Chapter 2: When Haunting Backfires

That night, firefighters tore into Grant Miller’s house in Maple Heights.

Red lights flashed through the neighborhood, bouncing off manicured lawns and perfect white picket fences. The whir of distant lawnmowers faded as neighbors peeked out their windows, cell phones at the ready. Even the faint aroma of Mrs. Henderson’s apple pie drifted through the open window, mixing with the burnt scent of gas.

They managed to keep the house—and Grant—safe.

The place was crawling with people.

Paramedics bustled around, city cops scribbled in their notepads, and someone’s dog wouldn’t stop barking next door. The sharp tang of burnt gas still hung in the air.

The fire chief, a guy who looked like he’d seen one too many Fourth of Julys, asked with a practiced calm:

“Mr. Miller, was it the maid who forgot to turn off the gas? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s spoken to—”

He probably put out more barbecue flare-ups than real fires, but there was a steadiness in his voice that made you want to trust him. He leaned in, dropping his tone the way only small-town chiefs do.

“Yes, yes, for the sake of my hard work, please spare me.”

Grant, wrapped in a plaid blanket, slumped on the sofa.

He looked like he’d wandered out of a blizzard—still shivering, still not himself. For once, the king of control was totally out of it.

He kept his head down, silent.

There was a heaviness to him, a vacuum that sucked the noise right out of the room. Even the fire chief backed off, sensing he’d hit a wall.

I sprawled sideways on his Italian leather couch, yawning from boredom.

The kind of couch that costs more than your rent—smooth, cold, and big enough to make my ghostly self look ridiculous as I splayed out, invisible to everyone but Jamie.

What a piece of work.

After I died, nobody dared talk back to Grant Miller anymore.

Back then, every time we crossed paths, I could always needle him into snapping, “Miss Taylor.”

He’d say it colder than a Chicago winter, but there was always something almost warm beneath it.

Weirdly satisfying.

I thought he’d hate me forever.

But ever since I quit haunting Grant Miller’s dreams, he’d gotten weird.

During meetings, he’d just stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Crossing the street, he’d just stand there, eyeing truck drivers.

Oh, and he bought enough sleeping pills to stock a CVS.

If this was before, I’d have cheered him on.

But last month, I got promoted at the Afterlife Bureau.

I’m now in charge of the local death census.

Every day, not only do I have to do field inspections, but I also have to work overtime updating electronic records. Welcome to the Afterlife Bureau—where paperwork goes to die. Literally.

If a young, promising billionaire like him died on my turf, Saint Peter would have my head.

Sigh. So annoying.

That night, I stormed into Grant Miller’s dream, furious.

Instead of shapeshifting into a boring desktop vacuum, I transformed into a rogue Roomba, spinning in wild circles around his feet, blaring out embarrassing reminders like, “Hey Grant, don’t forget to water your cactus and call your therapist!”

He sat at his desk, stunned at first, then stared at me like I was an alien from Area 51.

I was so mad I actually laughed:

“Mr. Miller, long time no see. I heard you want to die, so I came to congratulate you.”

Grant slowly lowered his gaze. “Miss Taylor cares about me so much?”

Ah, there’s that tone I remember.

I grinned, bouncing on my heels like a kid angling for dessert before dinner. “I just want you to die sooner, so you can show up in the afterlife and help my performance numbers.”

If there’s one thing about Grant Miller, he never lets me have the last word.

He looked up, studying my face like he wanted to carve it into his memory.

“Alright.”

“Huh?”

I froze for a second.

“I mean, I’ll come down and boost your performance.”

I fumed: “Shameless! Who wants you?”

Grant arched an eyebrow, lips quirking. “You really don’t want me to die, do you? Would my death cause you trouble?”

That’s what I hate about him—he’s scarily perceptive, like he can read minds.

“Grant Miller!”

I pulled a long face. “Stop looking for ways to die.”

Grant suddenly sneered. “Looks like I guessed right. You came to see me just to stop me.”

I pressed my lips together, glaring at him.

He ignored me. “If you don’t want me to die, fine. From now on, I want to see you here every night. If you skip even once, I don’t mind coming down to your side and making some trouble.”

A bell chimed behind me.

Time’s up.

I held it in for a moment, then suddenly gave Grant a fierce kiss. While he was still stunned, I shot him a wicked grin:

“If Mr. Miller doesn’t mind being disgusted, then just wait.”

I vanished before he could react, grinning to myself as I floated back to the Bureau. Sometimes, you just have to leave a little chaos behind.