his Niko-ness, putting his hand on Jane’s shoulder: Hello, how are you, I think you may be an unmoored spirit trapped in some kind of MTA purgatory.
“You said you didn’t want to freak her out.”
“I never said that. I said you shouldn’t tell somebody they’re dead unless you’re sure they’re dead. Very bad energy.”
“What would you even ask her?”
“I don’t know. It would depend on how things feel. Sounds like a fun experiment.”
August grinds her teeth. “Isn’t there something else we could do first? Like—can I pour a ring of salt around her or splash her with holy water or something? But like, in a subtle way?”
“You and I come at subtlety from very different directions,” Niko observes. “But we could do a séance.”
August can practically hear her mother scoffing into her Lean Cuisine from the next time zone.
“A … séance?”
“Yeah,” he says casually. “To talk to her. If she’s a ghost, she should be able to visit, and boom, we’d know.”
“And if nothing happens, we can rule out ghost?”
“Yep.”
And so, August Landry, world’s leading skeptic, opens her mouth and says, “Okay, let’s do a séance.”
“Love it,” Niko says. He’s produced a toothpick from his pocket and starts chewing on it as he wipes down the bar. “Yeah, we’ll need numbers, so we should ask Myla and Wes. We can do it at the shop after close. I don’t like where the moon is right now, though, so let’s do it night after tomorrow. Do you have anything that belongs to her?”
“I, um,” August says, “I do, actually. She gave me her scarf.”
“That’ll do.”
She leans down to take a sip of her drink and promptly chokes on it.
“Good lord, that is disgusting. You’re terrible at this.”
Niko laughs. “Myla tried to tell you.”
* * *
“So,” Wes says. He’s watching August douse her fries in Cholula with an extremely New England expression on his face. “You’ve gathered us here today to tell us you’re boned up for a ghost.”
“Jesus, can you keep your voice down?” August hisses, eyeing Winfield as he passes their table. She should have known better than to slide into the booth with this information after her shift and think this particular group of delinquents would be discreet. “I work here.”
“Wait, so—” Myla cuts in. “She really used to work here? When it first opened? And now she’s on the subway looking exactly the same?”
“Yes.”
She leans back in the booth, eyes alight. “I can’t believe you’ve been in New York for, like, a month and already found the coolest person in the entire city. Back to the Future ass.”
“We’re more at the intersection of Ghost and Quantum Leap,” August points out. “But that’s not the point.”
“The point is,” Niko says, “we’re doing a séance to get a feel for the situation. And considering this whole thing is low-key a psychic’s wet dream, we’d love if you would help.”
And so, on Sunday night, the four of them are huddled together on Church Street, trying to look small and inconspicuous outside the locked door of Miss Ivy’s.
“Do you want me to pick it?” August asks, glancing nervously down the street.
“What? Pick the lock?” Wes says. “What kind of feral child are you? Are you Jessica Jones?”
“We’re not breaking and entering,” Niko says. “I have a key. Somewhere.”
August turns to sniff in Myla’s direction. “You smell like a McRib.”
“What?”
“You know, like, smoky.”
Myla jabs an elbow into Wes’s ribs. “Someone forgot their lunch in the toaster oven today and I had to put out a kitchen fire,” she says. “We’re, like, one fire away from losing our security deposit.”
“We lost our security deposit when you took it upon yourself to rewire the entire apartment,” Wes replies.
Niko chuckles under his breath. He’s fingering through a ring of keys in the dim glow of the streetlights. August wonders what all the keys are for—knowing Niko, he’s probably talked his way into having a key to half the plant supply stores and dive bars in Brooklyn.
“How our apartment ever had a security deposit to begin with is a joke,” August says. “The oven doesn’t even go over three-fifty.”
“And it didn’t go over one-fifty before I rewired it,” Myla says.
“Wes?”
The four of them jolt like Scooby Doo and the gang, caught in the act. Niko is not technically allowed to use his key for after-hours communications with the dead. No personal calls, basically—they can’t get caught.
But it’s only Isaiah, fresh from a gig going by the duffel bag thrown over his shoulder and the smudged eyeliner. It’s