Chapter 25: Ted, Danger!
"Hahaha—"
A few beers in, and the gap between "strangers" and "old friends" had completely dissolved. Cindy was leaning back in her chair, cheeks flushed, laughing at her own story with the kind of unselfconscious ease that only came after the second drink kicked in.
"So at the time, everyone — me, the police, all of us — we were totally convinced it was one of my two friends who did it," she said, shaking her head. "We were wrong. Like, embarrassingly wrong."
Rango leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar, expression thoughtfully puzzled. He tilted his head, pretended to consider it for a long beat, and then shook his head with an exaggerated sigh.
"I genuinely can't figure it out," he admitted, with a wry half-smile. "You're going to have to just tell me."
Cindy grinned — the kind of grin that said she'd been waiting for this exact moment — and leaned in conspiratorially.
"It was Danny," she said. "Danny Marsh. The guy who was always, like, barely there. You know the type — quiet, kind of dopey, everyone just assumed he was harmless." She spread her hands. "Fooled all of us. When it finally came out, the whole town lost it. And then Danny just... vanished. Like he'd never existed. Police still haven't found him."
Rango nodded slowly, letting that settle. "It's funny how that works," he said, more to himself than to her. "The people who seem the most harmless on the outside — sometimes that's exactly where the dangerous stuff is hiding."
"Right?" Cindy pointed at him. "That's exactly it. You can never really know what's going on inside someone."
They clinked glasses.
A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment — the easy kind, the kind that only happened between people who had stopped trying to impress each other. Then Rango glanced at his beer, took a slow sip, and shifted the conversation with the practiced casualness of someone who had done this a hundred times.
"Hey, Cindy — speaking of which. You mentioned that castle thing earlier. The overnight sleep study?" He kept his tone light. Curious, but not pushy. "I'm actually really interested in that. Any chance you could fill me in on the details?"
"Oh, that?" Cindy shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know that much. It's an off-campus thing — one of our professors organized it. Me and five other students. That's about all I know."
She took a sip of her drink. "Oh — three of them are actually friends of mine from middle school. We all went to the same school growing up. They're all Black, but seriously, they're hilarious. You'd like them. If you ever want, I can introduce you sometime."
"I'd actually love that," Rango said, and meant it — though not entirely for the reasons Cindy assumed.
He set his glass down and leaned back, and something in his expression shifted — just slightly. Something quieter. More deliberate.
"Cindy, this might be a weird ask. But — any chance you could find out if there's a way for me to tag along? When you guys go next week, I mean." He held up a hand before she could object. "I know it's a university thing and I'm not a student. But I dropped out freshman year, and I've always been curious about this kind of hands-on research stuff. I'd stay out of the way. Promise."
Cindy hesitated. Chewed her lip. Glanced down at her drink, thinking.
Then she reached into her bag, pulled out a pen, and scribbled something down on a napkin — an address, Rango noted, in neat, slightly loopy handwriting. She slid it across the bar.
"I can't promise the professor will say yes," she said, honestly. "He's kind of... particular about who's involved. But here's the address. You can try reaching out directly." She pointed the pen at him. "And don't tell him I gave you this. Seriously."
Rango picked up the napkin and nodded. "Understood. Not a word."
Cindy was quiet for a beat. Then she lowered her voice — just slightly, just enough to change the texture of what she was saying.
"Also... between you and me?" She glanced around, like she was checking that no one was listening. "I think that professor is a little off. Something about him makes my skin crawl, and I can never quite put my finger on why." She shrugged. "So, honestly? If you do end up coming... I'd feel a lot better having someone else there who isn't one of my college friends."
Rango smiled — warm, easy, reassuring. "Don't worry about it. Anyone who messes with a friend of mine has a very bad day ahead of them."
"Thanks, Rango." Cindy smiled back, genuinely grateful, and raised her glass. "To weird new friends?"
"To weird new friends," he echoed, and they clinked.
Holding the napkin in his hand as they parted ways outside the bar, Rango glanced down at it for a moment. Then his eyes drifted — almost unconsciously — to his wrist.
The progress bar pulsed faintly under his skin, invisible to everyone but him. A soft, steady blue glow.
Nearly sixty percent.
If everything went the way he thought it would — if the castle turned out to be what he suspected it was — the trip next week could push him well past the threshold. Close enough to summon again. Maybe even past it.
But the movie he was thinking of — the one that matched everything Cindy had described, the haunted estate, the group of students, the professor with the unsettling energy —
(A nod to the haunted house parody sequences in Scary Movie 2, the 2001 comedy film featuring the character played by Anna Faris.)
