Page 22 of The Rut in the Road

“Rayn.”

I looked over at him, and Raj reached out and put a hand on my arm.

“It’s okay to not be okay,mera ravi,” he said softly.

I half-glared at him. “You’re not the only one who works with crime and death, you know,” I told him, the words coming out a bit sharper than I’d intended. “It’s not like these are the first dead man’s thoughts I’ve encountered.”

He pulled his hand back. “I know that,” he replied, his voice low and gentle. “But that doesn’t mean that sometimes it doesn’t get to you.”

I winced, remembering that last week he’d been the one who very much wasn’t okay. “I’m sorry,” I half-whispered, staring down into the grey-brown of the grocery-store brand cocoa.

“You don’t have to be,” he said, his voice even gentler, and he came over and put his arms around me. I closed my eyes and let myself lean back into his warmth. Not for long. I was at work, and I knew that was unprofessional. But the heat of his body seemed to seep into me, helping to ease the tension that had been there since I’d first touched the yellow shard of plastic. I sighed, and, with one final—but gentle—squeeze, he stepped away. “Will you be alright?” he asked.

I nodded, picking up my hot chocolate and blowing on it slightly so that I wouldn’t burn my mouth on the first sip.

He hesitated, clearly not satisfied with my answer, or maybe he just didn’t want to leave me when I was clearly still stressed.

I took a sip of hot chocolate, letting the taste roll over my tongue. “I’ll be fine,” I told him.

“Can I see you tonight?” he asked, those golden-brown eyes studying my features.

I forced a small smile—not because I didn’t want to see him, but because I wanted him to know I wanted to see him—then nodded.

He brushed a thumb across my cheek, then leaned forward to kiss my temple. “I’ll bring dinner,” he said, then left the kitchen, taking his tea with him.

I wasn’t quite ready to deal with whatever else awaited me—more questions from Hart, maybe, or maybe just Ward’s too-sharp, worried expression—so I stayed where I was, turning to lean back against the kitchen counter while I slowly sipped my hot chocolate.

I wasn’t actually sure what I was accomplishing by not going back to the main room. I was avoiding my boss and both Hart and Raj, although I didn’t particularly want to avoid Raj. I was avoiding having to answer more questions about either this new hit-and-run killer or about the dead man, although I wasn’t sure whether or not they even had any.

What are we doing, sunshine?

Hello Sylvia, I greeted her.I’m avoiding people.

May I ask why?The dead Victorian Lady Sylvia Randolph floated in the center of the room, her hands clasped in front of her, the long lines of her gown brushing the floor. I idly wondered if she had feet under there, since I couldn’t remember ever actually seeing them. Her lips quirked, and she lifted the hem, showing me a pair of elegant boots buttoned up the sides.Yes, sunshine, I have feet. Now stop avoiding the question.

She was right, of course. I sighed, then stalled a little longer by sipping my hot chocolate.I just… I suppose I’m sick of people asking me if I’m alright or acting as though I’m a child who still needs to be coddled and protected from things,I admitted.

She nodded.Try being a woman in the early twentieth century,she suggested.

I felt my lips twitch.No, thank you,I replied.It’s bad enough now, from what Beck says.

Smart man, she replied.You can’t control what other people think, she continued, although I knew that very well.But you can do something that might make them think differently.

I frowned at her, then took another sip.What do you mean?

Well, for one thing, if you were to… take up fisticuffs, they might not look at you like someone who needs protecting.

Fisticuffs?I couldn’t help snorting.Boxing, you mean?

She shrugged.It’s a very manly, mature pursuit.

I felt absolutely no particular impulse to choose my hobbies based on their relative manliness. I don’t really care whether or not people think about me as particularly manly—I just want people not to think of me as a child.I’m not taking up boxing,I told her.

There’s always necromancy, peewee!came the voice of Archie Lagarde, Beyond the Veil’s other resident ghost. If Sylvia was the epitome of elegance, Archie was the epitome of late-twentieth-century unkempt long-time bachelorhood.

Archie had repeatedly offered to teach me necromancy, to the point where I think both of us expected me to roll my eyes and refuse, the same way I had every other time.

Maybe it was because I was thinking about the dead man whose thoughts still echoed around in my head. Or maybe I was thinking about the fact that I’d become more of a part of Beyond the Veil when I’d started to actually master my psychic abilities—startedbeing the operative word. I knew I hadn’t yet learned everything there was to know about them, not even close. But I was also much better at controlling my abilities and keeping them from disrupting my life, but also making use of them to help the police and the FBI, in addition to Beyond the Veil.