Dead to Me

10

By the time we finished helping out the Things That Go Bump in the Night Division exterminate the zombies, I was exhausted. I nearly fell asleep as I cabbed it back to the Lovecraft Café. It had been a long day of psychometric pop-quiz training, bookcase combat, and a grueling round of Whack-a-Shuffler. My bat reeked of rot from the Code Gray and I couldn’t wait to clean it. Once again, the Department’s “business as unusual” motto had held true.

I was too exhausted and repulsive to even contemplate investigating Irene’s place tonight. But then, the thought of investigating Irene’s home tonight or even things at my own—the clutter of packing crates in the living room, deleting Tamara’s latest volley of berating messages from the answering machine—all these thoughts further exhausted me.

As I entered the offices, I was so distracted with thoughts of zombies going squish and sorting out the women in my head that I ran smack into Director Wesker. Unfortunately, I had just pulled off one of my gloves and my hand slammed into a Moleskine notebook that Wesker was carrying. I recognized it as one of the many that were kept down in the Gauntlet, the Department’s ancient records archive. Before I had a chance to react or restrain my power, the electric charge of connection kicked in and images concerning the necromantic history of Benjamin Franklin started to fill my head. The images of a near-skeletal version of one of our nation’s heroes filled my brain. The sudden shock of seeing it was too great, and with my exhaustion, I couldn’t will myself out of it.

The vision snapped away suddenly and I came around to find Wesker holding the book protectively away from me. Having an object taken away from me was far more disorienting and draining than when I completed a vision myself, and all I could do was stare at him for a minute while I tried to steady myself. God, psychometry could be a bitch.

As usual, Wesker’s eyes were hidden behind his mirrored frames, and even up close, I still couldn’t see the hint of his eyes behind them. He shot me a smug smile.

“Out of my way,” I said, hearing the waver of false bravado in my voice. Wesker just folded his arms defiantly across the expanse of his chest with the book now tucked neatly beneath them.

“I don’t think so, newbie,” he said, then sniffed. “What’s the horrendous odor?”

“That would be me,” I said, holding up my ichor-covered bat. He gave it the same dirty look he usually reserved for my face.

“Rumor has it that you caused a little ruckus over at Tome, Sweet Tome.”

“Word travels fast around here,” I said, attempting to push back most of the edge in my voice. I reminded myself that I should keep myself in check around the divisional directors. Thaddeus Wesker was, after all, still the head of not one but two divisions, and he aspired to even greater posts than that. Not to mention that although I was in the safety of our own office, I still thought he might hit me.

Wesker unfolded his arms and dug his fingers into my right shoulder. “When the owner of one of the premiere occult bookshops in the country calls my department to report an assault against some of his rare books and even rarer creatures, I do have a problem,” he said. “One that I’ll be bringing up with the Enchancellors, I assure you.”

The mere thought of my name even being on the lips of our governing board worried me. I was happiest when I flew under the radar, learning my way through the ins and out of the D.E.A without the nervousness that came with constant attention. I had enough to worry myself over as it stood. Controlling my powers and reining them in were my priority, and that alone took up most of my concentration. I raised my slime-covered bat slowly and moved it toward the hand that was gripping me. Quickly Wesker released me.

“Do what you have to do, Director Wesker,” I said wearily. “I don’t care. Right now, as a member of Other Division, I answer to the Inspectre. I suppose he’ll reprimand me if I’ve earned it. All I know is that we were paying customers in that store, renting time in the Stacks, when this…bookcase thing… tried to kill me. Seems I’m the only one who was wronged there, sir.”

I couldn’t see why anyone from the D.E.A., even Wesker, would side with a complaint filed by Cyrus Mandalay. Who really cared what an occult bookstore owner complained about? Wesker finally moved to one side. With a flourish, he gestured toward the rest of the office. He waved his hand in a shoo-ing motion.

“By all means then,” he said bitterly, “don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have some paperwork to catch up on or office supplies to steal.”

