Charlie welcomed the rush of running water because she hoped it would cover the sound of her quickened breathing.

It was clear that the old woman had no clue that anything out of the ordinary had just happened.

“Is something the matter, dear?” As she soaped her hands, the woman glanced at Charlie’s reflection in the mirror.

Catching sight of herself, Charlie wasn’t surprised at the question. The humidity had added waves to her usually smooth chestnut hair, but still it fell in attractive profusion to her shoulders. Her sapphire blouse and black pants were maybe a little office-y for a Friday night out, but they were expensive-enough-looking for the surroundings and had the added, happy bonus of showing off both her coloring and her slim figure. No, what was wrong with the picture of herself that the mirror was throwing back at her was her face. It was rigid with tension. Her skin looked too tight, making her high cheekbones and square jaw seem way more prominent than they actually were. Despite her slenderness, her cheeks were usually a little too round, a little too rosy, which—coupled with her slender nose and full lips—tended to make her look just a tad too youthful to be taken entirely seriously. Not tonight. She was utterly white, big-eyed, shocked-looking. Before she saw and clamped her lips together to combat it, her mouth trembled. She looked like … she had seen a ghost.

Well, duh. Two actually.

As the thought popped into her head, Charlie was surprised into a wry inner smile. Then she got a grip.

“I know this may sound strange, but I was wondering … have you been involved in any kind of violent incident in the last week or so?” Charlie asked. Her upset stomach made her voice sound a little thin. “With—with a man wearing dreadlocks?”

Turning abruptly away from the sink, where the faucet still ran, the woman looked at her with sudden fear in her eyes.

“Who are you? What do you know about that?”

“Nothing. Don’t be afraid, I just …” Charlie thought fast. “… thought maybe I recognized you. And him. From the papers.”

“It wasn’t in the papers. We kept it quiet, because we thought there might be some backlash. The police said my husband was totally right to do what he did. The man broke into our shop. He would have killed us. George had to shoot him.” The woman was as white and shaken-looking as Charlie had been a moment before. “Who are you? How do you know about this?”

As she spoke, she was edging around Charlie with the clear intent of booking it back through the lounge and out of the restroom. Telling the woman that the ghost of the violent robber her husband had shot and killed had attached himself to her would not only serve no earthly purpose, it would also most likely not be believed.

Think fast again.

“That explains it, then. I must have seen the pictures in the police report,” Charlie said to the woman’s fleeing back. “See, I file those, and, well, I guess I saw your picture and remembered the face.”

“I didn’t know anyone ever took my picture.” Yanking the door open, the woman looked back at Charlie. “The policemen said no charges would be filed. My husband had no choice.”

Then she was out the door.

“I know that,” Charlie called softly after her as the door swung shut, then held her breath and waited. If the knife-wielding phantom was anywhere around, he should be materializing about now to follow the old woman. And Garland—where was he?

Could two ghosts hurt each other? Charlie had never experienced a situation like that, so she had no idea. Uneasy visions of an epic, otherworldly battle to the death (or whatever the already-dead equivalent of death was) danced through her brain; she banished them with an impatient shake of her head.

There was no point in worrying about something she could do nothing about.

As she moved toward the sink, where the water still ran, Charlie realized that Garland had said at least one true thing: she had no idea what actually happened after someone died. Once the spirits she saw left her vicinity, anything was possible.

Her stomach was still unsettled, still threatening to rebel. Cupping her hand beneath the running faucet, she scooped up a handful of cold water and swallowed it, then did it again. It seemed to help. She was reaching for the tap to turn the water off when Garland spoke behind her.

“Interesting life you lead, Doc.” He sounded a little breathless. “You got any more of those deep, dark secrets your boyfriend couldn’t find up your sleeve? I mean, besides me and the whole ghost whisperer gig you got going on?”

Perversely, she was almost glad he was back, Charlie realized as she shut off the tap and turned to face him. At least now she knew he hadn’t been murdered—or cast into outer darkness or anything else horrible—by the maniacal knife-wielder.

She instantly dismissed the idea that she might actually have been worried about him, however briefly, however minutely.

“Don’t you have anybody else you can haunt?” Her voice was sharp.

His brows went up. “Gee, Michael, thanks for keeping the bad guy with the knife from hurting me.” His mocking falsetto made Charlie’s eyes narrow. It—he—was really starting to get on her nerves. “I am so grateful. Really I am.”

“He couldn’t have hurt me, just like you can’t hurt me.” She was (almost) positive about this one; she’d lived in the world of ghosts-on-the-ground for too long. These rules she knew. “No substance, remember?”

“I wouldn’t bet my life on it.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms across his chest as he looked her up and down. Again, if Charlie hadn’t known for sure he was dead, she wouldn’t have believed it. Her stomach was even starting to settle down. “Anyway, you’re welcome.”

“I never said thank you.”

“That was me ignoring your bad manners.”

Charlie’s lips compressed. “What happened to the guy with the knife?”

“He won’t be back. We crashed through into Spookville right in front of a hunter. He was nabbed. Lucky for me, I’m getting pretty good at slipping out of there. Just dove right back out the same hole I came in through. What the hell was that guy doing anyway?”

“Apparently the old woman’s husband shot him a few days ago. He was trying to rob their shop at the time. He just hasn’t figured out he’s dead yet. He’s confused, and he’s repeating the last few minutes of his life.” Charlie shrugged. “It’s what happens sometimes.”

“Jesus, are you telling me you see nut-jobs like that all the time?” He regarded her with a combination of alarm and fascination.

“Oh, yeah. All. The. Time.” Her heavy emphasis on each word, coupled with the pointed look she gave him, implied that she included him in that number. He grinned.

“I bet it’s a real joyride.” He glanced around restlessly. “Damn, I’ve seen the inside of more ladies’ bathrooms lately than I ever expected or wanted to see in my life. Don’t you ever hang out anyplace fun? Bars? Nightclubs? Football games?”

“No,” Charlie answered. “During the day I work. At night I go home—or when I’m not at home, like now, I go to wherever I’m staying. And I hate football. But feel free to go to all those places without me. In fact, please do. Start now. The door’s that way.”

She pointed.

“You act like you think I’m showing up where you are on purpose. Sorry to bust your bubble, Doc, but like I told you before, it ain’t a choice. I come out where I come out. So far, it just so happens it’s been in your vicinity.”

Charlie stared at him with as much horror as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. A terrible thought—no, scratch that, a terrible certainty—had just clonked her over the head. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before.

“Oh, my God.” She started shaking her head. “Oh, no, no, no.”

“What?”