Gilt by JL Wilson

away from potential dings and the mundane minivans, trucks, and sedans that surrounded me. Michael's thick blond hair was curling in the humidity, giving him a youthful, jaunty appearance. He clicked his key fob and his car blinked at him. Michael jerked open his driver's door, pausing to stare back at me. I waved half-heartedly and he smiled but not before I saw his initial frown.
    My stomach knotted with anger. What did he expect from me? I hadn't particularly cared for him when he came around as one of John's friends and the two years since John died didn't change that. I still thought Michael was arrogant, conceited, and shallow.
    Laughter broke out behind me. I looked in the rear view mirror as several children left the library, giggling while they dodged the raindrops. John stood near the door, his eyes focused to the side, where Michael's car sat. His gaze swung to me and he raised a hand. "Do you believe in evil, Gem?" It sounded like he was sitting on the seat next to me, his voice clear as though shouting children, rain, and a row of cars wasn't obstructing him.
    I twisted in my seat to stare past the children piling into a minivan. "I don't know," I stammered. I felt like I was in a tunnel, dark walls surrounding me with John the only illumination a foot or two from me, not forty feet away and partially obscured by rain and cars and people.
    John watched as Michael drove out of the parking lot, taking the far exit to avoid the other cars. "Believe," he whispered.
     
    *****
    Once again, I drove on autopilot, my brain whirring with accusations, innuendo, and questions. I couldn't believe I was actually considering that 1) I was seeing a ghost and 2) I was listening to what he was telling me. I drove a few blocks and added number 3 to my list: not only was I listening, I half believed what the ghost said.
    I made the left turn onto my dead end street and groaned aloud when I saw a dark green pickup truck sitting at the curb under the branches of my maple tree. I drove past it and into the driveway. I considered closing the garage door behind me but Dan was too fast for me. By the time I was inside he stood behind my SUV in that magical little beam of light from my electric garage door opener. Even if I wanted to close it, I couldn't.
    I was in no mood to spar with Dan Steele and he could see it in my face. "I didn't ask the FBI to investigate your husband," he said the minute I emerged from my car.
    "What did you ask them to investigate?" I dragged my purse behind me but it got snagged on the gear knob. By the time I untangled it, Dan was standing at the steps leading into my house. "I didn't ask you to come here," I said in what I hoped was a frosty voice. He watched me silently as I brushed past him, going up the three narrow stairs. I looked down at him. "I'm not asking you inside."
    His lips twitched. "You make me sound like a vampire. You don't have to be afraid of inviting me into your home."
    I paused, my hand on the knob to my screen door. "I don't know you. I'm not inviting a stranger into my house."
    "Will you invite the FBI into your home?"
    I whirled as a man approached from the direction of Dan's truck. He had black hair parted on one side that was liberally streaked with gray, a long, rectangular face, and a stern, almost grim gaze under his straight dark eyebrows. His black jeans, black T-shirt, and pale gray sports coat made him appear very tall and muscular. As he got nearer, I saw it wasn't an illusion. The man was tall, dark, and handsome and as muscular as Dan.
    "Who are you?" I demanded. He held up a badge, similar to the ones I've seen on TV shows. I stuck my hand over the black metal railing of my garage steps. He put the leather case into my palm. I peered at the identification card. Jack Tinsley, Special Agent, FBI , and other mumbo-jumbo in small print. I looked from the picture to him then back again. Yep. It was him. Business cards were tucked into a small slot near the badge and I