Chapter One

"Midnight ghost-hunting sucks."

There, she'd said it. The one thought that had been on the tip of her tongue and repeatedly held back had finally been given life and voice. Those three little words hung in the air between them. The tense, uncomfortable silence that followed almost made Ginger regret her choice of words.

She was cramped and tired, and her eyes burned from having spent the last three hours squinting into the darkened room. On top of all that, she was hungry, a stomach-churning reminder of why she rarely stayed up into the wee hours of the morning.

"Well, it does," Ginger muttered in her own defense.

"What?"

"Suck. This sucks." Why was he making her play the bad guy by forcing her to own up to what any sane, rational person would be feeling under such bizarre circumstances?

Except he really wasn't. The thought came on the heels of a fresh pang of guilt. Chris had been silently excited all evening, watching the shadows move with a breathless anticipation that eluded Ginger. He had asked for her help, her support, not her criticism.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." Her breath misted in the cold air between them before finally evaporating and becoming part of the shadows that twisted throughout the corners of the old house.

"If that's how you feel…"

"It's … not."

"Really," Chris said, clearly skeptical.

"Well, maybe just a little. Do we have to do this in the dark?"

"Spirits don't respond to the light."

"Obviously." She hadn't meant to snort, honest to God.

"You don't have to be here, you know."

"Yes, I do. I live here."

"You could have said you didn't want to do this, Ginger. If it's making you so uncomfortable, then go to bed."

"Will you turn the heat up?" she countered.

"A cold environment is more conducive to—"

"Chris!"

"Fine." His lips pressed together in a thin line. "I'll turn the heat up. Up. Not on. The heat is already on."

"Sixty-five degrees is not having the heat on. It's trying to turn your sister into an ice cube." The grousing drew another grim look from her brother, who admitted defeat and flipped on the drawing room light before stalking his way to the main thermostat.

"Happy now?"

"You know I love you."

"Here we go."

"No, just listen to me."

"Go on." He rested a hip against the oak dining table and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

"Don't you think you're taking this thing a bit too far?"

"What 'thing' are you referring to?"

"This!" she cried. "The cameras, the audio recorders. The videos." Her voice dropped to a furious whisper.

Chris had the grace to look embarrassed. "I didn't know you were bringing a date home that night. I've already apologized for that."

"Yeah, well. Tell that to Adam." Ginger blew a stray red hair out of her face and barely resisted the urge to cringe at the memory.

"Fine. I'll apologize to Adam."

"Don't bother. We broke up."

"Was it the video?"

"Yes, damn it. It was the video."

"Won't happen again." He crossed his fingers in front of his chest as though he were some sort of modern day boy scout.

"All I'm saying is maybe you need to find another hobby." She gentled her tone, trying to make him see reason. "Like Sports Center, or collecting. A nice coin collection sounds good. You like old things."

"But my documentaries…"

"Could be about anything. You could get into real journalism."

"I'm not a reporter."

"Then what about something artistic?"

"Ginger, why does this make you so uncomfortable?"

"It doesn't. Not really."

"I think it does," he persisted. "I think this stuff scares you."

"Scares me? Are you serious?" Her footsteps echoed on the bare floor as she marched into the country kitchen and flipped the switch, flooding the room in pale golden light.

"Yes, and I'd like to know why."

"There's nothing to be scared of. This stuff isn't real. None of it exists, Chris. Ghosts are not real."

"Says you."

"Yeah, me and anyone else with a lick of sense."

"There's been documented evidence to the contrary. Explain that." His challenge irked her, and she couldn't resist taking the bait.

"Shadowy footage and bumps in the night are not proof. Houses settle and make noise. Dust particles float through the air. And who the hell can make out anything in the dark?" she countered. Ginger one, Chris zero … and on his way to the nut ward if he kept this up.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he repeated. "If you didn't want to help, all you had to do was say the word."

