She picked up “box of unknown date and origin” and turned the finely grained wood in her hands. It was smooth except for the nicks and chips and occasional bad scratch, with several knots. No latch or other opening showed, and she realized it was a puzzle box. It could have been a block of wood from the heft of it. Frowning, she tried sliding each side of the box as she’d done with the few she’d seen before; nothing happened. But the longer she held it, the more it seemed to have a fizzy sensation on her skin.

You are touching a personal item of the primary ghost you are helping. You are progressing with your gift, Enzo said, radiating more cold than usual.

Clare stiffened. She’d begun to understand when he was simply a goofy dog, and when he was . . . more.

We had to find a gun for John Dillinger, once, Enzo said in a lighter tone, ear twitching a bit. John Dillinger was one of Sandra’s favorite ghosts.

No, Clare was not going there, asking no questions, admitting to nothing.

Again she slid her fingers around the box. It wasn’t inlaid with multiple pieces, had no confusing pattern.

One of the auctioneers strolled up and glanced at Clare apologetically. “It is a puzzle box,” the woman confirmed. “But we weren’t able to open it, at least without the force it would take to break it.”

“Ah.” Clare nodded, glad to put the thing back down.

The auctioneer sighed. “Not one of our better pieces. We have some lovely antiques tonight.” She gestured at one wall.

Clare wished to appear casual in her interest in the box in case anyone was watching and might bid against her, so she strolled toward the wall of antiques.

It’s Zach! Enzo barked. Zach is here! The spectral dog galloped away.

Now that he mentioned it, Clare’s gaze immediately focused on the tall man leaning slightly on the cane. He held it as if he didn’t need it at all, like it was a prop, though Clare knew better. A pang of pity went through her and she wiped any hint of it from her face.

An elderly woman standing next to Zach said something . . . and bent down to pet Enzo.

Zach’s head angled. He looked down, shook his head, gazed at the woman, then turned and stared at Clare.

Her stomach tightened and she flushed. She didn’t want to talk about Enzo to anyone, especially not Zach Slade.

NINE

CLARE STROLLED TOWARD the old woman, and the ghost dog that should definitely be a hallucination.

The woman straightened from her walker, which held a light designer bag fastened to the inside front. She offered her hand with a beaming smile and a sly, sliding glance at Zach. “Hello, I hear you’re a friend of Zach’s!”

Clare wet her lips. Zach stood extremely straight, a closed expression on his face. She took the woman’s hand, and the lady’s gray brows zoomed upward. “My, your hands are cold. Only to be expected of one with your gift, though.” She put her other hand over Clare’s and patted it. “Zach, introduce this young lady to me!”

Zach whisked a gesture from Clare to the woman. “Clare Cermak, meet Mrs. Barbara Flinton.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Clare said and a little ping went off in her mind. She knew of the wealthy Flintons. She opened her lips to tell her new acquaintance that she was an associate at a prestigious Denver accounting firm and realized that was untrue. Her shoulders slumped a bit.

“I’m pleased to meet you, too. And who is this fine fellow?” Mrs. Flinton braced a hand on her walker and bent down again to stroke Enzo.

Zach’s blue-green eyes darkened, with the green showing more. His brows dipped, though he kept the same expression.

“I don’t know,” Clare said, and caught a fleeting twitch of the lips from Zach.

I AM ENZO! the ghost dog shouted, jumping up and planting his paws on Zach. The man flinched and Clare stilled. Surely he couldn’t—see? hear? feel that imaginary illusion.

“You’re a very nice dog,” said Mrs. Flinton.

Enzo stared accusingly at Clare. She lifted her chin and ignored his dark eyes that looked more like holes than she was comfortable with.

Zach cleared his throat and his gaze slid toward Clare. “We’re here on business.”

“Yes!” Mrs. Flinton straightened. “I’m looking for some family antiques. A few mid-nineteenth-century pieces my mother had.”

“A con,” Zach murmured. Mrs. Flinton didn’t seem to have heard him. Clare noticed hearing aids in her ears.

Clare met Zach’s eyes.

“We’re here on business,” he repeated, touching Mrs. Flinton’s shoulder, then nodded at Clare again. “And you? I thought you had furnishings coming from your aunt’s estate.”

“I do.” Again blood rose in her cheeks as she sent a swift look at the counter, which showed small, uninspired objects like the box.