The reminder of my waiting paperwork stung hard, and as I walked past Wesker, I couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“It’s not my fault the F.O.G.ies won’t accept you,” I muttered.

“What was that?” he growled from behind me.

I picked up my pace now that I was past him.

“Nothing!” I shouted cheerfully. It was a small dig, but regardless of its size, it still tasted of victory.

At this time of evening, the offices were all but deserted. I washed my bat in the bathroom sink, collapsed it into its sheath, and then wound my way down the main aisle until I reached our desks. I sat down and wearily filled out the eight forms that an interdepartmental zombie exterminating excursion invariably generated, made three photocopies of each, and then dropped them in the right in-boxes. It was pointless not to do them right away—the director of Things That Go Bump in the Night was a real stickler for prompt paperwork, and he’d have his assistant harassing me at home if I wasn’t careful. I returned to my desk. The tower of paper sitting in my in-box had doubled since earlier in the day, but I ignored it once again and started gathering reference material to go over at home that I thought might prove helpful to Irene’s case. I grabbed a copy of The Complete Riddles of the Sphinx and a pamphlet entitled Understanding the Fates and stuffed them into my bag. That would count as my light reading for the evening. I was headed for the door, free and clear, when I caught something out of the corner of my eye and stopped. Irene was sitting in the chair next to my desk staring at me like a lost kitten. I don’t know how I had missed her, except for being totally distracted in my hurry to get the hell out of there. Anxiety filled her deep, blue eyes.

“Hello,” she said, hope spreading with a shy smile across her face. “Any luck today?”

“Some,” I said, setting my bag back down. “We’re pretty sure we found your last name…Ms. Blatt.”

Irene scrunched her face up in exactly the same manner Connor had.

“Really?” She seemed disappointed. I couldn’t blame her.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

She sat there in silence, shifted in her chair, and crossed her legs. Not knowing what to say, I made busy with my paperwork again. But something struck me. I let the papers fall to the desk. “Irene…have you been sitting here all day?”

She nodded.

“Hasn’t anyone talked to you…helped you out at all?”

“Other than Inspectre Quimbley?” she asked. “No.”

Irene had fallen through the cracks, lost among the red tape and bureaucracy that passed as business here at the D.E.A. There was too big a caseload for most of the agents here, and no one picked up the slack on walk-ins like Irene. So just leave it for Other Division. It made me furious.

“Is there somewhere I can stay?” she asked. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

I shook my head. “They’re not really set up to deal with otherworldly accommodations of this sort, only for detaining troublesome spirits. The D.E.A. doesn’t really function as a paranormal hostel.”

Irene looked crestfallen. I made a note to talk to Inspectre Quimbley in the morning. We needed to have a policy in place for these exceptions. If I didn’t put the wheels in motion, City Hall would delay us in setting it up for years to come with meetings and permits and permits to have meetings.

In the meantime, though, it made me feel terrible that Irene had been sitting here waiting patiently the whole day without another soul to talk to. I couldn’t just leave her. Members of the graveyard shift were arriving through the movie house entrance, but I wasn’t going to pass her off onto people she didn’t know. There was only one course of action that felt right.

“Listen, Irene. I don’t think you’ll want to hang around my desk all night. Heck, it’s my desk and I don’t want to be stuck at it all that long. And since I haven’t really made any headway other than finding out your name and address, I feel the least I could do is offer to put you up at my apartment tonight.”

“That’s really too kind of you to offer,” Irene said. If moderately corporeal ghosts could be said to blush, her face reddened and she broke into a wicked smile. “Are you sure?”

I glanced away, feeling a bit self-conscious about having made the offer and stuffed a random handful of papers into my bag. I didn’t know how the Inspectre or Connor would react to such a thing, but what other options did I have? “No, it’s no trouble at all. Like I said, the Department isn’t really equipped to host you for the evening.”

“Really?” Irene asked as she rose. “I should think they’d be used to this sort of thing.”

