Hormones. Absolute traitors.
One minute I was a functioning member of society. The next, I was crying over a toilet paper commercial and contemplating murder because someone put the peanut butter back in the wrong place.
At nine months pregnant, which felt more like nineteen, I blamed hormones for everything. Mood swings. Cravings. The fact I couldn’t see my own feet. The delightful little side effect where I started seeing pre-ghosts—people who weren’t dead yet, but were about to be.
Thankfully, that particular horror show packed its bags and left sometime after the first trimester. These days I am back to my usual brand of weird—your standard, everyday ghosts. The already-dead kind. The kind I’d been seeing ever since my best friend, Ben, was murdered and decided to stick around instead of crossing over.
Lucky me.
Only it’s a secret, because of course, if word got out that I was a ghost whisperer, the town would be divided. Half of Firefly Bay would embrace my abilities and come to me as if I were psychic, asking to speak to loved ones—side note, it does not work that way. Once they’ve crossed over, my part in their journey is done. The other half would show up with pitchforks and paperwork to have me sectioned into a psych ward.
Two people know my secret.
One is my newish neighbor, Seb. Seb is what we call a little bit psychic. Although I think he’s just highly intuitive. Either way, he caught me one too many times talking to myself—aka Ben—and worked it out. Being the excellent human that he is, he’s kept my secret and, up until my pregnancy, kept me in pizza and wine too.
The other person is my love. My soulmate. The man responsible for my current predicament of carrying an entire tiny person inside my body. My husband, Kade. I’m not going to wax lyrical about him because, honestly, I could go on all day and none of us have time for that. Let’s just say he’s one in a million. The calm to my storm. The reason I haven’t completely spiraled.
Also, the person whose hand I fully intend to crush into dust when I go into labor.
Because between you, me, and the fence post? I’m utterly terrified.
Not just of the pain—although, let’s be clear, I witnessed my sister give birth and immediately decided children were not for me—but of the baby itself. Have you met me? I’m the clumsiest person I know. What if I drop it? That is a very real fear that has visited me in the middle of the night more than once. Kade assures me babies are surprisingly resilient and a bit… bendy… before everything settles.
I’m sure he meant that to be reassuring.
It wasn’t.
Now I have visions of our newborn bouncing across the floor like a basketball.
Add in baby brain, heartburn, fluid retention, restricted caffeine, and cravings that should be illegal, and pregnancy becomes a full-time experience I did not entirely sign up for. Right now, I’m on a cereal kick, which is a vast improvement over the pickle-and-chocolate phase. Or the onion-and-honey phase. Cereal is practically a health food in comparison.
Which is how I came to be standing in the cereal aisle of the grocery store when Claire Hanover stepped straight through me.
Ice-cold speared through my spine and locked every muscle in my body. My fingers clenched on instinct, crushing the box of Honey Crunch Clusters in my hands as the shock punched the air from my lungs.
“Ah—!”
The box slipped from my grip, hit the floor, and burst open on impact, cereal spraying out in every direction.
Heads turned.
Dorothy Hendricks looked up from where she’d been placing a box of Raisin Bran Crunch into her cart. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked.
Rubbing a hand across my swollen abdomen, I gave her a wry smile and lied. “Braxton Hicks.”
“You look like you’re due any day now,” she gave me the once-over, and I tried not to bristle at the implication that I looked like a short, round whale.
“Yep. Any day now.”
“Well, good luck,” she swung her cart around and scurried down the aisle, reading a handwritten shopping list aloud as she went. Apparently, she was now on the search for a birthday card.
I turned my attention to the ex-vice principal of Firefly Bay Middle School, who was shimmering between the Honey Nut Cheerios and the Rice Krispies.
“Well,” I muttered, nudging rogue cereal under the bottom shelf with my foot, “this is unexpected.”
She looked different from how I remembered her. The power suit was gone—no structured blazer, no polished, intimidating presence that screamed authority from across a room. Instead, she wore sharply pressed black slacks and a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. Still stylish. Still put together.
Except she was barefoot.
Oh, and the whole translucent, recently deceased thing.
Her gaze snapped to mine, sharp and assessing, then something darker flickered through it.
Recognition.
“You,” she said.
Not a question. Definitely not a greeting.
I winced. “Hi.”
Her gaze swept over me, taking in the cart, the cereal on the floor, my very pregnant state—and then snapped back to my face, her jaw setting.
“Of all the people,” she said tightly.
I shifted my weight. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you’re not thrilled to see me.”
“You ruined my life,” she shot back.
“That feels a little dramatic.”
“I lost my job.” Her voice sharpened, cutting clean through my attempt at deflection. “Do you have any idea what that does to a person? To their reputation?”
My jaw dropped. “Do I need to remind you that you were embezzling funds from the school? And having an affair with one of the parents? I wasn’t the reason you got fired. You did that all by yourself.”
Her gaze shifted, scanning the aisle, the shelves, the people moving around us who paid her absolutely no attention.
