"I don't think she's here, Kylie," said Benny, ruffling his raven-and-chestnut locks. The air smelled of stale chips and foul dust, and though used to such scents, they irritated his nostrils more than usual. And he hated that such a putrid aroma would soon stick to his hair and be impossible to wash out. "I don't see why she would be."

Kylie's heavy black boots banged onto the floor, leaving prints in the layer of grime as she approached the slitted closet. "Right, but the guys reported weird stuff up here, I told you." She kneeled, pulling her amber-blonde braid to the left side, exposing her neck. Benny couldn't tear his gaze from it, licking his lips as he recalled how her skin tasted—strawberries and vanilla with a hint of citrus. "And the faint words on the wall, in here... like someone tried to scrub them off—"

"—someone did scrub them off, that's why we can't read them, babe." Benny's use of a former pet-name prompted Kylie to stand and whip around to face him. Her usually tame but tantalizing green eyes flashed with fury as she stomped over, and he held his hands out—including the one gripping the voice recorder—to stop her progress. She'd slap him if he wasn't more careful. "Sorry, I didn't mean to."

"Watch it," she said, her perfectly plucked eyebrows scrunching as she glared at him. "You fucked up once with my team, so don't make me tell them you fucked up again by pissing me off."

He couldn't help it—Kylie hypnotized him. He'd never admit to it, but she was the reason he'd botched the one and only investigation her FBI crew had invited him on. Too distracted by memories of her, by the way her hips swished when she walked, by her infuriated but sexy tone when barking orders at lower-level agents who handled evidence. Their past was far behind them, and yet Benny would always see her as the one that got away.

And it's all my fault.

"So what weird stuff did they report again?" Benny spun on his heels, then grimaced as he faced the window—late evening sun poured in and blinded him. He covered his eyes as he hurried over to shut the blinds. "I need specifics so I can ask detailed questions."

Kylie had moved on to a wall where the hazy outline of a painting left a mark. She fixed on it, head tilting left and right, as if trying to imagine what sort of artwork might have once been there. "Voices, mainly. Whispers, but they couldn't piece together what was being said. And one of them swears that the message in the closet—the scrubbed one—became visible. Like it... glowed, or something. But it spooked him so much he didn't get a chance to read it, and it hasn't happened again."

Benny pulled out his phone from his jeans pocket and typed up what she said, never letting his gaze leave her silhouette. He watched her as she swayed from one end of the room to the other, focused on stains and dents in the walls, crouching and rising, her curves making him salivate.

It had been years—many years—since he and Kylie concluded whatever their situation had been, and yet he'd never stopped thinking about her. More so since he'd been certain he'd ended her career in the FBI when they last spoke. His lack of tact had put her deep in trouble with her superiors, and he had never forgiven himself for it.

But when she called a few weeks prior, inviting him here... the tiniest spark of hope had ignited in his chest. Had she finally come to her senses? Would she finally concede they were meant to be, and all the sex they had back in the day hadn't been in vain?

Some of the best nights of my life.

"Benjamin Brooks!" Kylie's enraged—but ridiculously hot—timbre sliced through Benny's daydreams and forced him to snap to reality. "Are you listening to me?"

"Sorry," he said, rolling his shoulders and slipping his phone into his pocket. He pulled on his tight shirt, hoping it would cover the bulge slowly forming below the belt. "Totally zoned out. This place is... rampant with weird energy."

It was an excuse, but it wasn't a lie—since the second he'd set foot in the house, Benny had been in awe. The air itself fizzled with a darkness he'd never seen or felt before. The atmosphere was so dreary, so ominous, it was like walking into a black-and-white mystery movie.

Though he and Kylie were in color, all the items in the building were faded, as if devoid of life. The few pieces of furniture were ripped into and deflated, and the appliances in the kitchen had to have come from ancient times.

The bedrooms were fascinating, he had to admit. They were bright and airy, with windows and modern blinds; and yet they were bare, covered in cobwebs and ominous spots and blemishes, and with the stench of an overused, dingy sponge.

All three rooms had a similar layout, though only one had actual decoration—a freaky, old-school mirror like those in horror flicks. And the only bathroom was downstairs, attached to the kitchen.

