Page 12 of Secondhand Soul

“Hi, Rhea!” I answer cheerfully, on autopilot as I rip open cupboard doors, looking for the fire extinguisher. Literally rip. Right off the hinges. “Damn,” I mutter.

“She chose us! She chose us, honey! She’s the sweetest lady, and she absolutely loved Manny. He sold it. She never had a dad in her life, and when she saw how Manny was just tearing up over the ultrasound pictures—”

“That’s wonderful! So happy! Uh—where is the fire extinguisher?”

“What? Why?”

“Squash emergency, where is it?” I snap.

“Under the sink!” Rhea gasps.

“OW!”

My head jerks and I drop the phone. The “ow” is followed by a hard thud. “Oh, no.”

“What ‘oh, no’? How big of a squash emergency?” Rhea’s voice is high and tight with panic.

“Oven fire. Girl upstairs fell down. I gotta go.”

“What girl? Girl? At our house? Manny, step on it.”

“I’m already going 85, honey.”

“Don’t worry. Everything is under control. The girl is no one. I mean, she’s someone, but just someone who fell into an open grave in the cemetery last night. I just brought her here to get cleaned up and warm. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no. No, that was the right thing to do. We would’ve done the same!” Rhea’s voice is relieved.

“Call the fire department, Laz!” Manny instructs. “Fire is too dangerous for us to mess with!”

“Not messing for long!” I roar, pulling the pin on the little red extinguisher I grabbed during our conversation. “Gotta go!”

“We’ll be home in a few hours! Call us ba—”

No time for phone calls. “Victoria, stay there! I’m coming!” I shout and blast foam all over the once-beautiful side dish my adopted parents were supposed to bring to Thanksgiving dinner.

But the fire is out. I think.

The house stinks.

I owe them a new oven, probably.

I have to call Georgie Fenclan and tell him he’s down a squash side dish.

Oh yeah, and there’s an injured woman—probably getting more injured—somewhere on the second floor.

The completely pointless thought that Victoria would never go out with such a klutz somehow supersedes the real truth that she’d never even look at a monster like me, and I have no business even thinking about her or any human in a semi-romantic way. Well, not romance. Just horniness, probably.

How can dead guys like me still have hormones that work? That’s just mean.

I guess that describes Pazcuzo and his goons accurately enough.

I slowly walk away from the smoldering mess and climb the stairs, the chorus of beeping smoke detectors ringing in my sensitive ears. My body jerks to a halt abruptly when I come face-to-face with a raven-haired goddess in a white towel sprawled on Manny and Rhea’s bed.

She’s just trying to pull on some clothes—clumsily, I might add, but for a second, the sight of her lying there makes the kitchen fire seem like a candle flicker.

I swallow hard. “Don’t worry. It’s under control,” I rasp.

Victoria just looks at me, not flinching, slowly sitting up with her eyes wide and still. “Good to know.”