"Chris, this house is not haunted. You're taking it too far is all I'm saying. Every week you've got hours upon hours of footage to go through. It's just a little much."

"I disagree. But I won't ask you to do this again. You're off the hook."

"Sure. You creeping around down here all hours of the night like some sort of weirdo is oh so relaxing." Ginger rolled her eyes and drained a glass of icy juice in a single, unladylike gulp. She rinsed the glass and set it beside the chrome sink. "I'm going to bed."

"Ginger…"

"Yes?"

"Nothing," he sighed. "Goodnight."

"Are you coming upstairs?"

"In a bit." She hesitated for a full minute before giving a curt nod and heading up the stairs. Tomorrow was another day…

* * *

Sunday morning came much too soon. Nothing new there. She eyed the puffiness below her eyes with rising irritation.

Every Sunday she took turns with Chris on the most daunting task in the history of humanity: taking their grandmother shopping.

Just the thought of the next four hellish hours was enough to make her groan. Gran was hard enough to take on a good day, and this, Ginger reflected, was not going to be a good day. She had already dropped her mascara into the sink and knocked her cell phone into the toilet trying to retrieve her makeup from its watery demise. In the end, both telephone and cosmetic had perished. The waterlogged tube was ruined. She was forced to wash her face, since leaving the house with one eye made up was not an option.

Fresh-faced once more, she had carefully reapplied concealer and, after a quick peek at the clock, made a spur-of-the-moment decision to shave the space between her eyebrows. Usually she plucked and occasionally she waxed, but on days where a touch-up was in order and time was short, she simply grabbed a razor and made do.

She was just about done when Chris barreled into the bathroom, sending the heavy door crashing into her shoulder with jarring force. When all was said and done, Chris's "shocking footage" had turned out to be car headlights reflecting off the fireplace mantle, and Ginger was missing most of her left eyebrow.

Not a good start to what promised to be a tedious day. She regarded her drawn-in brow with no little scorn and decided she was as ready as she was likely to get. Grabbing her purse, she scowled at Chris, then managed to make it to Gran's assisted-living apartment in record time, courtesy of road rage and a lead foot.

"Sorry, Grandma. I made it here as soon as I could. Are you ready to go?"

"I was ready to go an hour ago."

"Great." Ginger forced a smile. "Lets—"

"But now I have to go to the bathroom."

"Oh," she exhaled, deflated. "I'll wait here. Unless you need help…?" Please don't need help. Please don't need help. Please don't…

"Thank you, but I haven't forgotten how to wipe my own ass."

"Gran!"

"I'm old, not an invalid," she snapped, making her way down the hall to her bright pink powder room, the aluminum walker thunk-thunking all the way.

"At least she's using her walker today," Ginger muttered, taking a seat on Gran's aging tweed sofa.

That anyone had ever thought tweed was a good choice of fabric for a sofa was beyond absurd to Ginger. She shifted her attention to the rest of her over-bright surroundings and tried not to scratch.

Gran loved pink. Any and all shades would do. Pink slipcovers on the chairs, pink feathers in a rose crystal vase, fuchsia cup holders. The only thing in the tidy living room that wasn't pink was the dreaded tweed plaid couch—that and the draperies on the windows. Those were blue, done in the very same silvery shade of aqua as Gran's bi-monthly hair rinse. The thunk-thunking resumed a minute later, signaling the old woman's return a full two minutes before she entered the room.

"Don't just stand there, girl. Open the door and let's get the hell out of here."

The drive to their next stop took considerably longer than the initial thrill ride to the assisted-living apartment. Ginger knew from experience that Gran considered anything over twenty miles per hour to be speeding; she rode the brake all the way to the Save-N-Stop, breathing a sigh of relief when she was finally able to get out and stretch her aching legs. The memory came to her, unbidden, of mornings where her muscles would ache for an entirely different reason. Adam…

"Don't think about him," she commanded through her teeth.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Gran. Are you ready?" She tried for chipper but fell flat.

