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“Rules?”

“Yeah, we have rules. I’ve told you that already, and I probably shouldn’t be telling you that either.”

“Really?”

“You’d be amazed.” He gave me a sideways look.

“Does someone enforce them?”

“Beauchamp, I can’t tell you—stop fucking asking me.”

I hugged my knees tighter, chastised. “Sorry,” I whispered.

Tristan sighed and shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“You swear a lot for a ghost.”

“Do I? I don’t notice. Do you mind?”

“No.” I yawned.

“You’re tired. I should go.”

“Don’t go.”

His look was hesitant.

“You never finished telling me how you died.”

“Curious little thing, aren’t you?” He examined his fingernails. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Lie down and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

I scooted down into my bed while he watched me. It still amazed me how comfortable I was in his presence. I should be frightened, shouldn’t I?

Perhaps he wasn’t really here.

But he is here!

“There’s not much to it.” Tristan ran his hand over his forehead to sweep back his floppy hair. “I told you I was standing in this room with a weird freaked-out feeling. I’ll never forget it. I knew someone had been in here and been rummaging through my stuff; things were in the wrong place.” Tristan’s eyes widened and lost their focus as he reminisced, and his voice was subdued. “I don’t remember any pain. I remember a split-second moment of surprise as some fucker hit me on the back of my head.” His expression changed, and for a moment, he looked desolate. He sighed and continued quietly, “And then I was hovering over my body, but still close, and then there were people all around me and I didn’t understand what was going on.” He stopped, his voice faint and full of emotion.

“That must have been very frightening.” I sat up, longing to reach out and touch him, to comfort him, but it was impossible.

“In retrospect maybe it was, but I don’t remember feeling fearful.” He stopped and examined his fingernails once more. “It takes time, I think, to fully realize what’s happened.” He looked away, and I knew he was being evasive about something. “That’s when you get angry, really angry. There are some angry ghosts out here, let me tell you.”

“Really?” What? “Here? In this house?”

“No. I’m the only angry fucker here. This is my patch. And again, I’m telling you too much. You should sleep; you look sleepy.”

“So, you don’t know who hit you?” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word murder.

“No. It’s why I’m still here. I’d like to know.”

“Do you think it was connected with the intruder? Pete?”

Tristan shook his head. “I was trying to find out, but then you cocked that up by not doing what you were told!”