Prologue: The Dead Designer

Fairhope buzzed with summertime energy. Children danced through sprinklers as their mothers watched from porches, wine glasses in hand. A few brave souls ventured out with dogs on leashes or scrubbed their cars in sun-drenched driveways.

I rounded the corner of Vine Street, turned right onto Clover, and looped back toward my house on Rosewood Avenue. My legs burned with each reluctant step of the two-mile run. Sweat trickled down my spine and soaked through my hair. Though summer had just arrived, the forecast promised temperatures in the upper nineties all week. And in Alabama, humidity was a silent menace—making early mornings and late evenings the only tolerable windows for a run.

When I reached my front porch, I lingered in the shade, stretching my tired muscles. I'd run track in high school, but I was out of shape and out of practice; resuming weekly runs was a personal resolution of mine—and so far, it was one I wasn't overly keen about. Once my heart rate slowed, I unlocked the front door and sighed at the blissful kiss of central air conditioning. The sweat on my skin chilled as I gulped down two cold glasses of water and made my way to the shower.

It was Friday morning, and I had the day off. I worked at an independent bookstore called Reed’s Reads, which wasowned and operated by my friend (and very ex-boyfriend), Reed Berringer. Reed and I had dated briefly in college before discovering that we were better as friends. He was now happily married to Lauren Whitman-Berringer, also known as the former ‘Miss Alabama’. They were expecting their first child together.

I hummed contentedly as I kicked off my shoes by the bedroom door and peeled the damp socks from my feet. The thought of a cool shower was blissful—anything to rinse away the sticky sheen clinging to my skin. In the bedroom, I paused to strip off my yoga pants and worn-out T-shirt, tossing them into the hamper with a satisfying thud.

Completely naked in the doorway of my master bathroom, I froze. A man I’d never seen in my life sat in my bathroom, his absurdly long, hairy legs sprawled before him. He wore Bermuda shorts that hit just above the knee, a V-neck T-shirt patterned with a chaotic mix of stripes across the chest, and brown suede sandals. His flawless skin was smooth as silk and sun-kissed to perfection. His profile could’ve been carved from marble—straight nose, chiseled chin, and an honest-to-goodness cleft that looked suspiciously surgical. A fine dusting of facial hair framed his jaw, trimmed with precision, and his chestnut hair fell to his shoulders in a layered shag.

He spritzed himself with one of my expensive perfumes and sniffed. His face contorted in distaste. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the next bottle, unscrewed the cap, and inhaled deeply. This time, his eyebrows lifted in approval. He nodded, satisfied. Then he turned to inspect my bathrobe, which hung from a hook near the towel rack. That’s when he saw me—and froze like a deer in headlights. His wide brown eyes scanned me, while mine tried to make sense of his towering height. He scrambled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall near the tub.

He screamed first, clutching the shower curtain in panic and yanking the whole thing down as he toppled backward into the bathtub. I screamed next, lunging for the nearest weapon I could find: a hair dryer, which I brandished like a sword.

That was the day I met my ghost friend, Thurston Vaughn.