he wasn’t married—no wife to come after her in case she’d accidentally neutered him.
She hefted the paintball gun menacingly. “So you’re, what, a good Samaritan?”
“I’m Shane Patel from Sagmar Corp.,” he said hoarsely, easing himself up. Worried he might try to disarm her, she brandished the paintball gun. He raised his hands. “Are you Miriam Bateman?”
Mira realized she still wore the head-to-toe wraith costume. He wouldn’t have recognized her anyhow—she didn’t have much in the way of a social media profile and preferred to stay anonymous online. All the same, she kept the cowl and veil on.
“Why are you here, Mr. Patel?” She recognized his name, of course. All those letters from the property developer had gotten on every last one of her nerves.
“I wanted to speak with you personally.” He sat up, his knees pinched together protectively. Contrition inched onto his face. “I wanted—”
“I already told you, the Crown’s not for sale. Sheriff McKinnon will be here shortly to escort you off my property.”
He straightened, ready to argue. “My associates—” She gestured with the muzzle of her weapon, and he got the hint, cutting off his sales pitch sharply. “It was rude of me to call on you so late,” he amended hastily. “I’m sorry for barging in on you like this. Seriously, I meant no harm. I was only driving by when I saw those kids.”
Doubt stirred inside her. He hadn’t tried to hurt her or damage the Crown as far as she could tell. Nor did he seem to be trying to burn down the place to expedite the sale of the property—she’d heard stories of developers doing just that. His nice suit was ruined, and he’d probably be covered in bruises tomorrow. She’d be lucky if he didn’t press charges against her.
She lowered the gun. “Sorry about your suit,” she said reluctantly. “You can send me a bill for the dry cleaning.”
“Not to worry. It was in need of a little color anyhow.” He got to his feet. “I’ll wait for the sheriff. I can give him a description of those guys who broke in.”
“That’s not necessary.” She didn’t want him there any longer than he had to be. “You can go.”
He looked around, lingering, as if waiting for an invitation to sit and have a coffee.
“You’re here rather late,” he remarked.
She stiffened. “I’m often here late.”
“The back door was open.” The almost-fatherly condescension in his tone irritated her. “Do you normally leave it unlocked?”
“It’s a tricky lock. Been like that forever.”
He frowned. “Maybe you should board the door up.”
Mira glared. She didn’t like to be told how to run her life. She held up the gun. “I think I have security covered.”
“Mira?” Arty’s gruff voice echoed from the back lobby. “Where are you?”
“I’m here. Everything’s fine.”
A moment later, Arty Bolton strode in, his sweater inside out, his graying hair flying in all directions. She could see him putting it all together in his mind as he took in the scene, and he sagged in relief. “Christsakes, Mira, that costume could scare the black off a zebra. What the hell is going on?” His gaze narrowed on the man from Sagmar. “Who’s this?”
“Shane Patel.” He wore his smile as readily as his ruined tailored suit. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I was trying to rescue Ms. Bateman from some teens who broke into the building—”
Rescue? What a lying piece of—
“Mira, what have I said about barring and locking all the doors?” Arty glowered at her.
She glared right back, then realized he couldn’t see her face. She pulled away the cowl and unhooked the veil. “You know how that back door is.”
“And if it weren’t for this brave young man—”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Shane said modestly. Mira felt a flicker of appreciation for the correction, but Shane Patel wasn’t anywhere near the vicinity of her good graces yet. “She had me dead to rights. As you can see.” He gestured at his green-spattered suit.
The lines in the older man’s face deepened. He gave a put-upon sigh. “Mira...”
“Why are you mad at me?” she asked, irritated. “He was trespassing.”
“I was trying to do my neighborly duty, honestly.” He sounded sincere, but all Mira could hear was the slime beneath his words. And yet, he was winning Arty over. The older man’s expression eased with sympathy and gratitude.
Mira summoned her outrage. “Arty, this is the guy I was telling you about. The one who wants to buy the theater.”
“Oh.” He regarded him a moment, then held out a hand. “Arty Bolton. I own the Everville Grocery down the way.”
“I know.” He grinned. “I guess you don’t remember me, Mr. Bolton. My family and I used to come to Everville every summer when I was a kid. I came by the grocery store frequently to get bubble gum cards.”
“Wait a sec.” Arty squinted. Mira looked between the two, flabbergasted this intruder could have any possible connection to the man who’d been watching out for her since her grandfather had died four years ago. The grocer pointed. “I do remember you, I think. You were tiny, and you had huge ears. You were friends with the Latimers. Your parents used to stay at one of the big cottages by Silver Lake, right? I’m trying to remember... Ran... Ranjeet?”
“That’s my dad.” Shane’s face broke out into a brilliant grin.
“Well, hot dog. How is your family?” They got to talking about a past Mira knew nothing about. She was feeling steadily more and more uncomfortable. She hated being out of the loop, hated that strangers had been in her home, hated how she was simultaneously being ignored and made the center of attention. She rubbed her arms and huffed. Her personal space felt violated.
Sheriff McKinnon arrived a few minutes later. One hand rested on his service piece as he assessed Shane and listened to what he had to say. Mira then told her side of the story—she’d been working when the silent perimeter alarm she’d installed alerted her to the intruders. From there, she’d called him, put on her costume and taken up her post, initiating her “haunting protocol” program to play itself out.
The sheriff rubbed his eyes. “I don’t see why you can’t have a normal security system like everyone else,” he said. “Or a guard dog.”
“Those kids came in here looking for trouble.” She raised her chin. “I just gave them what they wanted.”
“Always one for theatrics, just like your grandfather,” Arty said with a touch of exasperation. “They could’ve been more than kids, Mira. It’s not safe for a girl on her own. You need to move out of here.”
She glared at Arty in warning. Not everyone who knew her knew that she lived