I couldn’t stop futzing with papers or rummaging around inside my bag. Why was I feeling so uncomfortable? Hadn’t I been told there would be situations stranger than this when I had signed on with the Department? If Connor had been around to consult, I would have felt more at ease, but he had left. That was a small part of my nervousness, but it also had to do with the fact that this would be the first woman in my apartment since the Tamara debacle. Well, ex-woman. I knew if Irene was to have any peace there, though, my answering machine would have to stay muffled in the drawer.

I smiled at her. “Yes, you would think the Department was used to this type of thing, wouldn’t you? But…well, it’s several things, really.”

“Like what?”

I stopped futzing and turned to face her. She deserved my full attention. “You’re different, Irene. The Department is used to all kinds of weirdness, but you don’t really pigeonhole for them neatly. You seem too alive to be dead.”

Irene’s solid shape began to go semitransparent as she became agitated. I could make out one of the night shifters coming on duty straight through her.

“Well, I am dead,” she said with a bit of angry sarcasm. “Doesn’t that count for something with you people?”

“Please, let me explain,” I said, and without thinking, I attempted to take her less-than-solid hand. My gesture made her more solid, and I felt that electric charge again when my hand passed through her. “The directors and agents here deal with the deceased in an almost entirely bureaucratic way, and nine times out of ten, most ghosts are far less…living than you. Far less interesting and far less alive.”

“I see,” Irene said.

“Dealing with you, as an apparition who is still clinging to human emotions and feelings, well…they’re not up to it.”

“And what about you?” she asked. “Why are you up for it?”

“Maybe because I’m still new here,” I offered. “Maybe I’m too dumb to know any better yet.”

I wanted to take it back as soon as I said it and say something more reassuring.

The silence grew between us as the sounds of the office coming to life with the arrival of the late shift rose up around us. As the silence began its journey into unbearable, I snapped out of it.

“Would you like to get out of here?” I asked and grabbed my bag.

She looked relieved and nodded. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

I led the way out of the Department, past the oblivious moviegoers in the theater who were watching The Thin Man, and into the coffeehouse proper. Mrs. Teasley was still there, her cat softly purring on her lap and her fingers deep in a pile of still steaming coffee grounds. She smiled as we walked past, and then Irene and I were out on the street.

I wondered about how Irene would fare walking all the way to SoHo given her less-than-corporeal form. Would other people move out of the way for her, or was there a danger of them accidentally walking through her and setting off widespread panic in the streets?

“You’d better stay close,” I said, and moved directly in front of her so she could follow me safely. But in fact, people naturally avoided her on the street, as if some untapped part of their minds knew something extraordinary was at hand, and wanted to get the hell away. Animals, however, noticed her. Before we hit the end of the block, four dogs had looked at us oddly and started barking. As we turned left onto Broadway heading downtown, the crowds thinned, and the rest of our trip went without incident.

I fumbled with the lock like a nervous teen bringing a new girlfriend home when his parents were out of town. I told myself to stop being ridiculous and finally managed to get the key in, then lead Irene down the main hall to the charming wrought iron elevator.

“It’s beautiful,” she said as she entered it. “So turn of the century.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I love it, too.

“I’m always reminded of a simpler age,” I continued, “of times gone by.”

Irene smiled. “That’s a very romantic notion, Mr. Canderous.”

As we rode the rest of the way up to the slow rhythmic clanking of the elevator, I couldn’t help but check her out. The curve of her mouth was adorable. God, was my love life so messed up that I was finding any woman—even a dead one—attractive? Color me necro-curious.

Few people visited my home, and I had never knowingly had a ghost in my apartment before—certainly not one as intriguing as Irene. She possessed what my father had referred to as “carriage”—a special way of presenting herself that spoke of worldliness, a personal grace that seemed innate. I hadn’t run across many women who pulled it off these days.

Irene caught me staring and smiled. My face flushed. “Sorry,” I said. Few things in my experience were worse than being caught checking someone out. Thankfully, the elevator stopped and I quickly slid the accordion doors aside and gestured for Irene to step out.

“You’d think I’d never dealt with the dead before,” I said apologetically.