“I…” she faltered, her brow furrowing. “Why am I here?”
I sucked in my lips, releasing them with a pop. I hated this part. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Claire… but you’re dead. You died.”
Her head snapped back to me. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Claire—”
“I’m standing right here.” Her voice sharpened, but there was something underneath it now. A crack. “I’m talking. I’m thinking. I’m—”
Her words stalled. She looked down at her hands, then back up at me. Then around again—really looking this time. At the people who didn’t see her. At the world moving on without her.
A beat passed. Her head tilted slightly, studying me.
“You can see me.”
“Yes.”
“But they can’t.”
“That’s right.”
Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t jump.”
I paused mid-shuffle, a stray cluster crunching under my shoe. “From where?”
Her brow furrowed. “I… don’t know.”
“Right,” I straightened slowly, one hand braced against my lower back as my center of gravity reminded me who was in charge these days. “Fantastic. Love that for us.”
“I didn’t jump,” she repeated, louder now, as if volume might substitute for memory.
Around us, normal life carried on. Mrs. Donnelly was at the far end of the aisle, squinting at a coupon, probably trying to read the fine print. A toddler was licking a cart handle with impressive commitment. No one was paying any attention to the dead woman in aisle four, which meant this was exclusively my problem.
“Do you remember anything?” I asked.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, irritation flashing across her face. “No. Only… falling.”
I may or may not have rolled my eyes. Not over Claire Hanover. Not really. Just the timing of her recent demise couldn’t be worse. I was due to give birth any day now, Kade was starting to hover like I was made out of spun glass, Bandit and Thor were nesting more than I was, and Ben… well actually Ben remained my BFF in all of this and was an absolute rock. Except where was he now? When another ghost running interference would be, you know, extremely helpful.
The automatic doors at the front of the store slid open with a rush of warm air. Speak of the devil. I watched as Ben strolled in, hands in pockets, paused for a second when his eyes landed on Claire, then sauntered up as if he had all the time in the world. Which I guess he did, considering he was dead.
“Where have you been?” I would have to have been dead myself to miss the waspish tone in my voice. Usually, when I needed him, I’d just have to think about him and poof, he’d appear. Not today, apparently. Today he decided to negate his ghostly abilities and walk in through the front door like a living person. That annoyed me more than it should have.
“Claire, fancy seeing you here,” he pointedly ignored me.
“Oh my God!” Claire clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Ben Delaney? But you’re…”
“Dead. Yes.”
“Oh God,” she groaned, bending over and clutching her head. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
I jerked my head, motioning for Ben to do something to soothe our new ghost friend. I couldn’t do it myself without looking like a total loony tune.
With a resigned sigh, Ben patted her back. “It’s okay. You’ll get used to it. And don’t worry, Audrey here is the best in the business, she’ll get to the bottom of—” he cut himself off, glancing at me.
“My death?” Claire choked, straightening and smoothing her palms down her pants.
“Pretty much.” Ben shrugged.
“And she’s qualified for this, this, whatever this is?”
“Come on now,” Ben cajoled, “you know she’s a PI. Or have you forgotten that, too? Audrey was the one who caught Sandra Greaves’s killer and outed your affair with Daniel Craig last year. There was something else about misappropriated school funds, if I remember correctly.”
“Of course I remember that,” Claire snapped, tossing her head and taking a step away from him. “How could I forget?”
I rummaged in my bag and pulled out my phone, holding it to my ear and pretending to take a call. “Yes, well, as lovely as this is,” I hissed as the baby shifted and delivered a sharp kick to my ribs, “can we hurry it along. I have a watermelon sitting on my bladder, and I desperately need Froot Loops.”
Claire eyed my cart. Specifically, the three boxes of Froot Loops I’d already pulled off the shelf.
“Hey,” I glared. “You don’t mess with a pregnant woman’s cravings. You would not believe the daily fight I have on my hands keeping Bandit out of my stash.”
“It’s true,” Ben nodded conspiratorially. “Bandit is quick. And she has a nose for cereal.”
“Look,” Claire began pacing, her footsteps silent on the floor. “I think you have enough Froot Loops to last you at least twenty-four hours. Do you think we could get back to the actual case? Namely, me.”
I reared back, hung up my fake phone call, gripped the handle of my cart, and stormed off. The crunch of the wheels grinding cereal into the floor was oddly satisfying.
“Ooooh, you’ve done it now,” Ben singsonged behind me.
“What?” Claire sounded genuinely confused. “What did I do?”
“You messed with a pregnant woman. You never mess with a pregnant woman. They have hormones out the wazoo. They are massively uncomfortable. They are both excited to meet their baby and terrified of birthing said baby. Do you think, for one second, she’s going to take kindly to you dissing her cravings?”
Behind me, Ben kept lecturing. I kept walking. Somewhere between the Froot Loops and the freezer aisle, it sank in: I had a baby coming any day, a husband who was already overprotective, and a brand-new ghost who didn’t remember dying. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.
