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Dylan glanced at me, uncertain. “Not that I’m aware. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” I gave him a broad, reassuring smile.

“Emily, about this morning. I’m sorry I shouted at you and sent you out of the kitchen. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t,” I lied.

“I frightened myself,” he muttered.

Back at the house, Dylan insisted I have a bath to warm up. He shepherded me into the bathroom, started the water running, and wandered off to his bedroom. The bath was a deep sunken retro design, with claw toes and taps set in the middle. As it filled with piping-hot water, I added some expensive-looking, sweetly scented bath oil. Turning off the taps, I undressed and clambered into the hot water, then sank down, slipping beneath the bubbles and letting the water envelop me. It was heavenly and a little too hot, a stark contrast to my rain shower. I surfaced quickly and lay back, eyes closed, drifting, feeling more at peace than I had for a long time. Perhaps the talk with Claire had been more effective than I first thought, or perhaps it was my dream.

My mind turned to what had been nagging me since my revelation during the interview with Dr. Mills. Dylan’s house was haunted. The boy, Tristan, was a spirit. A lost soul. It was mind-boggling but the only rational, irrational explanation for the manifestations.

Why aren’t I frightened?

My mind wavered once again to the possibility that I might have this wrong, that I’d conjured Tristan from my own subconscious. I massaged shampoo into my scalp, hoping I might rub some sense through my skull and into my brain, but no new insights came to me as I rinsed my hair.

When the water began to cool, I climbed out of the bath and wrapped myself in a large fluffy white towel. I hung my wet clothes on the radiator. Then checking that the landing was clear of all things Dylan, I scooted into the spare bedroom to dry off.

As I shut the door, I knew something was different. Apprehension skittered up my spine, and then I saw him. Tristan was sitting in the rocking chair. I gasped and pulled my towel tighter around myself.

“Hello, Beauchamp,” he said, his expression unreadable.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He gazed back at me evenly, giving nothing away. Finally, I found my voice. “You can’t be in here. I’m not dressed,” I said, aware that my hair was dripping everywhere.

His eyes widened as if he hadn’t expected to be scolded. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, flustered, and he disappeared. Yet his sweet fragrance lingered.

“You’re still here!”

He chuckled from somewhere in the ether. “I’ll be back soon, if I can—depending on circumstances. And I’m hopeless with time.”

The smell vanished.

Hopeless with time? Depending on circumstances? What does that even mean?

This could not be my subconscious. I was never late for anything.

I waited a couple minutes to reassure myself that he had gone, then dressed hastily into the first clean clothes that came to hand—leggings and a T-shirt. I sat on the edge of the bed and began the long, tedious process of towel-drying my hair. As I vigorously rubbed my head, I wondered why I wasn’t scared. Recalling how the bottles flew off the kitchen island—that had to have been him—and he’d been angry that I might harm myself, so I didn’t think he intended to hurt me.

“Was that long enough?” he asked. He was back, sitting in the chair.

Startled by his sudden reappearance, I glared at him from underneath the towel and noticed that the chair cast a shadow on the wall against the bright sunlight, but he didn’t.

Wow.

He has no shadow. Like Peter Pan.

He tilted his head to one side. “Hello again, Beauchamp.” His tone was far more polite and a great deal less hostile than it had been this morning. But his expression was serious.

I emerged from beneath the towel. “Hi… Tristan,” I murmured, and my heart rate spiked. Either I was mad or I was talking to a ghost, so why was I shy and nervous? I should be afraid, but no—my anxiety didn’t come from fear but because a good-looking young man was sitting staring at me in my bedroom. Okay, he was dead, but he didn’t look it. He looked very much alive, dressed in his black shirt and dark jeans. His hands rested on his thighs, and he was staring at me intently as his wonderful scent filled the space between us.

Grabbing my hairbrush, I combed through the tangles of my unmanageable hair, grateful for once that I could use it as a curtain to shield me from him as I worked out what to say.

“You’re in a much better mood,” he said after a moment.

I nodded, my senses heightened, my breathing shallow. “As are you,” I replied, my voice breathless with nerves.

He narrowed his green eyes. “Is that how it seems to you?”