Carlos

John's house is quiet and lonely without him, and if I didn't have the dogs and Becky to keep me busy and entertained, I'd quickly lose my mind in the quiet stillness. His late brother's style leaned towards industrial chic, making the place look more like a museum or a modern art gallery than a home; I wonder if it's too soon to talk about redecorating, once John gets back.

If he ever does.

Whatever business David and he had with the vampiric council lasts longer than the promised 'few days.' Soon, days become a week, which now stretches into two.

At first, John had texted me with regular (if brief and cryptic) updates, and called in the evenings, though he didn't (or maybe couldn't) tell me much about what he'd been up to. But on the fourth day, he sent a single text in his characteristic broken-lined, emoji-free style, which read almost like a poem:

Hurts too much to hear your voice
Be home soon
Sorry

After that, I hadn't heard from him, and he hadn't replied to my messages or returned my calls.

I guess he'd turned his phone off, but that didn't stop my imagination from running wild and taking my anxiety along for the ride.

The best I can do is to keep myself busy; and between the dogs and figuring out what to do with the rest of my life, that's easy enough.

"What about your shop?" Becky asks as we sit together one evening on the titanic leather sofa in the lounge. She's leaving for Sacramento in the morning, where she has a job and a life of her own to get back to, and we're spending our last night together eating pizza and playing with the dogs. "Can't you just move? Start again?"

I take a bite of pizza to avoid answering right away. Once the crime scene had been cleared, the county had taken possession of the garage, along with the rest of Lucille's estate. Even if I'd been able to continue renting the space, I wouldn't have wanted to. The thought of all the hours I'd spent working with the bones of murder victims inches beneath my feet still makes me shudder.

It would have been worse for Kyle, had he lived to know it, as those victims had been his parents. Poor kid.

"Not easily," I say at last. "Especially not now that I've sold most of my equipment."

I'd had little choice. Sure, I could have rented a storage unit while I hunted for a new rental site, but all of that costs money I don't have. I poured everything into my business—put all my eggs in one basket, as my aunt would have said—and now it's gone.

At least I got some money for the tools and machinery. Not much, given it was already used when I bought it, but something; and something was better than nothing, which is another thing my aunt used to say.

Rick comes trotting over with his favorite stuffed rabbit in his mouth and presents it to Becky, inviting her to play tug-of-war with him. She takes hold of it and lets him tug away to his heart's content while she talks.

"You know, David is far from my favorite person," she says, "but if nothing else, I have to admit he's always been there for John. He's offered to write John a blank check several times, though John never accepted it; he'd have made a wonderful father-in-law, if he wasn't so damn creepy."

Sensing that she's missing out on the attention, Morty joins us as well, resting her head on my knee and shoving her muzzle beneath my hand.

I scratch her ears and smile distractedly. I'd taken her and Rick to the groomer earlier that day, so their coats are clean and shiny, and they smell pretty good, for once.

"Call me stubborn, but I prefer to make my own way, if I can. I relied on my aunt for long enough; I want to stand on my own two feet, even if I have to crawl at first. And yeah, I'm aware of the irony of saying that while living here rent free."

I nod at our expansive—and expensive—surroundings. John could sell this place for several million dollars, if he wanted to.

"Speaking of your aunt," Becky says, keeping her tone carefully casual. "Have you had any word?"

Sighing, I lean into the creamy, genuine leather cushion at my back and stare up at the exposed beams of the high ceiling.

"Nope. Nothing. But I guess I'm getting used to that."

Morty whines, and Becky reaches over to rest her hand on my arm. "Another thing about David: if I trust him with nothing else, I trust him to take care of John. They'll be fine. As for your aunt... Have you thought of hiring Freya?"

"Freya Hunter?"

She gives me a look. "How many people named 'Freya' do you know?"

"Fair. But... Freya's a bounty hunter."

"Exactly. Finding people is literally her job."

"Finding people for a fee," I remind her. "I'm broke."

The look she's giving me grows more intense. "Carlos, I've known the woman for two weeks, and I can already say with absolute certainty that you're practically family. I'm sure she'd take it on if you asked."

I shrug and wince. "It's complicated. You know how I explained that the Morellis were demon-hunters? Well, my family was the same. We mostly stuck to the incorporeal shit, but we weren't above shooting werewolves or staking vampires, if the chance arose. Speaking of vampires... you're taking all this really well."

It's Becky's turn to shrug as she serves herself another slice of pizza. "People are people," she says. "I figure vampires and werewolves, and whatever else is out there, are just people, too. Like John, and Freya, and you. Everybody just wants to be happy, and most people are good."

"I'm glad you see it that way. Good or not, I think most people would have run screaming."

"How are you feeling, anyway?" she asks. "I noticed you took the dogs out again last night."

I take a bite of pizza and finish chewing before I answer. "I get why John skipped so many meals, now. Seems like I can go a lot longer on a lot less food and sleep."

