Page 61 of First Street
That was it. Ocean couldn’t take one more word. She shot to her feet, snatched the pillow off the bed, and buried her face in it. Then came the scream, muffled.
When she finally lifted her head, the real estate agent was in the doorway. Preppy. Thirty-something. Pastels from head to toe, like she’d stepped out of a catalog. Her crystal-white smile gleamed. Ocean’s frown deepened.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
Ocean grunted.
The chef—thin, middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and a scruffy shadow beard—peeked into the room. His eyes met Ocean’s, but neither of them bothered with a hello. Just silent judgment hanging in the air.
“Teenagers,” the realtor stage-whispered to her client, like Ocean wasn’t six feet away.
Seriously? Rude.
“Can I see the attic?” the chef asked.
“Yes, yes. Let me just pull down the steps,” the woman chirped.
A second later, the hallway filled with the creak and groan of the wooden door opening, followed by the clunky scrape of the fold-out ladder dropping into place.
Ocean stood up to shut the bedroom door and reclaim her space. The two of them in the hall caught her eye. The realtor was halfway up the pull-down steps when she came tumbling back down in a flurry of pastels and flying high heels.
“I don’t know how I missed it,” she said, way too chipper for someone who’d almost face-planted.
She tried again. Down she came again. This time her chin smacked the edge of a step with a dull thud.
Ocean froze, then leaned her shoulder into the doorframe. Okay. This was definitely worth watching.
The real estate agent staggered backwards, holding her hand to her chin.
“I’ll go first,” the chef said.
He climbed the stairs, the realtor creeping up after him, pausing at each step like the wood was out to get her.
There was the sound of a kerfuffle overhead, and Ocean looked up. The attic light was flicking on and off like some bad horror movie.
“Everything okay up there?” Skye called from downstairs.
Ocean went to the top of the stairs and leaned over the railing. “You promised me they’d be in and out. They’re basically camping up there in the attic.”
Her mom just gave her that pleading look. The one that said, please don’t make this worse.
A man’s yelp ripped out of the attic, followed by the realtor’s panicked cry.
“Help! I can’t open the door!”
Skye raced up the stairs and scrambled up the folding steps. Ocean followed. She didn’t want to miss the drama.
When she reached the attic, Ocean had to bite back a laugh.
The chef was trapped inside the cage, gripping the bars like a circus monkey. The agent was flailing at the latch, pastel sleeves flapping while she squeaked uselessly.
“What is he doing in there?” Skye demanded.
Ocean leaned against the chimney, arms folded, hiding her grin. She didn’t need a ghost detection app to know who was behind this trick. Jo. Classic. Ten out of ten entertainment.
“He stumbled and fell in. Just get him out!” the agent almost shrieked.
Skye yanked at the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. Ocean hung back, enjoying the whole spectacle, front row.
