Page 86 of The Rut in the Road

I nodded. “Raj is…” I wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it without being insulting.

“Being overprotective,” he said for me, although I didn’t quite understand why his lips twisted in something resembling a smile. “And Rayn is letting me.”

Ward smiled up at him, then turned and winked at me. “I know a thing or two about having an overprotective partner,” he said. “Sometimes you just have to let them flex their big, muscly arms. It makes them feel better, even if it doesn’t actually do much.”

I offered a small smile back, although I wasn’t sure what exactly to say to that.

We passed the ramp to the highway, and Raj’s body relaxed, as there were suddenly a lot fewer people on the sidewalks. “It looks pretty clear out here,” he said, speaking mostly to Ward. “So I imagine your aunt will be fine. But I’ll keep an ear out just in case.”

“I appreciate that,” my boss replied.

Mrs. Van Dyre—whohad asked both of us to call her Millie—had a house that smelled distinctively of potpourri and mothballs. There was clutter everywhere: tiny porcelain figurines with ridiculously rounded rosy cheeks and oddlypointy shoes, glass animals with swooping lines, silk flowers whose petals had been frosted by spiderwebs, and framed photographs of people, some of which looked far too old to be anyone Mrs. Van Dyre herself could ever have met.

And about a dozen dead people.

“Holy shit,” Ward breathed softly as the chattering—and pretty clearly oblivious—Mrs. Van Dyre led us deeper into her house, past a wall full of photographs that spanned at least a century in non-matching frames.

I assumed that the dead, who were drifting toward us—because of course they were attracted to Ward—with idle curiosity. I saw no suggestion that any of them were at all hostile, and the striking similarities in their features hinted at familial connection between many of them. I hadn’t gotten a good enough look at Mrs. Van Dyre to tell if she shared some of those characteristics, but I assumed she did—and that these people were the reason we were here.

The living woman led us into a sitting room that was so packed full of objects with very little reason or order that I had to suppress the desire to shudder. The dead followed us, settling into places in corners or on the furniture that seemed, at least to me, to be habitual.

I took my gloves out of the satchel I’d brought with me, pulling them on so that I didn’t accidentally brush against anything, since I had no idea what it would tell me about the woman who currently lived here or, just as likely, given the coating of dust and spiderwebs on everything, the previous owners of whatever it was.

Mrs. Van Dyre gave me a curious look—lots of people did, when I had gloves on inside a building.

“Rayn is a contact psychic,” Ward explained, also seeing the look. “He wears gloves to avoid inadvertently triggering past memories from objects.” He smiled.

So did Mrs. Van Dyre, although hers could only be described aspredatory.

It was almosteight before Mrs. Van Dyre let us go, and the headache that had been slightly lessened when we’d arrived was pounding.

Mrs. Van Dyre had wanted us to talk to her dead ancestors—who included the fourteen ghosts occupying her residence—to ask them about her family history, but she’d also been unable to resist asking about quite a few of the objects in the house, although thankfully not even remotely most of them. I had the feeling, however, that this wouldn’t be the last time either Ward or I saw Mrs. Van Dyre.

I’d texted Raj first when it became clear that we weren’t going to be done by five, then promised that we wouldn’t attempt to go anywhere or call a ride share service until he got there to pick us up.

At six, Ward had told her that she was an hour past her contract, and she’d waved a hand and told him she’d pay us double for the overtime.

At seven-thirty he’d insisted that we needed to get going as we had other obligations—like his children. She’d caved at that point, and I’d texted Raj to come get us.

It was two minutes to eight when I slid into the back of Raj’s Subaru and let myself lay across the bench seat.

“Are you okay,mera ravi?” his voice asked me, the worry in his tone obvious.

“I hate that woman’s house,” I grumbled, causing Ward to laugh.

“Let’s just say that Rayn’s not a fan of… collectors.”

“Collectors?” Raj asked, although his voice sounded less tense. “Collectors of what?”

“Tiny porcelain children. Old pictures. Creepy feather animals. Dead people.” The list was a complaint, and I could hear the whine in my voice.

“Dead people?” Raj repeated.

Ward chuckled. “There were fourteen ghosts in the house,” he explained. “All her relatives.”

“And she wanted you to get rid of them?” Raj guessed.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Ward answered, sounding amused, if a little tired. “In fact, she wasthrilled.She’s writing the history of her family, so she wanted to interview them. The fact that she chose to do so during Halloween season is a complete coincidence.” He paused a moment. “Poor Rayn tried to block out some of the knick-knacks by putting his gloves on, and I stupidly informed her that he’s a contact psychic. Sorry about that,” he said, presumably to me. I waved a hand, not bothering to open my eyes or take the energy to speak. “She, ah, got a little excited at the idea of being able to determine the origins and owners of quite a few of the… objects in her collections.”