likely a member of the council guard, and definitely not doing something as boring as witch work. Not for the first time I curse Tristan’s soul which I’m sure is already damned, but a few extra never did any harm. With that in mind I walk myself through the chairs and desk and continue on to the back of the shop, past the small kitchenette tucked away, and into the backroom that Raziel and I had been referring to as the lab since we moved in. In the shops former life it had probably served as a store room, but now herbs hang from the ceiling and grimoires line the shelves screwed into the walls. A large working table stands in the middle of the room which is covered in different bottles and ingredients. I start making a mental list of all of the supplies Raziel is short of and make the small chore last me most of the morning while I wait for my charge to return.

“Utter success Henry!” Raziel’s jubilee shout echoes through the shop. I whisk myself up to the store front to witness his bright smile, blue eyes sparkling, and a sheaf of papers triumphantly clenched in his fist.

“I see.” I reply evenly wondering just what he had to do to get those papers.

As if sensing my thoughts Raziel’s smile broadens, “Dana was playing hard to get so I went to Des instead and got the information out of him.”

The name is foreign to my ears, “Des?” I ask.

“Desmond, the head coroner. He examined the body himself so he gave me all of the details. Even gave me the information on her father.” My bright eyed pupil looks much too excited about this.

I stare gravely at him, “And this information came at what cost?” I inquire.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Nothing.” Raziel shrugs innocently, “I just asked and Des was willing to answer. Apparently the death was pretty popular on the news when it happened five years ago.” He quickly pushes past me and lays the papers out on his already cluttered desk. I read them carefully.

They’re a straightforward coroner report outlining the cause of death—a shotgun blast to the chest. The last few papers that Raziel lays out are different though, one is an obituary and the other two are newspaper stories regarding her murder and murderer. I stare at the man’s face in one of the pictures, his eyes are no longer solid white, but I still easily recognize him as the murderer.

“So they caught the man who killed her?” I ask incredulously.

“Yeah, caught, tried, and sentenced. He’s been locked away in jail since her death and from what I understand he’s looking at the death penalty right now.”

Winnifred’s words come ringing back into my ears, ‘How can I be happy when they’re going to kill that man?!’ But why should it bother her that her murderer would be facing justice for the crimes he committed. It doesn’t make any sense.

Raziel’s smile slowly falls away at my continued scowling. “What? What’s wrong?”

After a moment’s silence I finally give in and retell what Winnifred had told me.

Raziel frowns, “Well, maybe they caught the wrong guy. Her killer is still running free and an innocent man is about to bite the dust. That’d be enough to agitate a ghost into midnight visits here.”

I shake my head immediately, “No, that is definitely the killer.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

My charge gives me a strange look, “Well, how would you know that? Was Winnifred showing you pictures or something of her shooter?”

I purse my lips in frustration, but after a moment of silent staring at me I finally give in, “It was an accident.” I start, “I only meant to ground her. I didn’t know that my touch would…”

“Would what?” Raziel edges in.

“…Allow me to experience her death.” I admit in a frustrated tone. “I saw what she saw on the night of her death.”

“Hell, Henry, why didn’t you say that before?”

“Because it was personal.” ‘For both of us.’ I tack on silently, “I shouldn’t have seen—let alone experienced—it myself.”

Raziel rubs his jaw in thought, “Okay, fine.” He thankfully lets the topic slide, “But if you’re sure that’s the killer what’s getting our ghost’s panties all up in a twist?”

I cringe at the crassness of the statement. “Maybe you should ask our killer.”

I get a loud snort in response, “Yeah right. You think they’d let any random person off of the street to see an inmate. Especially one that’s on death row. There’s a whole lot of paperwork that goes with that stuff that could take months.”

I frown not expecting such a setback. In my time visiting an inmate was as simple as a few coins tossed into the right hands. “Then you could try her father. Maybe he might know more information about the matter?”

“And tell him what? That his ghost daughter was visiting my ghost tutor?”

I pause, “She did say that her father had been hiring psychics…”