I exhale hard and mutter, “Ghosts are high maintenance.”
Fiona chuckles as if that was especially insightful. “Indeed.”
Sitting back in my chair, I cross my arms over my chest and examine the letters again while sifting through everything in my head. “So, to recap, what I need to do is coax this spirit into accepting that he’s no longer alive and that he needs to go to the Other Side.”
“Just so,” says Claire, beaming.
“How exactly am I supposed to do that if I can’t tell him he’s dead?”
She and Fiona share a loaded glance, then she says softly, “If you give people light, they’ll find their own way.”
Irritated by her ambiguity, I say sourly, “Sure. I’ll just start shouting, “Go into the light!” at the ceiling at random intervals, how about that?”
“Trust your instincts,” says Fiona soothingly. “You’ll think of something. You’ve got the battle halfway won already just by discovering his identity.”
“But I don’t know anything about him! I only have his name!”
I point at his signature on one of the letters, that familiar scrawl.
Dante.
Fiona and Claire look at each other again in their weird twin-telepathy silence.
I say flatly, “I swear to God, if you guys don’t stop doing that, I’ll break something.”
“Why don’t you start by researching his name?” suggests Fiona.
After a moment, I admit grudgingly, “That’s not a bad idea. I was thinking I’d call my detective friend to get some information about Dante.” My laugh is small and weak. “That was before I knew he was a ghost, though.”
Claire repeats, “Detective friend?”
“The man from the police department who interviewed me after Michael’s accident.”
The overhead lights flicker. We all look up at the ceiling. A low electrical buzzing sound fills the room, then the lights go out. They come back on within seconds.
Claire murmurs, “Yes. You’re definitely headed in the right direction there.”
I lean in and whisper, “Is he just floating around eavesdropping on us? That is so creepy!”
“Kayla, focus.”
“Seriously, though, why did we even need a séance if this ghost can hear every word we speak?”
Gazing at me, Fiona muses, “He does seem rather omnipresent, doesn’t he?”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
Claire stares with narrowed eyes at the ceiling. I can almost see the gears turning in her head. Before I can ask her what’s she’s thinking, she says loudly, “Spirit, are you still with us?”
Down the hallway, a door slams shut with such force, it sets the open kitchen cabinets gently swinging.
I jump and gasp.
Fiona murmurs, “Oh, my.”
Claire grabs Fiona’s hand and says urgently, “I think we’re close.”
“Close to what?” I ask, confused and alarmed.
Claire orders, “Kayla, call that detective.”
“What, now? It’s after eight o’clock!”
“Maybe he works late. If not, leave him a message. Do you have a laptop I can borrow?”
“Well, yes, it’s in my office. But—”
Without waiting for me to complete the thought, Claire leaps up and hurries from the kitchen.
Staring after her, I say, “Fiona, what’s going on?”
She replies calmly, “I believe Claire thinks we’re on the cusp of a breakthrough.”
“Breakthrough?”
“In helping the spirit.”
I glance warily at the ceiling and the overhead lights, which are now flickering continuously. In a moment, Claire returns, carrying my laptop. She sets it on the table in front of me.
“Oh,” she says, pulling something from the pocket of her cardigan. “This was sitting on top of the computer lid. I thought it might be significant.”
She sets the object down on the table.
It’s Michael’s 1937 D-type buffalo nickel. The one I found under the tree where the man in the gray trench coat stood staring at me. The one I then found on the dashboard of my car outside Aidan’s.
The one I left tucked safely inside a drawer.
I lose my breath. My heart starts to pound. A savage gust of wind rattles the kitchen windows. Then through the ceiling drops a small metal object that lands with a clatter on the table beside the coin. It spins for a moment before settling into stillness, light glinting off its rounded edge.