cups over. They splashed her pregnant belly before teetering off the platter and breaking like the candle holder. And then two little girls, who’d come to shop for costumes, clawed at their mother’s legs, bawling.
When Romain had risen back up, face as red as the apron tied around his waist, mumbling “April Fool’s” and pointing to Tracy, lounging about in her tank, Gaëlle, usually an extremely placid person, had turned so livid I was a little afraid she’d go into premature labor. I caught Romain’s eye over his stepmom’s shaking shoulders and had grinned. Feeling bad for him, I’d gone to grab the duster to help clean up. Had Tracy really been on the loose, I would’ve probably pulled an Alma and skipped out of the store, minus the banshee-screaming part.
I frown as I catch sight of a man standing outside the shop, right behind the little girl ogling Tracy’s tank. At first, I think he might be a homeless drifter loaded on too much chouchen, but then my breath hitches because I recognize him. “Gaëlle!”
“What?” The cap of her bottle jerks out of her hand, hits the sugar dispenser, and rolls off the table.
“Matthias! He’s outside!”
Her face turns ashen.
I don’t wave hello to Gaëlle’s ex-husband. Instead, I glance toward Romain, who’s wiping down the glass case. I worry how he’ll react if he catches sight of his father.
A cold stream of liquid drips onto my lap, and I jerk away from the table.
Gaëlle’s spilled her drink and is so shell-shocked that I don’t think she notices. I grab a handful of napkins from the dispenser beside the sugar and blot my jeans as she slowly, slowly turns in her chair.
Matthias looks miserable and pasty, his tie loose, his cardigan buttoned all wrong. Gaëlle goes as still as my mother’s statues. I think she might’ve even stopped breathing. A second later, she stands, walks over to the door of the shop and twists the deadbolt. And then she flips the OPEN/CLOSED sign, croaks something to Romain, which makes him look up but not out, so it’s probably not about his estranged dad showing up out of the blue. The boy nods, then unties his apron and, folding it carefully, heads toward the staircase that leads to their private apartment atop the shop.
Like a ghost, Gaëlle floats toward the three remaining customers and tells them she has an emergency and must close up early. Her spooked look makes them gather their things quickly and without protest. Once lined up at the door, Gaëlle unlocks it to let them pass through. None look toward Matthias; they all walk right past him.
As she locks the door again, a shudder goes through her, making her bun shake so hard the pen escapes. Curly strands fall down her rigid back.
I toss the wet napkins on the table, then walk over to her. “Do you want me to go talk to him?”
“No!” The word snaps out of her mouth.
The mother of the little girl ogling Tracy must notice Matthias, because she holds out her hand to beckon her daughter away. The little girl pouts but obediently backs up. Straight into Gaëlle’s ex. Scratch that. Straight through Gaëlle’s ex.
Oh.
Crap.
Gaëlle slaps her palm against her mouth, stifling another gasp. “C-call Rainier. C-c-c-call him.”
I race into the kitchen where I left my bag. My phone feels lubed up because it takes me three attempts to wrestle it out of the front pocket. Speed-dialing Papa, I run back into the shop. I’m half expecting Matthias to have drifted right through the glass, but he’s still standing outside. His mouth curves into a terrifying smile, terrifying because he’s missing so many teeth and blood is trickling out of his mouth. And what’s wrong with his head? It’s a little concave around his left temple, as though he was hit by a crowbar, and it remolded his skull.
Forget the groac’h.
This man—this ghost—might be the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
I hear a deep voice seep out of my phone and remember I’ve dialed my father. “Papa,” I whisper. The ghost breaks eye contact with his wife and turns his pale eyes on me. “Papa,” I murmur again.
My poor father yells, “What’s going on? Where are you?” and I’m in such shock that I can’t blubber anything but another few Papas out.
Gaëlle takes the phone from me. There’s so much blood rushing through my ears that I can’t hear what she says. She races to the back of the store, grabs a jar