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Dylan was standing in the hall exuding anxiety like radiation.

“Bye,” I called down to him.

He looked up at me, his eyes bleak, and I sensed his indecision.

“I’ll be fine. I promise to call if I’m not.”

“I’ll be a couple of hours, maybe three.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

With a cautious smile, he turned and left, closing the front door behind him. I waited for five seconds to confirm he’d gone, then bolted back to my room. Tristan was waiting by the fireplace and looking glorious. He must have been beautiful when he was alive. He still looked like he was alive. It was a weird thought.

“Alone at last,” he murmured, his eyes giving nothing away as he leaned on the mantelpiece.

An involuntary shiver ran down my spine. Was this wise? Being alone with a ghost? I gave him a tentative smile.

“You usually look so sad. It’s lovely to see you smile,” he said, almost to himself.

His words made me squirm, and to conceal my shyness, I sat down, cross-legged, at the end of my bed. I glanced down at my hands and decided on the first question.

“Have you been spying on me?” I sounded sharper than I intended, and it surprised him.

He bit his lip, then looked directly at me. “Yes, I suppose I have. But I never expected to be having a conversation with you about it.”

Oh my God. Appalling! What had he seen?

A flush crept over my face, and I don’t know if it was embarrassment or anger. “How long? How long have you been watching me?” I whispered in horror.

He flinched at my tone, and his mouth settled into a grim line. “The whole sordid truth?”

“Yes,” I hissed.

“Every day, I think, since you arrived.” He cocked his head to the side.

No!

“How could you?” I remembered smelling his fragrance from day one. I laid back on the bed and covered my face with my arm.

What has he seen?

“Like I said, I never expected to talk to you. Be with you. I’m still blown away that you can see and hear me.” His voice was gentler and contrite.

What has he seen? Why am I embarrassed? He’s dead, for heaven’s sake.

“Don’t spy on me. It’s… it’s rude.”

“Emily, please sit up. I want to see your face.” His voice was closer.

I peeked from beneath my arm. He was sitting on the bed. Of course, I hadn’t felt or heard it move.

He tore his gaze away from mine and examined his fingernails for nonexistent dirt.

“I like to watch over you,” he murmured. “You’re so vulnerable and alone. I tell you, Beauchamp, you bring out this bizarre protective instinct I thought had perished long ago.” He smirked. “No pun intended.”

“Don’t spy on me.”

“Okay.” He held his palms up in surrender.