you. I remember two bullies said you had stolen someone’s lunch money, and they threatened to beat it out of you, said they would shake you upside down until the money fell out of your underwear.”
“Yeah,” Travis said, “then you came in like hell on wheels and saved my ass.”
“I was so mad at them for accusing my brother of stealing!” Now she stopped, and a contemplative expression crossed her face. “Did you take that kid’s lunch money?”
He seemed embarrassed. “What does it matter now? Look how much has changed. The last time we were together and really close was at Mom and Dad’s funeral. I was younger than you, didn’t understand the seriousness of what was going on—I knew they were dead, but didn’t realize all the other things that were going to change. You did, though—you knew how important it was, and you promised me that we had to stick together, that we would take care of each other. You said it was going to be all right!”
“Then I guess I lied,” Sheyenne said. “That makes us even . . . oh, wait, you lied more than once.”
“I’m still your brother, and families should stick together. It’s just you and me with Mom and Dad gone.”
Sheyenne hovered before him, beautiful and translucent. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m gone, too.”
Travis’s eyes had that puppy-dog look. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”
Sheyenne laughed, a bitter glissando. “You were never there for me.”
“I’m here now,” he said, avoiding the money question. “I’d make amends if I could, you know that.”
“Do I?”
“I was wondering if . . . all those family keepsakes, the photos and whatever else . . .”
I saw all the anger go out of her, replaced by chuckling disappointment. “Now it all makes sense. You tracked me down to see if there’s any inheritance.”
“No, no! But I really don’t have any photos of Mom or Dad, or you. No keepsakes, mementos. I’ve lost everything over the years. You know what a scatterbrain I am.”
“I know what a con man you are.”
“I thought you said you were going to bury the hatchet, sis.”
“Yes, but I didn’t say where.”
As I awkwardly eavesdropped, I thought of the sour resentment Missy Goodfellow had shown toward her philanthropist brother, and I hoped that Sheyenne’s relationship with Travis hadn’t degenerated so far. Sheyenne flitted back and forth, a restless ghost; the two of them had a far too complicated relationship to fit into simple pigeonholes. Finally, she grumbled, “Well, I don’t have much, just a few boxes in storage. I’ve got a few student loans I could leave to you, though.”
Travis let out a lame but hopeful chuckle. Sheyenne turned to me. “Beaux, would you come along with us to the storage unit? I’m not sure I want to do this alone.”
“I’ll be there for you, Spooky.” I pointedly repeated what her brother had said. The difference was, Sheyenne believed me.
Chambeaux & Deyer kept a small unit in the Final Repose Storage Complex. We stored old case files there, banker’s boxes filled with client records, solved crimes, incriminating photographs, interview transcriptions, expired coupons.
After Sheyenne’s death, I’d gone to her apartment to retrieve her remaining possessions. At the time, I stored everything even though she had no close relatives. (An understatement, I now realized.) I had been able to put everything she owned into three boxes—a depressingly small encapsulation of an entire life.
But Travis was her brother, and I supposed the family mementos would mean something to him. If Sheyenne was willing to give them to her brother, it was none of my business. Their relationship was more twisted and complex than most of my cases.
In its agreement, the Final Repose Storage Complex had a long list of prohibited items, most prominently “No Storing of Bodies Allowed.” Some of the undead had trouble paying the rent for a larger place in the Quarter, so they might be tempted by the cheaper lodgings of a storage unit.
There were also restrictions against cursed artifacts without proper safety interlocks, and any hazardous objects connected to black magic and necromancy. There had been a recent accident in a different storage complex—an ancient flesh-eating plague was released when a scurrying rat knocked over a clay Sumerian urn. Afterward, the local authorities cracked down and imposed strict regulations on potentially dangerous items placed in storage.
Previously, we had been allowed to access our unit whenever we liked; now each tenant had to sign in at the front office, and