Pike Place Market buzzed with its usual Saturday afternoon chaos. Tourists snapped photos of flying fish, street musicians competed for tips, and the air smelled like fresh bread and coffee beans. I'd picked the busiest spot I could find—a small café table outside the flower stalls—hoping the crowd would help me focus on something other than Mark's files.
The little girl sitting across from me couldn't stop crying.
"Mr. Whiskers was my best friend," Sophie hiccupped. She was maybe seven, with pigtails and a gap-toothed smile that reminded me painfully of the photo Mrs. Chen had brought last night. "Mommy says he went to heaven, but I want to tell him I'm sorry."
Her mother hovered nearby, clutching a twenty-dollar bill. "Sophie left the door open by accident. The cat got hit by a car yesterday. She won't stop blaming herself."
I'd reduced my usual fee to twenty dollars for children. Some things were more important than money.
"It's okay, sweetheart." I reached across the table to take Sophie's small hands. "Sometimes pets wait around for a little while to make sure we're okay. Should we see if Mr. Whiskers is here?"
Sophie nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
I closed my eyes and reached out with my senses. The noise of the market faded to a distant hum. The familiar chill started in my fingertips, that ice-water feeling I'd known since I was sixteen.
"Mr. Whiskers?" I called softly. "Sophie wants to talk to you."
Almost immediately, I felt a warm presence brush against my consciousness. Playful, affectionate—definitely feline. The spirit of a well-loved pet, content and at peace.
"He's here," I whispered. Sophie squeezed my hands tighter.
The cat's spirit felt like purring, like sunshine through a window. He was trying to show me something—a memory of Sophie giving him treats, scratching behind his ears. Love without conditions or complicated human emotions.
"He wants you to know it wasn't your fault," I told Sophie. "He's showing me how much he loved those little treats you used to sneak him. The ones with salmon?"
Sophie's eyes went wide. "Those were his favorites! Mommy didn't know I gave them to him."
The cat's spirit pressed closer, and I felt his message clearly. Simple, pure: Safe. Happy. Love.
"He says he's safe now. And he's not hurt anymore. He wants you to be happy too—"
The words died in my throat.
Something else was there. Not Mr. Whiskers' gentle warmth, but a presence I recognized like my own heartbeat. Strong, desperate, familiar.
Mark.
The connection hit me like a slap. Not the angry force from last night, but the Mark I remembered. Gentle, loving, worried. His presence wrapped around my consciousness like arms pulling me close.
Ivy, thank God. I've been trying to reach you.
Tears sprang to my eyes. Sophie was saying something, but her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. The busy market, the smell of flowers, even the cold Seattle air—everything faded except Mark's soul touching mine.
Mark? I reached back with every ounce of spiritual energy I had. Where have you been? I've been looking for you everywhere.
Something's wrong, Ivy. I'm trapped. I can't—
The connection flickered like a bad phone signal.
Mark, stay with me. Please.
I'm trying. But he doesn't know. He thinks he's going crazy, and I can't control when I can talk to you. Listen to me—
"Mrs. Black?" Sophie's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you okay? You're crying."
I opened my eyes. The little girl was staring at me with concern, her own tears forgotten. Her mother was reaching for her phone, probably ready to call for help.
But I couldn't focus on them. Mark's presence was still there, faint but real. And it was moving.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to Sophie, pulling my hands free. "Mr. Whiskers loves you very much. He wants you to remember that."
I stood up so fast my chair nearly tipped over. Mark's spirit was pulling away, like someone walking out of radio range. But I could still feel the direction he was going.
"Ma'am, are you all right?" Sophie's mother grabbed her daughter's hand, backing away from me. "Should I call someone?"
"I'm fine." I wasn't fine. I was shaking, tears streaming down my face, following a ghost through downtown Seattle. "Keep the money. Take care of Sophie."
I pushed through the crowd, not caring who I bumped into. Mark's presence was like a beacon in my mind, growing stronger as I walked away from the market. He was moving east, toward the residential district.
Mark, where are you?
No answer. Just that steady pull, like a fishing line reeling me in.
I half-walked, half-ran down Pine Street. Past the vintage shops and coffee bars, past the apartment buildings where young tech workers lived. The further I went, the stronger Mark's presence became. But there was something else mixed in with it—something that felt wrong.
Another consciousness. Confused, frightened. Not dead, but not entirely alive either.
I stopped at a crosswalk, breathing hard. An elderly man in a Seahawks jersey gave me a concerned look.
"You okay, miss?"
I nodded, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. The signal turned green, and I kept walking. Mark's spirit was pulling me north now, toward a neighborhood I didn't recognize. The buildings got older, the sidewalks cracked. Not exactly run-down, but not gentrified either.
Mark, what's happening to you?
The connection strengthened for just a moment, and I caught fragments of his response: Trapped... can't leave... he doesn't understand...
Then nothing.
But his presence was stronger than ever. Close. Maybe a block away.
I turned the corner onto a tree-lined street. Small apartment buildings, most of them built in the seventies. Cars parked bumper to bumper along both sides. A few kids on bicycles, an old woman walking a tiny dog.
Mark's spirit was screaming at me now, not with sound but with pure emotional energy. Desperation, fear, love all mixed together in a way that made my head spin.
And then I saw the address.
1247 Maple Avenue.
I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. I knew that address. I'd googled it just this morning.
It was Damian Grey's building.
Mark's spirit was coming from inside Damian Grey's apartment.
The man who'd killed my husband. The man Mark had written "DANGEROUS" about in his files. The presence I was feeling—the confused, frightened consciousness mixed with Mark's spirit—had to be him.
But that was impossible. I could only sense the dead, not the living. Unless...
Unless Damian Grey wasn't entirely alive anymore.
I stood there staring at the red brick building, my heart hammering against my ribs. Mark's presence was so strong I could almost see him, almost reach out and touch his face. But he was trapped inside the mind of his killer.
How was that possible? How could a spirit bind itself to a living person? And why would Mark choose to stay with the man who'd destroyed our life together?
Unless he hadn't chosen it.
The building's front door opened, and a man stepped out onto the sidewalk. Tall, dark-haired, moving with the careful gait of someone who wasn't quite sure of his own balance. Even from half a block away, I recognized him from the courthouse.
Damian Grey.
The moment I saw him, Mark's presence in my mind exploded like a firework. Pure, desperate love mixed with rage and terror. But underneath it, I felt something else—Damian's consciousness, confused and frightened, like someone waking up from a nightmare they couldn't quite remember.
Mark was trying to tell me something, pushing images into my mind too fast for me to understand. The restaurant where he'd had dinner that last night. A glass of wine he hadn't ordered. Someone he'd trusted, someone who'd smiled while they destroyed him.
But before I could make sense of any of it, Damian looked up and saw me.
Our eyes met across the distance, and his face went white. He took a step backward, hitting the building's door with his shoulder.
Then Mark's presence vanished.
Just like that. Like someone had flipped a switch and cut the connection. One moment I could feel my husband's soul calling out to me, and the next there was nothing but empty air and the sound of traffic.
I was left standing on a strange street corner, crying in front of a man I'd never spoken to but whose life was somehow tangled up with my dead husband's spirit.
Damian Grey stared at me for another heartbeat, then turned and ran back into his building.
I stood there until my legs stopped shaking, trying to make sense of what I'd experienced. Mark's spirit was real. He was trapped somehow, and Damian Grey was the key.
But if I wanted answers, I was going to have to get close to the man who'd killed the only person I'd ever loved.
Even if it destroyed me.