She whirled around, looking upset—and once again I was able to see straight through her. I could make out my apartment door through her down the hall. “Please don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?”

“Please don’t refer to me as that.” She sighed. “The dead. I’m afraid I’m not quite used to the idea yet and I’d prefer it if you’d just call me Irene.”

“I’m sorry, Irene.”

Stupid, real stupid. I excused myself and headed down the hall toward my apartment door. I had to make a better effort tonight to think before I spoke. I opened the door and flicked on the light.

“You’ll have to excuse the place,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to clean.”

Usually I was quite proud of my apartment, but not with the way I had left it. The main living space was still cluttered with crates, hiding the normally impressive Clue conservatory atmosphere I had been working so hard to cultivate.

“It’s absolutely marvelous,” she said.

“You think?” I asked, surprised by her reaction. “I’ve always wanted to live in a Nick and Nora film. I’m afraid my current look isn’t quite doing it.”

Irene walked across the living room, blithely passing through several unopened crates and boxes of every possible size. She stopped inside the middle of one of my brass-tacked leather sofas and looked around. I was surprised to realize that I desperately wanted her to be impressed. I watched as Irene crossed to the room’s focal point—towering bookcases full of the finds I had recovered over the years. Last night’s bag with the Intellevision and games was still there. I didn’t know what she had expected, but as she marveled over the shelves, I could tell it wasn’t this.

“You’re certainly well-read,” she said, looking at all my books and grinning.

“It’s all lies,” I said.

She turned, puzzled. “How so?”

“Well, none of this space is really me,” I said. “I’ve developed a space for the type of guy I hope to be—a man who wants space to think, to be cultured, and to be able to do it in comfort and style. It still feels a little like a ruse to me, though. I never feel quite at ease with the finer things I surround myself with.”

Still, I wanted Irene to appreciate it, and it looked like she did. I felt a rush of pride.

I cleared boxes from one of the leather Catalina sofas and stuffed handfuls of scattered packing materials into a tall wooden crate from which a Tiffany floor lamp poked out precariously.

“I’ve been meaning to get to all this,” I said. I straightened the lamp and secured it with a few handfuls of the packing material. “Really. It’s kind of gotten out of control lately with my caseload at the Department.”

Irene laughed, covering her mouth with one hand as she did so. “I completely understand your appreciation.”

“You do?” I asked. “How’s that?” I muscled a painting-shaped crate to the floor and shoved it toward the row of bay windows that ran down the other side of the room.

Irene started to answer, but paused instead and sat down in the space I had cleared. “You know, I’m not quite sure why I said that.”

I stopped what I was doing and sat down next to her on the sofa. “Maybe you remembered something…?”

“It’s possible,” she said with a frown of concentration. “I’m really not sure.”

She was agitated by her lack of memory. I couldn’t imagine how I’d handle missing my entire memory. Hell, I got agitated when I couldn’t remember where my keys were, and Irene’s situation was worse to then 9th degree.

“Just relax and think,” I instructed. Maybe I could get something out of her with a little guidance. “You said it for a reason, Irene. Did something about my apartment trigger something for you?”

Her nose crinkled with even greater concentration as I watched, but I didn’t smile in case it distracted her.

Finally, with a hesitant look of triumph, she said, “I…I think I may have been a lot like you, Simon. A collector. When you were talking about how you never could find the time to take care of all these things or get them put away, well, it struck a chord in me.” She thought for a moment longer. “I think that’s something that I may have been doing with my own life. Or if I wasn’t, I think it’s something I would have been very much interested in doing.”

“Well, that’s certainly a start,” I said encouragingly.

My stomach rumbled loud enough for both of us to hear. “Are you hungry? I’m going to cook something.”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, thank you. Given my…condition, I’m not exactly sure how I would manage that anyway.”

“Right,” I said, feeling the fool once again. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Simon,” she said sternly. “It’s okay.”

It was the first time she had said my name, and a smile crept upon my face.