"You know, I used to tease John about that." Becky says. "I'd say he wasn't human, going twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight hours without sleep, or 'forgetting' to eat for two days. Guess I was closer to the mark than I realized."

"I think I said the same thing." I smile as Morty does a playful doggy bow, front legs splayed, butt in the air and tail waving like a flag. "He never forgot to feed the dogs, but more than once he forgot to feed me."

Rick takes Morty up on the invitation to play, and Becky laughs at their antics. "They're happy here," she says, nodding at the dogs. "I was planning to take them with me, but I think they'll be better off with you and John."

"Or we'll be better off with them, maybe" I say. "Feels like they're the only things keeping me sane and human, sometimes."

Becky frowns. "I'd thought the transition would be easier for you, having already been part of this... 'other' world." She waves a hand. "You know, growing up seeing ghosts, and stuff."

I give her a half-hearted, rueful smile. "Seems like I've traded one set of weird abilities for another. Haven't seen a single ghost, demon, or otherwise since the night in the theater."

"That's good though... Isn't it?"

"I guess." I raise my pizza to take a bite, then stop and set it down again, full after one piece, and sigh. "My old abilities never did me much good. Maybe these new ones will be different."

Becky shoves me lightly. "What do you mean, 'never did you much good?' You solved at least three murder mysteries and stopped a pair of killers. You put Kyle's soul to rest."

"Maybe," I allow. "But I'd rather have saved his life."

She softens her tone. "You did the best you could, and that's all anyone can do—super-powered supernatural, or not."

"That's the thing," I say, finally turning to look Becky in the eyes. "I feel like I could have done better. I could have been nicer to Kyle while he was alive; could have tried harder to befriend him. Got him to tell me something about himself. Maybe then, I'd have realized what a psycho Lucille was and made some connections before it was too late. Maybe Kyle would still be alive if I'd just shown more interest, been kinder."

"Carlos..." Becky reaches over and pulls me into a tight embrace. "That just means you're a good person. Listen to me: every good investigator, good cop, good lawyer, feels that way at some point. 'If only I'd done that, or known this, or tried harder' or whatever is a familiar refrain. You can't get away from it, but you can choose what happens next. You can let it eat you alive, or you can learn from it for next time."

"God, I hope there isn't a next time." I laugh even as tears sting my eyes.

Becky lifts her brows at me. "In this town? Don't count on it."

~ ★ ~

She's right, I reflect as, a few days later, I visit the cemetery with the dogs.

"They made a mistake when they called it 'Spring Lakes,'" I say aloud, looking down at Kyle's grave. "They should have just called it 'Trouble.'"

Morty snorts. She's only clearing her nose after sniffing every inch of the path on the way here, but it sounds like she agrees with me.

I'd been a little wary of bringing her and Rick here, concerned they'd pee on the headstones, or something, but despite having flunked out of K-9 school, they're still better trained than most dogs. Perhaps having picked up on some nonverbal cue from me, they act almost as if they're indoors, stick close to my side, and refrain from so much as scratching at the graveled paths.

Kneeling in front of Kyle's grave marker, I brush debris off the stone and place the flowers I'd brought in the little vase, replacing the withered ones I'd left the week before.

If anyone else has been by to pay their respects in the time since, they left no sign.

"I'm sorry, chico," I say, resting my hand on the stone. "No es justo."

It's not fair.

I stay that way for a minute or so, head bowed, letting my thoughts run free, back to that day when this all began. If I'd checked the jack myself, it wouldn't have failed, I wouldn't have gotten pissed at Kyle, and I wouldn't have given him twenty bucks to fuck off and get himself killed.

To buy lunch, the more reasonable voice in my brain corrects. You sent him to buy lunch. You didn't know.

Didn't know, didn't care—until it was too late.

I get to my feet with a sigh, almost wishing Kyle would appear to me again. Just one last time.

Something brushes my foot. I look down, blink, bend, and pick up a crisp $20 bill. Straightening, I glance around, but I'm the only person in the entire cemetery right now.

I stare at the bill. Not everything is a sign; sometimes a coincidence is just that—but this feels like more.

Accepting it, I shut my eyes as a feeling of warmth and certainty floods my chest.

All is forgiven. All debts are paid. Peace is offered, and peace is received.

With a deep inhalation, I open my eyes. A soft breeze tumbles around the cemetery, stirring the leaves on the trees, and I smile.

"Thanks, Kyle," I say, pocketing the bill. "See ya' on the other side."

With that, I turn and head back down the slope towards the parking area. More time has passed than I intended to spend, and dusk is falling fast. As I near the spot where I left my truck, a shadowy figure steps away from the trunk of an old elm tree, where it seems to have been waiting and watching me.

For a measure of heartbeats, I'm afraid, and draw back; then the dogs break out in a spate of barking—happy barking—and forget their training like puppies, and rush the figure at full speed.

As they do, I recognize the figure's height and wide shoulders; the neatly cut hair and square jawline, and feel my own heart leap with puppylike excitement in my chest.

John.