Chapter 3 Ghostly Ball Under Neon Lights

Morning arrived with a splitting headache and the unwelcome realization that I had a ghost sitting at my kitchen table, somehow managing to flip through yesterday's newspaper without touching it.

"How are you doing that?" I asked, shuffling to the coffeepot.

Gabriel glanced up. "Concentration. I've been practicing all night. If I focus enough, I can manipulate small objects. The lighter they are, the easier."

"You've been here all night?" I poured coffee with hands that trembled slightly from last night's bourbon.

"Where else would I go?" he replied reasonably. "Besides, ghosts don't sleep."

I sipped my coffee and grimaced. "That sounds terrible."

"It gives me time to think." He gestured to the newspaper. "Meridian Pharmaceuticals is hosting a charity gala tonight at the Westmore Hotel. All of high society will be there, including the board of directors."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "That's perfect! We can investigate directly."

"We?" Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "You'll need an invitation."

"Please," I scoffed. "I'm a reporter. Getting into places I don't belong is a specialty."

"And what am I supposed to do? Float around looking ominous?"

"Actually," I said, a plan forming, "that's exactly what you'll do. I'll work the room, asking questions, while you eavesdrop on private conversations and search for documents."

Gabriel looked impressed despite himself. "Not bad, Miss Grey."

"I have my moments, Detective."

The Westmore was one of the city's grandest hotels, its ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers and gilt moldings. I'd spent a significant portion of my savings on a midnight blue evening gown that hugged my figure before flaring elegantly at the knees. My press credentials, carefully forged to look like an invitation, got me through the door.

"You clean up nicely," Gabriel commented as we entered the opulent space. His transparent form moved beside me, drawing no attention from the glittering crowd.

"Focus, Detective," I murmured, but I couldn't help feeling pleased.

The ballroom was filled with the city's elite, champagne flowing freely despite Prohibition. A jazz band played in the corner while couples danced and wealthy businessmen made deals in hushed voices.

"There," Gabriel pointed to a distinguished gray-haired man surrounded by admirers. "That's Victor Holloway, Meridian's CEO."

"How do you know?"

"His picture was in the newspaper article. Also," he added with a frown, "I think I... knew him. Before."

"A memory?"

"More like an impression. I don't trust him."

I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter. "Let's mingle. You start by the executive group, I'll work my way toward Holloway."

Gabriel nodded and drifted away, passing straight through a dancing couple who shivered involuntarily.

For an hour, I played the part of a socialite, laughing at dull jokes and feigning interest in stock prices while collecting snippets of useful information. Meridian was preparing for a major product launch, something revolutionary in the field of psychiatric treatment. The wealthy investors spoke of "changing the face of medicine" and "unprecedented returns."

I was making my way toward Holloway when a hand touched my elbow. I turned to find a handsome man in an impeccably tailored tuxedo.

"I don't believe we've met," he said, his voice cultured and smooth. "James Westbrook, Meridian's Research Director."

"Eleanor Foster," I lied, using my standard alias. "Charmed."

"Would you care to dance, Miss Foster?"

Before I could respond, Gabriel materialized beside me, his expression dark. "Don't trust him," he warned. "I overheard him discussing 'disposal protocols' with another executive."

I smiled at Westbrook, ignoring Gabriel's warning. A dance would give me the perfect opportunity to question him.

"I'd be delighted," I said, placing my hand in his.

As Westbrook led me to the dance floor, I caught a glimpse of Gabriel's scowl. The band struck up a waltz, and Westbrook proved to be an excellent dancer, guiding me effortlessly across the floor.

"What brings you to our little gathering, Miss Foster?" he asked, his hand warm against my back.

"Interest in philanthropic opportunities," I replied smoothly. "I've heard remarkable things about Meridian's work."

"We're on the cusp of a breakthrough that will revolutionize mental healthcare," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Treatments for conditions previously thought untreatable."

"How fascinating," I murmured. "What sort of treatments?"

Before he could answer, a loud crash came from across the ballroom. One of the massive chandeliers was swinging violently, its crystals tinkling like wind chimes in a hurricane. Several guests gasped and stepped back.

I spotted Gabriel standing directly beneath it, his spectral hand raised. His eyes met mine across the room, a clear message in them: Get away from him.

"How strange," Westbrook said, his grip on my waist tightening slightly. "The hotel staff should check those fixtures."

