“No,” she said, denying him. Denying that the thing was even there. Not logical. No and no and no.

THREE

DENVER, COLORADO, THAT NIGHT

A MOANING WOKE Clare and she sat up straight against the curving wood of her headboard.

The figure of a man stood at the end of her bed. In her bedroom! A shadow of shifting grays. From the size of her footboard beside him, she understood he was shorter than average even for the mid-1800s garb that her mind had clothed him in.

His suit and shirt and vest looked to be made of quality materials—good and expensive—and she saw the chain of a pocket watch across his front.

He had no beard or mustache, but his hair seemed darkish and reached his chin. He didn’t appear like a gunslinger or a cowboy, but a businessman. His lowered brows and set mouth showed determination as the illusion stared at her.

I need your help. Each word dripped like cold, small droplets of icy water into her mind. The August night had finally turned tolerable, but she kept her window and ceiling fans rotating at top speed. Tomorrow would be another day in the high nineties.

And the ghost man brought a chill with him, much as Enzo had. Her gaze slid to the bottom of the bed, where the illusionary dog had been “sleeping.” She saw nothing, but a tickle in her mind said Enzo was there.

Again the hallucination spoke, and this time she saw the slight darkness of his lips against his pale, pale skin as his mouth formed the words. I. Need. Your. Help.

“No.” Whispery words spurted from her mouth. She made pushing motions with her hands. “No. Go away.”

Events cycle. It must be soon that you help me. I am trapped. His mouth twisted. Not where I died, but where I lost my sanity and sinned the most. Help me.

Fear dried Clare’s throat so she couldn’t swallow, and she had to raise her voice past the rawness. “No!”

Enzo coalesced into whiteness even as the other faded. The dog lumbered up the bed and snuffled in her ear, whining.

She gave him two pats with trembling hands before she realized she was trying to pet a nonexistent mutt.

He licked her cheek again, and she felt the clamminess and she slid back down and pulled the sheet over her—all the way over her head—then turned on her side and curled up, hoping her quivering would soon still. Enzo poked his muzzle through the sheet and stared at her with wide, dark eyes.

Clare made a strangling sound.

I will protect you! he said mentally, and barked.

He couldn’t protect her from her own mind . . . and, and, another whispering part of the back of her brain that accepted the illogic of night visitations told her that the ghost man wouldn’t consider a dog much of a threat, neither in his current condition nor when he’d been alive.

As the steel bonds of fear loosened around her, she considered the apparition again, realizing that she’d seen a picture, or maybe a drawing, of him before. Her brain had picked an image to hang the illusion on. So he must be featured in one of her books on the history of the American West. She’d loved that time period. Once.

She wasn’t going to look him up. In any way, shape, or form.

But since her physical exam had proved her vision and hearing okay, she’d have to set up an appointment with the top shrink in Denver.

 • • •

By the time Clare left to pick up the last box of her things at her old job in downtown Denver the next morning, she’d begun muttering to Enzo as if he might really be there. Talking to herself. Another really bad symptom of the strangeness going on in her life . . . in her mind.

But the figment of Enzo was so damn cheerful, insistent in talking to her, interacting with her—getting those bone-chilling pats when she reached out and touched him—that she could hardly say no.

As she drove downtown, she began seeing shades and shadows of people again. Approaching LoDo, lower downtown, the visions of gray folk around her—in the street ahead of her, crowding around the car, striding on the sidewalks—distracted her so much she wasn’t driving safely.

Especially since Enzo sat in the passenger seat. He commented about the city and talked to the shadows . . . thankfully only she “heard” Enzo. She circled around to the Capitol end of the Sixteenth Street Mall to approach the high-rise that held the accounting firm she’d worked for. Even there, filmy people crowded the area.

With sweat beading along her hairline and down her spine, she pulled into the first parking lot she saw—expensive!—near Civic Center and parked.

Enzo barked excitedly. We are going out! We are walking with other ghosts! Hooray! Sandra stayed at home a lot and the ghosts came to her. She was a professional.

Clare gritted her teeth. Sandra had been a professional crazy person. Then Clare found herself actually answering the dog before she knew it. “Enzo, I am not talking to you when we are out of this car.” Even in the vehicle was iffy since people must have seen her mouth move—but maybe they’d thought she was singing along to music or on a hands-free phone call.

Enzo grumbled but didn’t vanish as she was hoping he would when she stepped out of the car into the searing August heat. He kept a running commentary as she took the shuttle to her former place of business.

She’d given her notice as soon as she realized she didn’t need the money from a job anymore, and someone else would. She’d spent time handing off her accounts, and today was just to pick up the last of her belongings.

Fear hopped along her nerves; her neck muscles had tightened into a rigid column, since she didn’t turn her head, trying not to see Enzo and the other specters strolling along the sidewalk. Not ghosts. No. Ghosts simply weren’t real.

Lately she’d spent too much time in Sandra’s house, handling her great-aunt’s New Age objects, glancing through her “business” papers. Yes, Sandra had made “seeing” ghosts pay very well . . . and embraced the whole psychic lifestyle along with burnt-velvet flowing caftans. With fringe.

Clare had packed those off to her sister-in-law, who might wear them for fun, or at a country club costume party.

As Clare left her old office with a medium-sized box of personal items, she fought back tears. She’d loved her job and liked the people she’d worked with.

The words that echoed in her head as she walked back to her car were from one of the partners. “We’ll miss you. You made a real contribution to this firm.”

That’s what she always had wanted to do, always needed to do: to contribute to the community and to society. Not live off a trust fund like her parents, flitting around the world at whim, involved with no one but themselves.

She’d been happy being an accountant, really. So, maybe she’d gotten into a rut, but she’d liked that rut, even though now it seemed as if it had risen around her and blocked out all other possibilities in life.

But it had been secure. And growing up in a flaky family like hers, she’d needed secure.

Walking back to the car in her suit had her strained and dripping.

I like this city very much, Enzo said, sniffing lustily and wagging the whole lower half of his body as a ghostly businessman petted him. Clare cut her gaze away.

That ghost appeared vaguely familiar and wore expensive clothes. Her mind no doubt summoned the image of a mover and shaker in early Denver, since she was near the Capitol.

She hesitated, eyeing his clothing—later in style, she thought, than the vision she’d seen the night before. The ghost man she didn’t want to think about.