“It’s terribly sweet of you to offer, though,” she continued. “For your sake, I could try to eat but I have a strong suspicion it would end up all over your couch, like Mr. Christos’s drink back at the café.”

There was an awkward moment before I took that as my cue to get up off the couch and made my way to the kitchen. I worried about leaving her alone, but I could still keep an eye on her over the counter that divided the two rooms.

I stripped off my gloves and pulled some questionable-looking chicken from the fridge. Living dangerously, I set it in a skillet over low heat while I chopped up a mix of garlic and portabella mushrooms. When I was done, I poured balsamic vinegar over the veggies and threw the mixture into the skillet as well. I started in on a zucchini as I noticed that Irene had moved herself to one of the stools on just the other side of the counter, where she seemed content to watch me work.

“No offense,” she said, “but that seems like more of an effort than I’d expect from a typical bachelor.”

“I used to eat take-out nearly every night. Enough MSG in my system for seven heart attacks, probably.”

“So why did you learn how to cook?” she asked.

“The curse of my life,” I said. “Women. I’ve never had luck with the ladies, but I thought I might keep them around a little longer if I at least learned to impress them with cooking. It didn’t really work, but I did get used to eating well. Even though I’m alone, I don’t feel like going back to my menu-collecting days.”

“Well, I’m impressed,” she said, clapping. “And just what do you call what you’re making?”

I threw the zucchini into my countertop steamer and leaned over the counter conspiratorially. “I call this meal Third Date with Jessica. Better known as Last-Minute-Download Number Sixteen. Not terribly romantic sounding, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure it worked like a charm,” she said. “I know it would have worked with me.”

I looked at her and her body flickered as she blushed. I suppressed a smile. As usual, I had made quite a mess in such a short time in my kitchen. I set about cleaning up the remnants of my handiwork as my food cooked. I hoped keeping busy would help me avoid any further dorkiness on my part.

“Do you miss it?” she asked, resting her chin on her open palms. “Cooking for two, I mean?”

I turned on the faucet and let the warm water run over my hands while I thought about her question.

“Do I miss having someone around is what you mean,” I said. “I don’t know. I’ve never gone long enough dating someone to really feel the ties of cohabitation. I’ve gotten pretty used to the hermit life. I like my space. It’s set up the way I prefer it, except for all that packing clutter. I’m comfortable in it.”

Irene waggled her finger at me. “That doesn’t really answer my question, now does it, Simon? Shame on you!”

“Okay, okay!” I said with a grin. “I admit it. I like having someone around. I miss the company, the sound of another person’s voice, someone to cook for. But what am I going to do, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

It had been a long time since I had confided the truth about my powers to anyone. I took a deep breath. I held up my soap-covered hands and flexed my fingers at her. “I mean, what am I going to do about these?”

“You mean, what you did with the PEZ dispenser back at the café?”

“You watched that?” I asked.

She grinned sheepishly. “I was eaves-watching.”

I nodded. “Well, psychometry doesn’t really make being with someone an option.”

“I’m sorry,” she said with a shake of her head, “but I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand what that is really.”

I washed my hands and slipped my gloves back on as I stepped to her on her side of the counter. I headed for a carton sitting behind the couch, grabbed it by its flaps, and rested it on my lap as I sat on the barstool next to hers.

“What is all that?”

“The remnants of girlfriends past,” I said. I slanted the carton to show her the items within. Scarves, mix tapes, pictures, books, hairbrushes, and even a few pieces of sexy underwear from Victoria’s Sock Drawer or wherever they had been purchased. I moved the box closer so she could see everything, making sure I didn’t let either of my hands touch anything in it. I could feel the electric pull of my power stirring just holding the box, so I put it back down hastily. “Things they left behind or things they gave me. For most normal people? Pleasant memories of their time together. For me? They’ll never be anything more than invasive doorways into other people’s thoughts. Intimacy beyond intimacy. Everyone else’s memories are stored in these, but for me they’re pain in its purest form.”

“Why do you keep them then?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Look around, I’m a packrat, maybe that’s it. Or maybe I have trouble letting go because in some sick way I see it as some sort of penance for being cursed with this power.”