"But she isn't here, though?" Kylie scooched over, arms crossed over her form-fitting leather jacket. "Arielle Daniels, the victim?"

Benny tried his hardest not to look into the V-neck of her shirt, and fixed on his voice recorder as he cleared his throat. "I don't think so. There's activity here, for sure, but it's weak." He pushed the stop button and rewound the tape. "I'd suggest coming back later," he checked his watch, "because it's only six PM, and the craziness usually starts after dark. After midnight."

Groaning, Kylie slumped over to the bedroom door. "But I can't bring you here after midnight, my friend." She leaned against the surface and huffed. "They allowed you on site, but they told me they wouldn't let you investigate at night. Late afternoon was the best I could do, for now."

Startled at a muffled whisper in the background of his recording device, Benny lifted a finger and beckoned her over. "Okay, but don't they realize nothing happens during the day in places like these? Have they ever watched a spooky movie or a paranormal show?"

Gaze narrowed, Kylie sauntered over. "No, because they're not nerds and they have lives, Benny." She stopped beside him, her arm nudging his and causing goosebumps to line the skin under his long sleeves. "If you want a special allowance for late-night investigating, you're going to have to give them something to sink their teeth into. Proof."

"Proof." Benny scoffed. "I gave them proof that one time, and they fucking laughed at me—"

"—shut up. What did you hear?" She slid her arm in the crook of his elbow and shook him.

Teeth gritting to ignore the sensations her proximity provoked, Benny finished rewinding the tape again, then pressed play. "Listen closely—after I said rampant with weird energy... something happens."

Both angled close to the device.

"... clean... come clean..."

Benny grinned at the crackling, croaking voice; but Kylie hopped backwards. "Whoa," said the latter, rubbing her biceps as she suppressed a chill. "That was pretty fucking clear. But you don't think that's her?"

"I can't tell." Benny had been all over Arielle Daniel's Facebook page and other social media, to find videos she'd posted and to get familiar with her tone, her mannerisms, any clues that would help him identify her were they to encounter any spirits in the house. But this voice, this morose murmur, didn't sound like her. "It comes off as childish, almost. Teasing. In my research, she didn't have that attitude."

"Does she have the attitude of someone who would commit suicide?" Kylie trudged over to the closet again and closed it with a wince. "Because Jade McNeely did commit suicide. And though we keep going back and forth on Stella, we need to understand Arielle's death. She's... the link between them, the puzzle piece we're missing. Are we looking at an agreement between the three? A random coincidence? Or someone targeting them on purpose and making their deaths look like suicides?"

Her voice was strained, loaded with tension. How Benny wished to massage her back, ease her discomfort, relax her. This case—and those attached to it—weighed heavily on her shoulders, and there was a promotion in the works if she solved it. But as far as Benny understood, it was impossible to crack.

Three best friends, all dying within months of one another. And one of the friends—Arielle—had a history of losing those she loved, those in her entourage. If she hadn't died, he might have assumed she had something to do with everyone else's death; but she'd perished, ruling her out as a suspect.

Unless she killed them all, then killed herself out of guilt?

The only way to be sure was to find and contact her. She'd be in the house, Benny had no doubt. But would she want to be seen? Would she accept to communicate?

Benny had known for decades that ghosts were real. He'd captured heaps of evidence, had been interviewed for several paranormal shows, and had dropped out of college to pursue his passion full-time, to the detriment of his parents. And... to Kylie's disappointment, too.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," he said, fast-forwarding the recorder to where he'd paused it. "That's why I'm here, right? To help shed light on this nonsense?"

Kylie smiled, and time froze. Whenever her lips parted and the dimples in her cheeks appeared and her skin flushed, it lit up Benny's world. If only he could tell her, if only she'd forgive him for being reckless and pursuing a career she didn't approve of—

BAM!

"What the—" both flipped to the door, having heard the same crashing sound coming from the hallway.

Benny raised his arm with the recorder and held a finger to his lips. "Let's go," he whispered, motioning at Kylie to follow him.

He tiptoed to the door, and Kylie crouched behind him, one hand hovering over her gun.

He smirked, keeping his head turned so she wouldn't see it.

A gun will do nothing against a ghost, my love.