"I've been ready for five minutes, and if you'll stop lolly-gagging around and help me out of this rust trap, then maybe we would actually get some shopping done. Unless you want to stand here all morning talking to yourself."

"I wasn't… Oh forget it." Ginger sighed. "Here, let me help you."

Gran creaked and groaned her way to a standing position. Then, with walker firmly in place, she trudged across the parking lot to the wide double doors with the automatic open sensors, Ginger trailing behind. Ten short minutes later, they were in the store.

"I forgot my purse in the car. I'll just run and go get it."

"No, no…" Ginger's eyes widened in horror. "You stay put, Gran. I'll run and get it."

"But I could fall and break a hip," the old lady protested.

"Standing here for sixty seconds?"

"Yes. It happened to Melba just the other week," Gran insisted, glaring at her youngest granddaughter.

"You'll be fine. I'll be right back."

"If I'm on the floor when you get back, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I should be so lucky," Ginger muttered under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she tossed over her shoulder, refusing to meet Gran's gimlet glare. She could practically feel those shrewd old eyes boring into her back as she dashed out the door and into the sun-baked parking lot. It took her less than a minute to retrieve the purse. She stopped only long enough to plunk change into the pay phone at the side of the aging structure.

"Malhaven residence," Chris answered on the fourth ring.

"I hate you!" Ginger snapped before slamming the phone back into its cradle and hurrying to rejoin Gran.

They made eight stops that day, each more mind numbing than the last. After the Save-N-Stop came the bank, the pet store—Gran liked to talk to the brightly colored birds along the back wall—the post office, Hobby Lobby, Old Country Buffet, the Dollar General, and the pharmacy. Gran always saved the pharmacy for last, despite protests from her family. They never arrived earlier than four thirty p.m. and were always asked to leave at the posted five o'clock closing time.

The pharmacy was, hands down, Ginger's least favorite excursion of a day with Gran, and she was not alone. The general consensus of the entire family was unanimous: Anything was preferable to taking Gran to the pharmacy. Fifty-two card pick up, sand in your bikini bottom, strep throat, mono, a yeast infection, bird flu, flesh eating disease, and falling down the stairs were all activities that had made the collective family list of Things I'd Rather Experience Than Take The Old Bag to CVS.

"Take me to Walgreens," Gran protested as Ginger cautiously steered the car into the nearly empty parking lot.

"We're already here. Besides, you're not allowed in Walgreens anymore, remember?"

She immediately regretted her choice of words. Asking Gran if she remembered her pharmacy nemesis was like asking if she had remembered to put a bra and underwear on that morning—dangerous territory and something the old woman was likely to not only remember, but pounce on and bitch about for the next hour. But wait…

Although she couldn't vouch for the underpants, Ginger acknowledged with a sideways look, it looked as though Gran had in fact forgotten her bra that morning. She frowned. That wasn't possible. Not unless senility was contagious.

"Nana, where is your brassiere?"

"Is that your business?"

Lord have mercy. "Gran, I know that you left the house this morning with your bra on. It is now," she glanced at her watch, "four thirty, and you're not wearing it. Where did it go?"

"In my purse." Gran's chewing gum shot out the passenger side window.

"Why?" Ginger dragged the question out, holding on to her fragile sense of control and fervently denying the headache that was beginning to form.

"It was too hot in that store."

"What store?"

"K-mart. Where else? All that money, you'd think they could afford some decent air conditioning. Terrible."

"We didn't go to K-mart today."

"Oh. Well, then it must have been the Petco. Yes, that's it, I left it in the Petco."

"You left it behind?!" The screech earned yet another death stare from the old woman.

"So what if I did?"

"But you just said it was in your purse. Now you're telling me you left it in the Petco store." Dear Lord…

"That's right. Don't you judge me, missy. I was wearing a bra before you were born, unlike that no-account mama of yours. I'm eighty years old. If I want to take the damn thing off, I should be able to do so without having to endure lip from a Little Miss Sassy Pants."

