Page 35 of Hot Ghost Summer

A single chunk of chicken is still speared on the fork, and the sad crater of rice and vegetables it leaves behind is visible from here. Beside it, Hollis’s laptop screen glows on maximum brightness with open, passive-aggressive windows.

Too late to correct course, I freeze. So does the screen. I lower the glass—not that there’s much it will do to disguise the fact that I’m standing here stark bollock naked—and weigh my options.

“Morning,” I casually toss out, as if this is all perfectly normal.

You sleep naked?

Reads the message on Hollis’s phone.

“You don’t?” I snap back, a smile already tugging at the edges of my mouth.

I’m dead, remember.

I roll my eyes and turn my back on him. “Your sense o’ humour is dead.”

Filling the glass with fresh water, I down it then dump it in the sink to wash later. Almost instantly, it helps ease my heavy head.

Hollis’s phone vibrates with another message.

You need to take my laptop back to the office today.

“Why?”

Because I said so, and you owe me.

I scoff and walk closer. “Mister Pickett told me not t’ go back there, and he’s the one signing my paycheque. Also, I don’t owe you that. I said I’d help you move on, and I will, because it’s the right thing t’ do, but if anyone owes anything, then it’s you who owes me for two new lightbulbs.”

Theo…

I fold my arms across my chest and raise an eyebrow.

Go put some clothes on. I can’t have a conversation when you’re like this.

The smile that had threatened earlier returns, wider now. “Like what?”

You know what. Don’t be a brat.

“Oh, but I think you like that I’m a brat. So, that’s not the problem ’ere, is it? And it can’t be this that’s getting t’ you…” I lick my thumb and drag it from my collarbones down the centre of my abs to my navel. “Because I know you like what you see. Which means you must be jealous; I’ve got a body, and you haven’t.”

Spinning on the balls of my feet, I treat him to a view of my rear and slap my own arse cheek. Proud of myself, my smile practically splits my face. Not that Hollis can see.

The ExorSquad handbook said to be firm with ghosts, and besides, Hollis doesn’t need to go to work, he needs to move on.

With a skip in my step, I go about getting ready for the day, but I leave the bedroom door open—just in case Hollis is watching.

From the narrow drying rack in the corner, I take a clean pair of underwear. The good thing about a late season heatwave is that I don’t have wet laundry hanging around my flat for days because I can’t afford to turn the heating on to dry it all, but the downside is that it’s not just the door to the laundrette that swells in it.

The tight and scratchy fabric drags up my thighs and clings to my arse—and not in a sexy way. Pulling at the elastic of my waistband, I settle the pants lower onto my hips than usual and pull the label out of my crack. This is going to be annoying. I do a couple of squats to stretch them out.

Next, I tug the freshly washed T-shirt of Brigid from the hanger above my window. Pushing my arms through the short sleeves first, my ears fold down flat as the tight material of the neck hole swallows my head. The telltale sound of snapping thread has me pausing with my arms stuck high in the air as if in surrender. What the…?

Cautiously, I lower them, but as the seams cut in around my shoulders, more stitches break. Tucking my chin, I look down as I unroll Brigid’s face over my chest, the decal stretched like a funhouse mirror monster. The hem lands at below my ribs, a solid four or five inches shorter than it should be.

I haven’t bought any of the merchandise from the rescue farm before, but this seems like especially shoddy quality if it’s shrunk after just one wash. Rotating my torso this way and that, I try to understand what happened, but I can’t see any obvious holes or tears. When I stretch to reach the label at the back of my neck, where the washing instructions are, more threads break.

With a resigned sigh, I give up, drag my gym shorts from the rack, and step into them.

“Oh, you’ve got t’ be kidding me?” I groan.