Chapter 1
Valendale is the kind of place people visit when they want something unusual.
Fog clings to the town like a habit. It rolls in daily, indifferent to the weather, indifferent to the locals who have learned to live inside it. Every so often, just often enough to be cruel, the sun breaks through and bathes the streets in warmth as if daring everyone to believe this place is normal.
It isn’t.
Valendale is split in two. Old Valendale sits on a man-made island in the center of a pond, its antique buildings crowded together as if bracing against time itself. A sixty-meter wooden bridge connects it to the mainland, New Valendale, where glass, steel, and ambition have begun creeping in. The younger generation prefers the mainland. Better internet. Better lighting. Fewer rumors.
Old Valendale, despite its spotty Wi-Fi and aging bones, remains popular for other reasons.
It’s said to be haunted.
Streamers wander its foggy streets at night filming shadows and hoping for proof. They rarely catch anything useful. By the time they arrive, the town is asleep. The dead are quieter when watched.
On this particular spring afternoon, Valendale hums. People linger outdoors soaking in the sunlight while it lasts. Avet Hayes notices this absently from her seat inside Blessed Beans, her laptop open and her coffee nearly gone.
She’s distracted.
Not by the living.
Avet has already walked her four-month-old Shar-Pei puppy, Momo, twice this morning. Exhaustion settles deep in her bones. The wrinkled little menace snoozed happily afterward, oblivious to the fact that he has derailed her entire routine since Greg Crawford handed him over like a peace offering.
Greg. Widower of Avet’s grandmother, Orenda Hayes.
Mama Odie, if you asked her.
Avet shifts in her chair, trying to focus on the data set glowing on her screen. Something feels off today. Not the fog. Not the sunshine. Not even the steady, familiar presence of the dead she has spent most of her life ignoring.
Then she sees it.
A woman enters the coffee shop. Young. Athletic. Unfamiliar. Normal enough.
What isn’t normal is the ghost clinging to her back like a child terrified of being abandoned.
Avet freezes.
The dead usually linger near places or objects. Sometimes they attach themselves to people, but not like this. This one grips the stranger’s shirt with both hands, her face buried in the fabric as if letting go would drag her somewhere worse.
Avet knows her.
Jane Finch.
The name lands heavily in her chest. Heiress to Finch Industries. Dead at twenty-five. Two years ago today, if Avet remembers correctly.
She pretends not to stare.
That’s her rule. Don’t acknowledge them. Don’t engage. Don’t invite curiosity from either side of existence.
Avet squints past the ghost as though searching for someone else, her fingers hovering uselessly over her keyboard.
Jane looks wrong.
Windshield glass threads through her blonde hair, catching the sunlight in fractured glints. Her features distort slightly, like a reflection trapped in cracked glass. Avet feels the echo of impact deep in her bones and swallows hard.
Her eyes flick toward the counter.
Mama Odie stands there smiling knowingly, her presence more irritating than comforting. Her grandmother has been dead for five years and still refuses to mind her business.
Figures.
“That’s enough for today,” Avet mutters under her breath.
Jane lifts her head.
The ghost reaches toward her, translucent fingers hovering inches from Avet’s face.
Her laptop screen goes black.
Words flicker across it briefly, distorted and silent.
HELP ME.
Avet closes the laptop immediately.
Her stomach twists. She gathers her things and stands too quickly, nearly knocking her chair backward. If she leaves now, maybe she can still salvage the rest of her day. Walk Momo. Finish work. Pretend she didn’t see anything unusual.
She joins the line at the counter.
Jane follows.
The ghost drapes herself protectively around the woman ahead of Avet, a customer ordering a latte. Her blue, glassy eyes track the barista with a focus that makes Avet uneasy.
Mama Odie Specter Inspector for Hire.
Her grandmother’s ridiculous business card flashes unhelpfully through her mind.
No, Avet thinks. Not today.
Outside, the sun dips lower. Fog creeps steadily back through the streets.
Jane Finch isn’t going anywhere.
And for the first time in a very long while, Avet suspects ignoring the dead may no longer be an option.
