“Have any of your clients died?” Ford asked. “Someone you were trying to help?” “Brett,” Jenks said. “Peter?” I blurted out. But the amulet went a negative gray. “Nick,” Jenks said nastily, and the color on the metal disk became a violent shade of purple. Ford blinked, trying to divorce himself from the hate. “I’d say no,” he whispered.”

“Thanks, Edden,” I said, truly pleased that he was sending someone for Jenks not only because now I didn’t have to, but that he’d thought of Jenks at all. “You’re a peach.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, and I could hear his smile. “I bet you say that to all the captains.”

“Ford put a hand to his head. “Back up. Back up!” he cried. “You’re too close.” Heart pounding, I looked at the eight feet between us and pressed into the fridge. “I think he meant for the ghost to back up,” Jenks said dryly.”

“Rache,” he said, trying to get into my line of sight. “What more do you need? God to send a telegram?" (Jenks)”

“Don’t stereotype, Jenks. HAPA is an equal-opportunity hate group,” I said.”

“Say what?” Jenks blurted out. “You think those moss wipes are coming back?” “I wish,” I muttered. “I’ve got some serious hurt with their name on it.”

“Jenks snorted, crumpling up the empty bag and throwing it away. “You can help Rachel by dropping dead.” “That’s still an option,” said Ivy.”