The Fourth Power - Michelle M. Pillow Page 0,2

His dark hair was long enough to pull out of his face without creating a ponytail down his back. He seemed guarded but had a kindness in him. His work wasn’t cheap, but it was fair.

Vivien liked to point out that he was easy on the eyes, but all Heather cared about was that his work was solid. She had a three-story Victorian to renovate, and she needed a man with solid work. Period.

“Fine, I might have fallen off the boat, but he didn’t, like, try very hard to…”

Heather swatted her hand by her ear like she shooed an insect while trying to get the ghost to back away. “I’m sorry. What were my options again?”

“Hey, that’s rude!”

“Patch or replace all of the wiring,” Martin said.

Heather leaned against the wall to look into an opening cut in the lath and plaster. The whoosh-pop of a nail gun sounded in a steady rhythm, overshadowing the undertones of a radio as a couple of the guys worked in the next room. She found comfort in the sounds of work. The thud of a bucket sliding across a bare floor, the thump of work boots, and even the crash of a sledgehammer felt like forward movement. It symbolized progress, momentum, the satisfaction of seeing change happen. Refurbishing houses gave her a sense of control. She could make things better.

Isn’t that what mattered in life? Making things better when you could?

The ghost leaned toward the hole with her, and continued talking, “So are you going to, like, help me or what? I know you can see me.”

Heather glanced to the side.

“Ah, see, you just looked. I knew it!”

The electrical wires were old and covered in varnished cloth. They had frayed in some places. “We can’t leave that in there.”

“That’s what I was just saying,” Martin said, sounding a little annoyed.

“Look at me!”

“So you agree,” Martin continued, having no clue someone else interrupted them. “We completely rewire—”

“Omigod, shut up,” Heather cried, shaking her hands by her ears.

The ghost gasped but remained where she stood.

“I’m… sorry?” Martin looked stunned.

“I mean, sure.” Heather rubbed her temples. She waved her hand in dismissal, needing to get away from the living so she could deal with her pest. “Do whatever you think.”

“Are you pissed at me for something?” Martin asked, starting to follow her through the construction debris toward the stairs. “If you’re not happy with my work—”

“Dude, stop, no, it’s not you,” one of the workers said in a hushed tone as he rushed to stop Martin. Thomas had worked with her many times and was one of the best drywall guys in town.

“But—” Martin tried to say.

“Leave it alone,” Thomas said.

Heather pretended not to hear the conversation as she reached the stairwell that would take her down to the second story.

“But…” Martin insisted.

“You know what today is, right?” Thomas continued.

Heather hurried down the steps and whipped around the corner so she wouldn’t have to hear more. It was no surprise that everyone knew her business, but she didn’t have to listen to them talk about it.

The stairs leading to the first floor were wider and led to a small landing next to a wall with a stained-glass window. From there, it split into two directions. Left would take her straight into the kitchen, and right would take her around to the front room.

In the front room, the original wood banisters were beautiful, as if they had somehow survived against the onslaught of time and people. She always thought of their permanence compared to those who touched them.

Drop cloths covered the floors, and she glanced up from habit to check the progress of the ceiling. Someone had sprayed it with popcorn texture in the 1970s, and Heather had it removed.

Hearing someone coming down the stairs, she rushed toward the front door and down the porch steps. She’d parked in front of the house next to the curb so that she could leave whenever she wanted. Martin’s truck was in the drive blocking in a car. Movement caught her eye on her way past as she stumbled to see a young face looking at her through the sun-reflected glass. Her heart nearly stopped beating. Time held still and silent in those brief seconds.

“Trav?” she whispered. The ghost of her son had never appeared to her, and yet in that instant she saw him mirrored back to her in sun and shadows.

Heather made a move toward the truck. The light shifted, and she realized it was a young girl in