Then she'd put on Judd's shoes, lacing them tight so they'd stay on, and found a safe spot to catch her breath and make that phone call. But her pocket was empty. Her cell phone must have fallen out. And it was at that point, as she told herself Detective Findlay would be at Judd's house by now anyway, that it hit her.
Robyn had just fled another crime scene.
FINN
Finn rang the bell again. He imagined Judd Archer inside, trying to calm a suddenly panicked Robyn – he checked his notes again – Peltier.
He stepped back for a better look at the house. Small, maybe two bedrooms. A decent neighborhood. Not good, but decent.
He should buy a house.
He'd been saying that for three years, but hadn't so much as skimmed a real estate page. He supposed that unless the perfect house magically appeared – For Sale sign on the lawn, Realtor at the door – he'd never get further than wishful thinking.
Apartment living wasn't for him. The endless trekking up the stairs or elevator. The noisy, nosy neighbors. Watching his money evaporate with nothing to show for it. Finn told himself he didn't have the time to house-shop, but the truth was that he didn't dare invest his life savings in a place where he might discover he wasn't the sole tenant.
Though Finn rarely saw ghosts outside a crime scene, it did happen, especially in places where he spent a lot of time. Twice he'd had spectral roommates.
The first one, he'd only glimpsed. He'd walk into a room and see the faint outline of a middle-aged woman, who always faded before he could get a better look. She hadn't scared him, but it was like reading with someone hovering over your shoulder. He could always sense her there, was always waiting for her to interrupt him.