The First Ghost. Marguerite Butler

      I tried to sneak into the office. It was lunchtime, and I figured Cruella would be power-lunching somewhere or getting her nails manicured.

      Melissa sat at her desk. She has these enormous dark eyes that always look startled, which normally makes her hard to read, but today her expression was pure annoyance. “Finally,” she whispered. “Where have you been?”

      “The hospital,” I whispered back. “Thanks for visiting.”

      She blinked like the idea had never occurred to her. I had a dim idea there might be flowers or balloons or even a card waiting for me on my desk, but instead there was a terse note. See me. Ginger.

      Fabulous.

      Melissa leaned closer. “Cruella has been on a real tear. She missed an appointment yesterday.”

      I groaned. “Was it an important client?”

      “Worse. Her hairdresser. Now Mr. Illyvich says he can’t work her in for another whole week. She’s terrified he’s going to butcher her color in revenge for being stood up.”

      Cruella and her stylist have some sort of weird love-hate thing going on. If Mr. Illyvich was pissed at her, she would take it out on me. Never mind that she was a grown woman who should be expected to keep up with her own appointments for a couple of frigging days. The Mr. Illyvich appointment had been on her calendar for two months.

      I took a deep breath. Either Cruella wanted to rant and spew and load me up with work or she wanted to fire me. Either way it was going to be unpleasant.

      I tried to skulk past Cruella’s door, but her head poked out. “There you are. In my office. Now.” I don’t enjoy being talked to like a wayward child, but I gritted my teeth. Better to get it over with.

      “Have a seat.” Ginger swept her hand toward the chenille love seat and settled herself in her leather chair. She steepled her fingers and looked over them at me. “We have a problem, Portia.”

      “And what sort of problem would that be, Ginger?” My tone was a little more aggressive than I’d intended.

      She raised one overly tweezed eyebrow. “I’m talking about dereliction of duty.”

      What the fuck? I’m in the army now? I kept my tone measured and calm. “Ginger, I was hurt.”

      “Team players play hurt.”

      I was careful not to roll my eyes. Cruella’s father had been a football coach, and she was prone to inappropriate football metaphors. “I was in the hospital.”

      “Do you see my hair? Do you?” It looked the same as always. For all the money she spent on it, no one had hair that shade of red. Burgundy is a wine, not a hair color. “I heard about Illyvich,” I said soothingly.

      “Gregor Illyvich is considering dropping me from his client list. Do you know what that means? Honestly, Portia! I never thought you would be so irresponsible. It isn’t just the hair. You’ve really put this office behind. We have interrogatories due, and Mr. Butcher keeps calling about his demand letter. I can’t do anything on his case until Skeevick turns down his offer.”

      “I had a head injury, Ginger. It’s not like I went to the Bahamas.”

      She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m going to have to let you go.”

      “What? You can’t do that.” I was sure when she’d started the lecture that she was choosing shame over termination. What was the point of both? “You can’t fire me for being hurt!”

      “Don’t shout at me.” She leaned backward in her chair. I realized I was halfway across her desk. “I’ve already buzzed security.” Her eyes bugged, reminding me of Billy.

      I allowed myself a little smile. “You can’t fire someone for being hurt.” I leaned in closer and lowered my voice. “I’ll sue.”

      She fumbled under the desk, looking for her panic button. It was on the floor. She needed to stomp on it, not press it, but I wasn’t about to tell her. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Where were you this morning? You weren’t in the hospital then.”

      She was right, but I had the trump card and we both knew it. “I returned to work over doctor’s advice based on a conversation with you. I want a month’s pay.”

      “A month? You’re crazy. Go ahead and sue. You’ll never win.”

      “It isn’t about winning in court. That isn’t where cases are won and lost. Isn’t that what you always say?”

      “You’ll embarrass yourself.” She tossed her head, which was hard to do since she was leaning back in her chair as I loomed over her. Sometimes it’s good to be tall.

      “I don’t think I’ll be the one embarrassed, Ginger. Your colleagues will love to hear what I have to say.”

      She knew it was true. She had gossiped indiscriminately in front of me. Even worse, I knew everything about her: from her true hair color to which parts of her body got waxed. I made all her appointments.

      She pursed her lips. “One month’s pay.”

      “And a good reference for my next job.”

      “I can’t believe it,” she said. “After all I’ve done for you.”

      * * * *

      By the time I made it to the DART station, my victorious feeling had faded. I had a check for a month’s wages and a box with the contents of my desk. I also had a ghost and her dog crashing at my place. I took a deep breath. I could do this. I got myself this job, and I could find another. I would get the ghost to cross over, find some place for the dog to live, get myself another job, and reclaim a normal life, one without dead people and their problems.

      It’s weird how creepy an empty train is when you’re used to the crush of rush hour. There were a few important-looking business types with briefcases and one or two retirees, but the station was largely deserted. I thought I would have the car all to myself, but an old man with hound-dog eyes and a newspaper tucked under his arm followed me in.

      An entirely empty car and he had to sit right next to me. Even worse, he reached in a back pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I looked pointedly at the No Smoking sign. He gave a little smile and took one out, but he didn’t light it.

      I got up and moved. If he was a mugger, this was his unlucky day. He looked small and weak. I was tall and pissed. I tried to ignore him, but he half-turned and leaned back, looking at me mournfully as the train lurched forward.

      “What is your problem?” I snapped.

      “We’ve got to talk, doll,” he said in Hephzibah’s voice.

      “Yow!” I jumped to my feet and toppled over. I scrambled back up into the seat.

      “It’s just me,” Hephzibah said. “Don’t freak.”

      “But...but...”