"Mama's not so bad…" Ginger uttered wearily. Dear God, she'd left it in the Petco.

"Not so bad, ha!"

"Let's not do this. The pharmacy is about to close. If you want to finish your shopping, we have to do it now." Again, she cursed her too-candid observation. If Gran was worked up and on a rant, she would likely forget about the last of her shopping, providing for a tiresome but less dramatic afternoon. Too late now.

"Your mother was the bane of my existence."

Then again, maybe not. "You talk about her as if she were dead."

"She is dead—to me. I have nothing to say to her. And I never will." The old woman stuck her chin out and did her best to look mutinous.

"Fine."

"Now take me to Walgreens. I don't care what that weeny with the tie said. I'll shop there whenever I feel like it. They probably forgot all about that incident by now anyway."

"The weeny in a tie is a civil court judge, and they still have your picture up. You go to the CVS, or you go home. Your pick."

"You're a terrible girl, Ginger. Terrible."

"What's it going to be?" She glared right back, waiting.

"Let's go. I need a couple of things."

"Did you make a list?"

"Don't need to. I'll remember."

"Right. Let's get at it, then." Last stop, hallelujah. Ginger breezed through the automatic doors ahead of Gran, feeling strong. She could do this. Thirty minutes, tops. She was in the final stretch. Soon she'd be home, where at least the lunatics made some sense.

Twenty minutes later, her resolve was fading fast. Might have had something to do with Gran asking an unsuspecting sales clerk where they kept the tampons.

"What are you doing?" Ginger hissed. "What on earth do you want with tampons? You don't need those."

"I most certainly do need them." She drew herself up to her full five feet, four inches.

Tampons. As sure as she was that she didn't want to have this conversation, she grudgingly admitted that unfortunately it was necessary to discover just what in the hell Gran wanted with the extra-large box of Kotex clutched in her gnarled hand.

"Please put that down." Ginger felt her face burn with a heat she hoped wasn't painfully obvious. Did she have to be so embarrassing? Ginger suppressed a groan as a list of possible uses for the sanitary product came to mind.

"What could you possibly want with a box of tampons?" Ginger cried, ignoring the whispering and snickers from passersby.

"My period is coming, if you must know."

"Your period… Oh for the love of God. Fine, take your tampons and let's go."

Face still aflame, she turned toward the checkout counter, giving serious thought to making a run for it. Gran could no longer outrun her, could she? Best not to chance it, though, Ginger decided before she could attempt to make good on the panicky impulse. As much as the whole family would have sympathized—because surely they had all longed to do the same thing at one time or another—she was sure she would never hear the end of it if she actually abandoned the old woman.

She could see it now: Lost grandma found roaming the streets of greater Atlanta with a box of Kotex and a vacant smile. If you have any information regarding this woman… Jesus. It would probably be on the evening news.

The middle-aged woman in the too-tight jeans and rhinestone cowboy boots came seemingly out of nowhere, bumping into Gran with stunning force, effectively knocking her off balance. She collided with Ginger, who in turn crashed into the display shelf to her left. Tampons and pads flew six feet in every direction. She couldn't decide which hurt worse—the tattered remains of her pride, or the maxi pad box embedded into her left arm.

"Gran?"

"I'm okay," she replied, with just a hint of a tremor in her voice.

"God…!"

"God didn't have anything to do with it, child. It was the cheap floozy over there."

"Over where?" Ginger asked, pulling her protesting body from the bed of sanitary napkins and turning to stare where Gran was pointing one sharp-tipped hot pink fingernail. She couldn't believe her eyes. The floozy in question had stepped over the whole mess and was now at the checkout, one heavily ringed claw tapping impatiently at her slim hip.

"I would hate to see that one's mother. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, you know. I never did see anything so rude… Ginger? Ginger, where do you think you're going?"

