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“Senator Kestrel, the dean of admissions is here. He’s requesting a short meeting. Also, players that are passing by can hear the raised voices. Just so you know. Would you like us to start removing cell phones from anyone who—”

“No, no,” Senator Kestrel replied. “No need. We’re about done here.”

The door closed with a soft snick.

“Marcus, we’ve not even discussed why we came,” Mrs. Kestrel gently said, placing a small hand with glittery jeweled rings on her husband’s arm. “Can we not at least speak to Mr. Kee about the situation?”

“Whatever you have to say to Arch, you say to me. We’re a team. Kestrel and Kee. In front of the camera and behind it,” Phil announced, his stubbly jaw rising. By all the gods, I did adore this man of mine.

The senator—I decided both of the elder Kestrels didn’t deserve first name kindness—stiffened and exhaled through his nostrils.

“Fine. Yes, of course.” His gaze flickered to me, then to his son, then to the door behind us. “It seems we are in need of some…” He paused as he chewed on the next few words before spitting them out. “Some paranormal assistance, and as you two are the closest to our family, we came to see if you would help us.”

Phil’s whiskery jaw dropped open. His wide blue eyes flew from his father to me. I shrugged as I pondered WWYD? What would Yeye do? Knowing my grandfather, he would show extreme cordiality to Phil’s parents, offer them some tea and ginger cookies, and listen with an open heart to what they were asking. Yep, that was what he would do. Hospitality is deeply rooted in Confucian values.

“Why don’t we go to my home where we can discuss things in a more personal setting?” I offered with the most gracious smile I could manage.

It was a good thing I was holding Phil’s hand because I was sure he would have either fainted or floated off in utter dismay at my offer. Either would have been less than attractive. I got one nod from the senator and another from Mrs. Kestrel. Cool. Should be fun.

Not.

Chapter Two

Exiting the field, the gloom cloud hanging over Phil was large enough to start attracting storm chasers.

Mostly kidding.

I jogged alongside him, still holding my banner and thermos, glancing at him every two seconds. He was mad. No, that’s not a strong enough adjective. He was furious. My sweet, gregarious hunk of a jock was irate. And this was the scary part. I felt like some of his fury was directed at me, but why would it be?

We reached his beater truck without a single word being spoken, a rarity, and he threw open the driver’s side door and climbed inside. I opened my door, hopped in, and sat on the worn seat, humped up and sorrowful as hell. I wanted to walk as our shop slash home was a mere block away, but we were supposed to meet up with the team afterward.

“If you want to talk about everything, I—”

“No,” he snarled, cranking the engine twice before it would engage. The stereo blasted to life with a rocking rendition of “Smokin’ in the Boys Room” by Mötley Crüe. Phil was in his Crüe era, which he jokingly called his obsession with the heavy metal band. Next month it will be a different singer or band from the ’80s.

I buckled, lower lip caught between my teeth, unsure of how to navigate this perilous new sea I was now sailing. Rough waters were unheard of in our relationship. Also, I was terrified of water, so why I was using seafaring metaphors was beyond me.

We squealed out of the parking lot, wheeled around two turns, ignoring a stop sign by the Liverswell U English department building, and barreled out into traffic. Thankfully, Liverswell was a small town with light traffic. Still, the aggressive driving was making me nervous. I squeaked when we ran through the spirit of Andrew Wiglesworth of the Plymouth County Regiment, who served during the siege of Boston and returned home to Liverswell to take up his father’s cordwainer’s shop. Nice enough fellow, if not a little boring. Reggie cared little for him, but Reggie was a British officer and had little time for upstart Yanks of his era.

“Shit,” I gasped as poor Andrew was dispersed in a gory dissolution of his spiritual form. Turning my head to look back, I saw Andrew reincarnate behind us and get tagged by a dude on a scooter making a Taco Tornado delivery. “Poor guy.” I sighed as I faced forward. “There was a ghost crossing the street. We sort of vapor-flared him.”

Phil threw me a glower. “I didn’t see him. Not everyone sees dead people, Arch!”

Wow. I just…wow. “Okay, I’m not sure exactly what I did to bring out this ugly side of you, but I don’t think—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t think at all! You just go ahead and say things before you think. You’re a bad thinker, Archie!” I sat there stunned. What the hell was he even yelling about? And why was he yelling when I was an arm’s length away? “They show up, ruin opening day, and make the dean pull me from the game to meet them and talk. As if I wanted to talk to them. They had plenty of time to talk to me when I was home. They could have talked before they yeeted me from their house. Now they show up, expecting me to…to…to…”

He pulled over to the curb so fast he skidded up over the gutter and thunked back down. I threw out a hand to the dash, yelped, and then looked to the left to find my boyfriend silently weeping.

“Oh, hey, baby,” I cooed, reaching over to shift us into P and crank the engine off before placing my hand on his thigh. He lowered his head to the steering wheel, tears falling to his dark gray baseball pants as his shoulders heaved. “I’m so sorry they upset you so much. “

“Not just them.” He coughed and lifted his head to stare right into my very soul. “You too.”

“Me?!”

“Yeah, you, shit.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He was still wearing his batting glove as he had been about to go up to bat. “I hate this. I hate crying over them.”

Yeah, I knew that. We had a nasty go-round with a mare rider around New Year’s who had gotten into Phil’s dreams to dredge up all kinds of familial pain and nightmares. I’d carry those scars forever, watching him fall apart in a cold, abandoned asylum.