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“No, he’s not been around, and I’ve been on the lookout for him.”

“Good. I’m glad he’s not been back. Hopefully we’ll never see him again. I’d better go and put some washing on. Please stay.”

“Okay,” he agreed, though his expression was unreadable.

Gathering up the bag of laundry, I went into Dylan’s room. Tristan was beside the chest of drawers, startling me.

“Spartan son of a bitch, isn’t he?” he said dryly in reference to the minimal decor.

I rolled my eyes at his disdain, then glanced at Billy’s little pot on the dresser and my heart clenched. Tristan frowned, following my gaze.

“Your brother made this?” He pointed to the little pot.

I nodded, unable to speak as the knot in my throat ballooned.

Tristan bit his top lip, his eyes widening with concern.

“It’s cute, Beauchamp. But you’re supposed to be doing washing. I can’t believe you’ve agreed to do his laundry.”

And I knew he was trying to distract me.

What a thoughtful ghost.

I made my way into the en suite. Tristan was there already.

“You have to stop doing that!” I said.

“I like making you jump. Makes me feel like I’m doing my job properly.”

Despite my heartache, I giggled. “Haunting? You do it well.”

He grinned. “I like haunting you,” he whispered. “But you’ve probably figured that out already.”

Again, with the sweet words.

They made me smile.

Dylan’s en suite was white and a wet room, an enormous showerhead to one side behind a sheet of glass. His washing was in a stylish plastic hamper. Ignoring Tristan, I took out all the colored clothes I could find and headed downstairs as Dylan was bringing in the shopping.

“Hi, successful trip?” I asked.

He looked at me strangely. “You okay?” he asked.

Oh no!

“I’m fine,” I said quickly and hurried into the utility room to avoid his scrutiny.

Tristan was leaning against the washing machine.

“Doesn’t miss much, does he?” Tristan said and moved so I could crouch down and open the washing machine door without going through him.

“No, he doesn’t. He’s very perceptive. You never say his name. Don’t you like him?” Clothes loaded, I shut the washing machine and glanced up at Tristan.

His expression had sobered.

“What is it? What are you hiding?” I asked, and I reached for the detergent.

“Nothing. It’s what he’s fucking hiding I don’t like,” he muttered, his eyes suddenly frosty.