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“I’ve always looked at you.”

“Not like this.”

Gregg went over to the door and paused. “Can I ask you something weird? Do you . . . color your hair?”

Holly put her hand up to the blond waves. “No. I never have.”

“It’s really that blond?”

“You should know.”

As she cocked her eyebrow, he flushed. “Well, women can get dye jobs down . . . you know.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Gregg frowned and wondered who the hell was running his brain: he seemed to have all these odd thoughts playing over his airwaves, like maybe his station had been hijacked. Giving her a little wave, he ducked into the hall, and looked left then right while listening hard. No footsteps. No creaking. No one with a sheet pulled over his head, Casper-ing around.

Yanking his windbreaker on, he stalked over to the stairs and hated the echo of his own footsteps. The sound made him feel pursued.

He glanced behind himself. Nothing but empty corridor.

Down on the first floor, he looked at the lights that had been left on. One in the library. One in the front hall. One in the parlor.

Ducking around the corner, he paused to check out that Rathboone portrait. For some reason, he didn’t think the painting was so fucking romantic and salable anymore.

Some reason, his ass. He wished he’d never called Holly over to look at the thing. Maybe it wouldn’t have marked her subconscious such that she fantasized about the guy coming to her and having sex with her. Man . . . that expression on her face when she’d been talking about her dream. Not the fear part, but the sex, the resonant sex. Had she ever looked like that after he’d been with her?

Had he ever stopped to see if he’d satisfied her like that?

Satisfied her at all?

Opening the front door, he stepped out like he was on a mission, when in reality, he had nowhere to go. Well, except for away from that computer and those images . . . and that quiet room with a woman who might just have more substance than he’d always thought.

Kind of like a ghost being real.

God . . . the air was clean out here.

He walked out away from the house, and when he was about a hundred yards down the rolling grass, he paused and looked back. On the second floor, he saw the light on in his room and pictured Holly nestled against the pillows, that book in her long, thin hands.

He kept going, heading for the tree line and the brook.

Did ghosts have souls? he wondered. Or were they souls?

Did television execs have souls?

Now, that was an existential question and a half.

He took a leisurely loop around the property, stopping to tug at the Spanish moss and feel the bark on the oaks and smell the earth and the mist.

He was on his way back to the house when the light on the third floor came on . . . and a tall, dark shadow passed by one of the windows.

Gregg started to walk fast. Then broke out into a run.

He was flying as he leaped onto the front porch and hit the door, throwing it open and pounding up the stairs. He didn’t give a shit about that whole don’t-go-to-the-third-floor warning. And if he woke people, fine.

As he came to the second floor, he realized he didn’t have a clue which door could take him to the attic. Walking fast down the hall, he figured the numbers on the jambs were dead giveaways that he was ripping past guest rooms.

Then he got to Storage. Housekeeping.

Thank you, Jesus: EXIT.

He broke through, hit the back staircase and took the steps up two at a time. When he got to the top, he found a locked door with a light glowing under the bottom.

He knocked loudly. And got a whole lot of nothing.

“Who’s there?” he called out, yanking on the knob. “Hello?”

“Sir! Whatever are you doing?”

Gregg wheeled around and looked down the stairs at the butler—who was, even though it was after hours, still dressed in his tux.

Maybe he didn’t sleep in a bed, but hung himself up in a closet so he didn’t wrinkle overnight.

“Who’s in there?” Gregg demanded, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the third floor is private.”

“Why?”

“That is none of your concern. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m