"Indeed," I agreed, forcing myself to remain calm. "You were saying about your treatments?"

His eyes, which had been warm, suddenly seemed calculating. "You ask a lot of questions, Miss Foster."

"Professional curiosity. I—"

"You're not on the guest list," he interrupted softly. "I checked personally."

My heart raced, but I kept my expression neutral. "There must be some mistake."

"I don't think so." His fingers dug into my back. "Who are you really, Miss Foster? Or should I say, Miss Grey of the Tribune?"

Before I could formulate a response, the chandelier directly above us gave an ominous creak. Westbrook looked up just as one of the crystal pendants broke free, landing with precision on his polished shoe.

He released me with a startled curse, and I took the opportunity to step back.

"Excuse me," I said coolly. "I need some air."

I made my way toward the terrace doors, heart pounding. Gabriel materialized beside me as I stepped into the cool night air.

"We need to leave," he said urgently. "Westbrook is having the exits watched."

"How do you know?"

"I followed him after your dance. He spoke to security. They're looking for a woman in a blue dress."

I glanced around the empty terrace. "There must be a service entrance."

Gabriel pointed to a staircase leading down to the gardens. "That way. I checked while you were dancing with that snake."

"Were you jealous, Detective?" I couldn't resist asking as we hurried down the stairs.

"I was concerned," he corrected stiffly. "Westbrook is dangerous. I found files in his office upstairs—records of experimental treatments with fatal outcomes. They're using people as lab rats, Viv."

The use of my nickname again sent an unexpected warmth through me, despite the dire circumstances.

We made it through the gardens and out to the street, where I hailed a taxi. Only when we were safely inside did I let out the breath I'd been holding.

"That was close," I said, giving the driver my address.

"Too close," Gabriel agreed, his form seeming more transparent than usual. "Using your abilities on that many objects drained me."

I studied him with concern. "Will you... fade away?"

"No," he assured me, though he looked uncertain. "I just need to rest, whatever that means for a ghost."

Back at my apartment, I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the sofa. Gabriel settled into the armchair opposite me, his form gradually becoming more distinct.

"So Meridian is experimenting on people," I said, thinking aloud. "And Blackwood was connected to them somehow."

"As was I," Gabriel added quietly.

I sat up. "You remember something?"

"Fragments. I was investigating Meridian before I died. Something about missing persons, orphanages..."

"Orphanages?" I repeated, a chill running down my spine.

"Places where people wouldn't be missed," he explained grimly. "Perfect for human experimentation."

I stood and went to my desk, pulling out a city map. "There are seven orphanages in the city. If Meridian is taking people from them, there should be a pattern of disappearances."

"We'll check tomorrow," Gabriel said, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "You need sleep."

"I need to write this story," I countered, already reaching for my typewriter.

"With what proof? Overheard conversations at a party you crashed? The word of a ghost no one else can see?" He shook his head. "We need evidence, Viv. Real evidence."

I knew he was right, but frustration still burned in my chest. "Fine. Tomorrow we investigate the orphanages."

"Thank you," he said, looking relieved. "I'd hate to see you discredited because of me."

His concern touched me more than I wanted to admit. "I've been chasing dangerous stories since before you died, Detective. I can handle myself."

"I don't doubt it," he replied with a small smile.

As I prepared for bed, I caught sight of my reflection in the vanity mirror—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, hair falling loose from its pins. I looked alive in a way I hadn't in years.

An idea struck me. I took my lipstick and carefully traced an outline on the mirror's surface, following the contours of Gabriel's face from memory.

When I emerged from the bathroom, he was standing by the window, gazing out at the city lights.

"I left something for you in the bathroom," I said casually, climbing into bed.

He gave me a curious look before drifting through the bathroom door. A moment later, I heard what might have been a soft laugh.

When he reappeared, his expression was unguarded, almost tender. "Why did you do that?"

I shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. "I thought... at least this way, you could see yourself."

Gabriel moved to the side of my bed, his spectral form glowing softly in the darkness. "Thank you, Viv."

"Don't mention it," I mumbled, pulling the covers higher. "Goodnight, Detective."

"Goodnight," he replied softly.

As I drifted off to sleep, I could have sworn I felt the ghost of a touch brush against my hair, like a breeze from nowhere.

That night, I dreamed of dancing with a man whose hands I couldn't feel but whose eyes I knew better than my own.