“But surely you must take some consolation in helping others with your gift!” she said.

Before I had a chance to answer, the smell of garlic overpowered me and I ran back around the counter to save my dinner from the brink of burning ruin.

“Yeah,” I said once things were back in control. “For most of my life, my ability has been treated as nothing more than a magic act or something to laugh over. Now I’m finally able to use it to some good end other than my own selfish needs and I like it. I can deal with all that. What I can’t deal with is how it affects my personal life, especially dating. I don’t want to be in the head of someone I’m involved with. It’s…it’s devastating. Do you know what it’s like to see someone you’re dating having sex with another person?

“If that isn’t some heavy strangely homoerotic shit to deal with, I’d like to know what is. And everything in that box is a trigger for visions like that. Just like anyone who gets close to me is.”

To help the weakening sensation pass, I pushed past the disorientation and plated my food, setting the still sizzling skillet back on the stove. It felt exhausting to finally articulate out loud what had been rolling around in my head unspoken for months, but liberating, too.

“At least you can touch something,” Irene said without a hint of sympathy.

There was awkward silence for a moment, but then we both burst out laughing. I felt a little embarrassed about how whiny I must have sounded. Still, it lightened the dark mood I was setting with my “poor me” ramblings. Suddenly I felt in better spirits. To tease her, I cut myself a nice, big juicy piece of chicken with several mushrooms piled high on top of it. I popped the whole thing in my mouth and chewed with slow, blissful satisfaction. “Too bad you can’t taste. Delicious!”

Irene feigned pouting and stormed back to the couch. The whole act was so cute that I stole another discrete opportunity to check her out once again. She might be dead, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t hot. I felt no shame in thinking that this time. The nervousness of taking the wayward ghost into my home melted away. I strongly suspected that the reason I got along with her was because there was absolutely no chance of getting in Irene’s pants or of setting off my powers by touching her. Touching was something we couldn’t do, no matter what that pottery-spinning movie might have tried to convince me of.

While I finished eating dinner, Irene seemed content to poke through my collection of books. The shelves towered well above her normal reach, but she rose up in the air toward several books that caught her eye without even noticing she was floating.

The odd mix of my collection was not overly reflective of my own tastes, and I worried what she might think when she saw such eclectic combos as Curious George sitting next to The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers. Some were simply books that had caught my fancy and others I meant to redistribute to their original owners or antiquarian book dealers. I cleared my throat.

“I can show you where you’ll be staying,” I said, “if you like.”

“I’d like that,” she said with a nod, and drifted back down to the floor. I put my dishes in the sink as she headed toward the rear hallway.

“Irene…” I began, but panicked when I saw her phase through the first door on her left.

“Is this my ro—” She was cut off as she vanished through the door.

It was the one door I didn’t want her or anyone to enter, the one door I kept locked. Shit. I ran for my jacket hanging over the back of the couch, fished out my keys, and dashed down the hall.

“Irene!” I yelled through the door. “Hold on.”

I could hear her gasp on the other side as I fumbled my keys with nervously shaking hands. When I got the door open, Irene was standing stone still, giving off a soft luminescence that I hadn’t noticed until I saw her in stark contrast to the darkness of the room. I flicked on the light and the blinding whiteness of the room sprang to life.

“What in heaven’s name…?” she gasped.

“Welcome to the White Room,” I said. Compared to the rest of my apartment, the room looked completely out of place.

Irene turned to me apprehensively. “Would you care to elaborate on this?” she asked hesitantly. “It’s all a bit…extreme, don’t you think?”

“It’s not as crazy as it looks,” I said. I wished I could undo the past few minutes. If only I had been faster, if only I could have kept her away. I felt defensive, in panic mode. “No one is ever supposed to see this room! That’s why I keep it locked. I didn’t even think about you passing right through the door.”

