So much for canine loyalty.

“Good night, Mojo,” Nick said. He leaned to pat Russell on the head, then dropped into my chair at the computer. Tapped a few keys.

I was intrigued—since when did ghosts use computers?—but too tired to investigate. I retreated as far as the bathroom, washed my face and brushed my teeth.

A few minutes later, I tumbled into bed.

I’d closed the door and considered putting a chair under the knob, since it didn’t lock, but I knew that wouldn’t stop Nick if he wanted to get in. As if to prove the point, Chester sprang through the wood and hopped onto the mattress to join me.

A thump sounded from the other side, along with a dog whine.

Poor Russell. He’d tried to follow Chester’s lead, with the inevitable result.

I sighed, got out of bed and went to let Russell in. He made several pathetic attempts to jump onto the mattress, but his legs were too short.

I gave him a hoist.

“Too many frankfurters, buddy,” I told him, huffing a little from the exertion. “And there will be absolutely no farting.”

Russell curled up on the pillow opposite mine, sighed as eloquently as I had and closed his eyes.

I crawled back into bed. Turned onto my stomach.

Chester planted himself in the middle of my back.

I smiled. He weighed a ton, but it felt good, just knowing he was there.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, it was morning.

I smelled coffee brewing.

Russell was snoring on the pillow, and Chester was gone.

I used the bathroom, washed up, pulled on sweat pants and a tank top and headed for the kitchen.

“Nick?” I called. I was about to thank him for making coffee and not jumping my bones during the night when my breath caught in my throat.

Tucker turned from the counter, where he was opening a bakery box.

There were deep shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved, his clothes were rumpled and he needed a shower.

I would have been glad to give him one personally.

“Who the hell is Nick?” he demanded.

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHO WAS NICK? How was I supposed to explain that, to a cop, no less, without ending up under psychiatric evaluation?

Before I could think of an answer, a horrible thought streaked through my sleep-befuddled mind like a comet trailing fire.

“You’re not dead or anything, are you?”

Tucker stared at me. “What kind of question is that? Do I look dead to you?”

“If you are, just tell me, okay? Don’t beat around the bush, because my nerves can’t take it.”

He laid both hands on my shoulders and pressed me into a chair. Leaned down to search my eyes. “Mojo, are you on something?”