— that wasn't a movie where the ghosts were easy.
Rango tucked the napkin into his pocket and kept walking.
Evening.
Rango didn't go to the museum that night. He'd called ahead and taken three days off — the first time he'd done that since starting the job. In an hour, he had a flight to Los Angeles. One-way, for now. Round trip when he was done.
He moved through the bedroom quickly, efficiently — the way someone moved when they'd packed light and fast a hundred times before. A change of clothes. Toiletries. The wooden box, carefully wrapped and tucked into the bottom of the backpack. The brass knuckles in his jacket pocket. The Colt at his belt, covered by the jacket.
He zipped the bag, slung it over one shoulder, and paused.
"Come out," he said. Quietly. Not loudly — he didn't need to. "All of you."
The bedroom, which had been empty and still a moment before, filled.
Twenty-three earthbound spirits materialized out of the air, the walls, the corners — appearing one by one, like photographs developing, until the room was crowded with them. And every single one of them looked terrible.
Haggard. Thin. The kind of spiritual exhaustion that showed up as a grayish, washed-out quality to their forms — like someone had turned down the saturation on a photo. They stood in a loose, listless cluster in front of Rango, hands hanging at their sides, expressions somewhere between resigned and quietly miserable.
The two exceptions were Elizabeth and Moira — who, for reasons that had become a running joke among the other ghosts, always managed to look considerably better than everyone else. Right now, they were doing what they always did when Rango was in the room: drifting toward him, pressing close, one on each side, like magnets finding north.
"Down," Rango said, gently but firmly, and pushed them both back with one hand. They retreated — not far, but enough — with expressions that suggested this happened regularly and they were used to it.
He looked at the group. Took in their collective state. And felt something that, if he was being honest with himself, was probably guilt — though he'd never have admitted it out loud.
"Listen up," he said. His tone was businesslike but not unkind. "I'm going to be gone for a few days. While I'm out, the rules are simple: behave yourselves. Stay out of trouble. And most importantly —" he held up a finger, "— do not show yourselves in front of Emma. Not once. Not for any reason. Got it?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Nods. A few of the spirits shifted uncomfortably.
Rango studied them for a moment. Then his expression softened — just a fraction.
"I know I've been collecting rent more often than I said I would," he admitted, and the honesty of it seemed to catch a few of them off guard. "That's on me. But here's the deal — if nothing goes sideways on my end, you're off the hook for the next few weeks. No collections. Rest up. Get your strength back. Take care of yourselves."
He meant it. Mostly.
The spirits exchanged glances — the silent, loaded kind that happened between people who had spent too long in close quarters together. A few of them nodded again, but their expressions didn't change much. They'd learned, over the past several days, that Rango's promises came with fine print.
The "six months' deposit for one month's rent" situation was still fresh. None of them had forgotten it. And none of them had any reason to believe the deposit was ever coming back.
But they said nothing. Because what was there to say?
After they dispersed — drifting back into walls, floors, the fabric of the house itself — Rango grabbed his bag and headed for the living room.
The scene that greeted him was domestic in the most chaotic way possible.
M3GAN was in the kitchen, moving with her usual silent efficiency, something that smelled genuinely excellent sizzling on the stove. Emma was on the couch, cross-legged, a picture book open in her lap, reading with the kind of quiet focus that made her look twice her age. And Ted —
Ted was sprawled on the opposite end of the couch, a handheld gaming console clutched in both paws, mashing buttons with furious, uncoordinated energy, muttering encouragements and threats at the screen in equal measure.
"Come on — don't you dare — YES! Oh, hell yes —"
"Emma."
Rango walked up to her, crouched down, and rested one hand gently on the top of her head. She looked up from her book, eyes bright and attentive.
"The school bus picks you up at the same time every day. Don't forget." He ticked it off on his fingers. "Tell M3GAN what you want to eat while I'm gone. If you need help with homework, she can handle it — I've already loaded your info and voice into her system. She'll take care of you."
He paused. "And if you need money for anything — anything at all — just ask Ted."
Ted, who had been deeply absorbed in his game, looked up at the mention of his name. "Huh? What?"
Rango ignored him. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Emma's forehead — quick, warm, casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Be good," he said. "I'll be back in a few days."
"Have a safe trip, Uncle," Emma said, with a smile that was small and genuine and completely unhurried.
Rango nodded at Ted. Gave M3GAN a two-finger salute from across the room. And then he was out the door, backpack over one shoulder, the door clicking shut behind him.
The house went quiet.