“For heaven’s sake, Simon. Sit yourself down.” Irene moved closer to me and there was compassion in those eyes. With a slightly clearer head, I shuffled to the chair in the center of the room before I collapsed.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that no one’s ever been in here. No one. Of all people, though, I suppose I’m lucky it was you. There’s no danger of tainting the space since you can’t really touch anything.”

Irene kneeled before me. Her own concerns were forgotten if only for a moment. It was terribly ego-stroking and a little bit thrilling to be the center of her attention. But in the White Room, it was an uncomfortable sensation, and I fought the urge to leap out of my chair and run to the safety of another room.

“What is all this?” Irene asked again.

I took a deep breath and choked down my discomfort. “Superman has his Fortress of Solitude. Batman has his Bat Cave. I have this.”

“Oh God,” she said with a look of half-joking horror. “You think you’re a superhero!”

I laughed and shook my head. “No, not at all. I’m not delusional, I swear. But those characters, fictional though they are, have one thing in common. A place to hang their cape, a secret place away from the outside world where they feel truly themselves…truly safe. This is it for me—or as close as it gets. This is my safety room. This is where I come when I fear my abilities.”

The look on Irene’s face only needed to have a light bulb coming to life over her head to complete it. “This is your inner sanctum. Your holy place.”

I nodded. She actually got it and I could have kissed her.

“It’s rather stark,” she said. “Why does it look like it was designed after heaven’s waiting room?”

“Everything else in this apartment is potentially loaded with other people’s thoughts,” I said. “That box by the front door was a prime example. I need a place that is clean of any potential triggers. A place I can retreat to, where I know I’m in control.”

She had stopped staring and started checking out the contents of the room. “And all this furniture…?”

“Straight from the manufacturer,” I said. The slightest twinge of pride tugged at my heart. “I know it seems obsessive, but given the nature of my power, I really had to go out of my way to get items that were least likely to trigger an episode. Each piece of furniture is brand new, never touched except by the machines that crafted their basic components. I even picked them up direct from the warehouse myself because I didn’t want deliverymen handling them. I assembled them and finished the job using the same coat of white on everything in the room. Fresh paint mixed up right in the store seems to dull the psychic impressions most.”

Irene walked around the room. Her footsteps made no sound whatsoever.

“You know,” she said with a grin, “psychologists would have a field day with your disorder.”

“This chair,” I continued, ignoring her comment. “It’s from a store in the Bowery. It had been sitting among the back stock for years, but it was just what I had been looking for—something new, unused, and relatively untouched for a long period of time. You should have seen how absolutely hideous it was before I painted and recushioned it.”

“Aren’t you a regular albino Martha Stewart!” she said and attempted to touch my face with the palm of her hand. I felt a mild sensation, like the shock from shag carpeting. This time, however, the small burst of energy wasn’t the same as before. This one felt mildly pleasurable and far less jarring. I let the moment stretch out as long as I could before I felt self-conscious. I stood and moved toward the door.

“I should probably show you your room now,” I said. “Your right room, that is.”

I laughed, hating how forced it sounded. I put on my best stern face and pointed my finger. “You follow me this time.”

I felt like a total dork. Why was I rambling around her? I am not falling for her, I told myself. Dead girl walking.

As I debated the finer points of what branch of necroeroticism this would fall under, I locked the door behind us. I pocketed the keys as I felt a crackle of electricity on my arm. Irene’s hand was on it, sending another shiver through my body, one I was sure had nothing to do with the simple shock.

“Are you going to be all right, Simon?” she asked.

I nodded. “I will be. Thanks. But listen…”

She waited silently as I collected my thoughts.

“You can’t tell anyone about the White Room,” I continued. “Please. I hate even having to mention it, but it’s extremely important to me.”

“You don’t have to worry,” she said. Her voice sounded reassuring, but then she smirked. “Why would I tell anyone about that, my intrepid young gumshoe, when there are all those juicy homoerotic visions of yours to tell your fellow employees about?”

She floated off, laughing, and in that moment, I desperately wished that Irene were alive. Not because of my strange attraction to her, or that she was someone I could picture myself dating, but because it would be easier to strangle her smart ass that way.