Page 12 of Trust No One

“You aren’t welcome, either?” I asked.

“Nope.”

She wore jeans so worn the right knee had ripped open. Her black graphic tee, washed too many times, read The Joker. Mousy brown hair hung limp around her face. Her right ear displayed four studs and a hoop. Cheap beaded bracelets ringed thin wrists.

She pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “You’re trying to piss everyone off, aren’t you?”

I sighed. “I am.”

“It doesn’t take much.”

“Swarming sharks.”

She lit her cigarette. “Why are you here? You’ve got money.”

“Figured I could use the change,” I quipped.

Smoke drifted from the glowing tip. “Right. And I live in a mansion when I get tired of the trailer.”

“Two peas in a pod.”

A smile curled her lips. “Doubtful.”

Despite our differences, I liked her. She looked enough like me, so Mom would probably accept her more easily. “Are you looking for a job?”

“Doing what?”

“Looking after my mother. Weekends. Nights.”

“Why?”

“She had a stroke. She’s still often confused. Sometimes she wanders.”

“Where does she go?”

“Family cemetery. But not anymore.” I paused, picturing Mom’s white nightgown drifting across the back lawn as she rushed to Dad’s tombstone. “She doesn’t leave the house now.”

“You have a family cemetery?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s some kind of rich.”

“They’ve always been there. I never thought about it.”

“Who’s buried there?”

“My dad. Grandparents. Great-grandparents. A hundred and fifty years of Hales.”

“Any ghosts?”

“No.” Except for the footsteps. “The house is old, but it’s not that different than any other house.”

“Oh, it’s different,” she said. “No one lives like that.”

“I have people during the day. But nights and weekends are harder.” Even if money wasn’t a thing, few liked the house’s moans and groans.

“Afraid of the ghosts?”