She pulled out a key, unlocked her apartment door.

Ryder put a hand on it before it could close in his face. He stayed out of her space, but hey, he was right here. So he pushed the door all the way open, took a look inside.

Neat and tidy, like the rest of the place. Smelled good, too—like the rest of the place. No clutter. Not a lot of girly fuss either, and he’d expected that. A lot of pillows on the sofa, but he knew few women who wouldn’t load a couch and bed with pillows. Strong colors, a couple of plants in pots, fat candles.

She swung out of her kitchen, stopped short so he knew he’d given her another jolt. Then she held out the new bulb.

He strolled down, screwed it in. It burned bright.

“It’s not the bulb,” Hope insisted. “I put the other in this morning.”

“Okay.”

D.A. sat by Ryder’s feet, eyes on The Penthouse door. His tail wagged.

“Don’t okay me. I’m telling you, it’s—There!” Her voice held a note of triumph as the bulb went dark. “It did it again. There has to be a short, or something wrong with the wiring.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? You just saw for yourself.” As she spoke, the door to The Penthouse eased open.

Hope barely glanced back. Then it hit her. She smelled the honeysuckle, of course, but she’d gotten so used to it. “Why would she play with the lights?”

“How would I know?” His shoulders lifted as his thumbs hooked in his front pockets. “Maybe she’s bored. She’s been dead awhile. Or maybe she’s pissed at you.”

“She is not. There’s no reason.” Hope started to close The Penthouse door, pushed it open instead. “There’s water running.”

She clipped down the short hall into the big elaborate bathroom. Water ran into the double vessel sinks on the counter, in the generous jet tub, from the shower and body jets.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Does this happen often?”

“It’s a first. Come on, Lizzy,” she muttered, turning off the sink faucets. “I have guests coming.”

Ryder opened the glass door, turned off the showerhead, the body jets.

“I’m doing the research.” Impatient now, Hope turned off the tub. “I know Owen is, too, but it’s not exactly a snap to find someone named Billy who lived, we assume, during the nineteenth century.”

“If your ghost is acting up, I can’t do anything about it.” Ryder swiped his wet hand on his jeans.

“She’s not my ghost. It’s your building.”

“She’s your ancestor.” With his habitual shrug, he went out, walked to the parlor door. He tried the knob, glanced back. “How about telling your great-great-whatever to cut it out.”

“Cut what out?”

He jiggled the knob again.