“Creep,” I said, in a whisper, because I didn’t want Jolie to hear and demand an explanation. It was enough that I’d had to tell Tucker I saw ghosts, and if it hadn’t been for the Jessica story, I would have been up against it in the credibility department.

Nick looked offended. He was holding Chester, or I’d have smacked him with something.

I grabbed my purse, dug out the credit card, and shoved it in his face. “This bounced tonight, thanks to you and Mommy Dearest, and I was humiliated. Again.”

Nick frowned, put the cat down on the floor. “There was life insurance,” he said. “A lot of it.”

“Fat lot of good it did me,” I said. I yanked open the junk drawer, got out the scissors and snipped the card into pieces. Okay, I should have checked the available credit before I tried to use the thing, but I’d been making minimum payments for about a hundred years, and I figured there was room for two pancake specials at IHOP.

Nick backpedaled. Maybe because I still had the scissors in my hand. I couldn’t kill him, but ectoplasmic puncture could conceivably be a problem. In that moment, I really wanted to test the theory.

“Where’s the dog?” he asked.

I choked on a sob I hadn’t known was coming. “Russell was almost murdered,” I answered, still keeping my voice down. I could hear Jolie rattling around in the other end of the apartment, though, so I figured I was safe. “I had to leave him with the vet.”

“Murdered?” Nick repeated.

“Yeah,” I snapped. “Murdered.” I took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. So much for The Damn Fool’s Guide to Self-Control. I’d have demanded my $14.95 back if I hadn’t highlighted so many pages. “I don’t think this forgiveness thing is going to fly,” I added. “You may need to take another approach to boarding your train.”

“There isn’t another approach,” Nick said quietly.

“Maybe your mother could work something out for you. Stick it to whoever’s in charge up there, the way she stuck it to me.”

Nick closed his eyes. Opened them again.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You know,” I whispered back, “you look like you mean that. You even sound like you mean it. But since you probably never told me the truth in your selfish life, I’m having a hard time believing you.”

“Mojo—”

Jolie stepped into the doorway, wearing cotton pajamas that made her look about eleven years old. Her gaze glided right past Nick without catching. “I thought you were on the phone,” she said.

I smiled. “I was,” I told her. “It was just a telemarketer.”

“Liar,” Nick said, close to my ear.

My smile turned to a grimace.