But Ginger was already halfway to register number three with a spring in her step and a spark in her eye that clearly said she meant business.

"Hey."

"What?" The overblown brunette spared her a single bored-looking backward glance before returning her attention to the cashier.

"What? That's what you have to say for yourself? You almost knock an old lady to the ground—you do knock me to the ground—in a pile of tampons—and all you have to say is 'what'?"

"You were in my way."

"Oh yeah?" Ginger's lips curled into something that barely resembled a smile.

"Ginger, don't," Gran ordered as she caught up to the pair.

"Well, right now you're in my way," Ginger announced a split second before giving the brunette a well-placed, two-handed shove.

Loose change tinkered as it spewed across faded linoleum. A man's voice boomed a protest in the background.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Adam?" Ginger turned to face her newest ex-boyfriend, barely taking note of the livid anger in his tone and stance.

"What was that for? Leave her alone. Now," he commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Adam." Her gaze skimmed over his denim-and-black-clad form with contempt. "Fancy seeing you here. Why don't you mind your business? That woman—"

"You will apologize to that woman. God, have you gone completely around the bend?"

"Around the…" she sputtered, seeing red. Suddenly, it all made sense. "So this, this … tramp is the reason you broke it off, then. I figured there was something going on. You stop calling, I catch you lying about where you've been, and now you're out with Alligator Skin over there not three days after dropping me like yesterday's news. Well, you can go to hell, Adam."

"Let's go," Gran ordered.

"Not yet. I've got something else to say to the cheater."

"You need to shut your mouth before you create a scene and get yourself in trouble. Let's go."

"Adam, I've got one question for you."

When he raised one eyebrow, she continued on in a voice that was deadly calm. "Don't you think she's a little old for you?"

"I'll show you old!"

She heard the woman's angry words an instant before she felt the surprisingly heavy weight slam into her from behind.

The woman was fast, but Ginger was indignant and very, very determined. Of course, that didn't work in her favor when she was pulled off the broad by two armed guards less than three minutes later. Both women were separated until the police came to deal with the situation.

Gran was remarkably calm throughout the rest of the ordeal. Adam, if anything, became even angrier than before.

She felt the blood drain from her face when she heard him tell the officer behind her that his "crazy ex-girlfriend" had flown into a jealous rage, attacking his aunt Claudia for no apparent reason.

"I had a very good reason!"

"I'm not going to tell you again—be quiet," the uniform beside her said.

"Wait." She twisted around to gape at Adam. "Your aunt?"

"Give it up, Ginger," he shot back.

"But—"

"Book her." The order came from the second uniform.

"Ginger Malhaven, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…"

* * *

"To the charge of third-degree assault and battery, how do you plead?"

"Guilty," Ginger mumbled, facing the judge and humiliated to the depths of her soul. Humiliated and very, very scared. Although she had made a half-hearted show of being brave through most of the court proceedings, she dropped all pretense now and sought her brother in the crowd.

Their eyes met and he gave her a little nod. Swallowing past the metallic feeling that flooded her mouth, she nodded back and gripped the edge of the table, swaying toward her lawyer and wishing like hell she could just sit down before she collapsed.

"Since this is your first offense, and you're a minor, I'm allowing a reduced sentence."

"Sentence?" Ginger croaked, stricken. She was going to prison. She was in high school and she was going to prison.

"It is the order of this court that custody of Ginger Malhaven be revoked from her brother, Christopher Malhaven. Custody is hereby granted to Ms. Malhaven's maternal aunt, Candace Avila and her husband Ramon Avila, effective immediately. It is also the order of this court that Ms. Malhaven be placed in an appropriate court-appointed therapy program for no less than one year. She will also receive four years of probation and credit for time served."

"I'm not going to prison?" Ginger whispered to the defense attorney at her side.

"Prison? No. You're going to Montana."

Her eyes settled first on her brother's shattered expression, then on the stern faces of her aunt and uncle.

"Close enough," she sighed.