Emma turned a page in her book. The sound of it was very soft in the silence.
Ted went back to his game. The beeping and booping of the console filled the room again, loud and cheerful and completely oblivious.
Emma's eyes drifted from the page. Slowly. Deliberately. And settled on Ted.
He was rolling around on the cushions now, controller held above his head, tongue sticking out in concentration, completely absorbed.
Emma watched him for a long moment.
And then, very quietly — barely above a whisper, in a tone that was utterly flat and utterly calm — she said:
"So noisy."
Five hours later.
The flight from JFK to LAX had been uneventful — five and a half hours of recycled air and a window seat and Rango sleeping with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from years of grabbing rest whenever it was available.
But the moment he stepped out of the terminal into the Los Angeles night, the difference hit him like a wall.
Heat. Even at close to midnight, the air was thick and warm — not the sharp, biting cold of New York, but something lazy and humid and almost alive, like the city itself was breathing. The kind of warmth that seeped into your bones and made you feel like the rules of the world were slightly different here. Looser. Less serious.
Rango loosened his collar as he walked, scanning the terminal exit for the ashtray stations. Found one against the wall — a row of small metal bins, half-full, the faint smell of old smoke hanging in the air around them.
He pulled a cigarette from his pack, stuck it in his mouth, and patted his jacket.
No lighter.
Shit. Left it at the security checkpoint. Again.
"Click."
A hand appeared from his right — an Indian man, mid-thirties, with a warm, open face and the kind of easy smile that suggested he talked to strangers on a regular basis and enjoyed it. He was holding a lighter out, flame already flickering.
Beside him stood a little boy — four, maybe five — quiet and wide-eyed, holding his father's hand.
Rango leaned in, cupped the cigarette with one hand, and lit it. He straightened up and nodded. "Thanks. Appreciate it."
"No problem, no problem," the man said, waving his own cigarette in the air as he lit it from the same lighter. He had a thick accent — lilting, melodic — and the kind of energy that filled a space just by being in it. "You from New York?"
"Yeah. Just got in."
"Me too. Well — flying to here." The man grinned. "From Hong Kong."
Rango raised an eyebrow. "Hong Kong? Originally from there?"
"No, no." The man shook his head, still grinning. "Indian. But I live in Hong Kong now. Immigrated a while back." He puffed his cigarette proudly, like the immigration itself had been an achievement worth celebrating. "I run a curry place. In Chungking Mansions. You know it?"
"Can't say I do," Rango said, but he was listening. The man had the kind of presence that made you want to hear what came next.
"Good curry," the man said, with absolute sincerity. "The best." He took a long drag, exhaled slowly, and then his expression shifted — just slightly. Something more serious underneath the cheerfulness. More vulnerable.
"I, uh..." He scratched the back of his neck. "I did something bad. A while back. In Mong Kok." He said it plainly, without drama — the way someone said it when they'd already made peace with the fact that other people were going to know. "Killed someone. Did the time. In Stanley."
He glanced down at the boy beside him. The kid looked back up at him with calm, dark eyes — the kind of eyes that had seen more than a child that age should have.
"But I'm out now," the man continued, quieter. "And I brought him here." He patted the boy's head. "To find his mother. My wife." A pause. "We got separated. Before I went in."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph — creased, worn at the edges, the kind of photo you carried with you everywhere because it was the only one you had.
"She said — if she forgives me, she'll tie a yellow ribbon on the tree outside her place. That's how I'll know." He held up the photo, and something raw and hopeful flickered across his face. "This is the address she sent me. I'm so nervous, man. So nervous."
(A nod to the plot of the 1976 film Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree — and the broader theme of a man searching for forgiveness after prison, as seen in stories like the 2004 Hong Kong film Infernal Affairs III and similar works exploring reunion and redemption.)
"Can I see?" Rango asked, nodding toward the photo.
The man handed it over without hesitation — the kind of trust that came from genuine openness, from not having anything left to hide.
Rango took the photograph. Looked at it.
And went very, very still.
The woman in the photo was striking — dark hair, sharp features, a quiet intensity in her expression that came through even in a small, slightly faded photograph. And Rango knew that face.
He knew it.
It was the same face he'd seen three nights ago, standing on the steps of the museum at two in the morning, pale and desperate and asking for a book she never named.
Anna Manina.
"Mother fuck," Rango breathed.
The Indian man blinked. "What? What's wrong?"
Rango stared at the photo for another long beat. Then he handed it back, carefully, and shook his head.
"Nothing," he said. And smiled. But his eyes were somewhere else entirely.