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“She wants to make contact even more than I do.”

Both of us blinkered by our losses. Smart people doing things that our brains know are foolish, but when you’re lost in the darkness of grief, the light of emotion is the one that guides you.

“Okay,” I say. “So what’s the solution? Keep blowing money on mediums until I get the answer I’m looking for? I’m already that old definition of insanity—doing the same damn thing over and over and expecting a different result.”

“Which is why we’re suggesting one last attempt,” Libby says. “You agree to try one more time andonlyone more time, and we do it right. We find a good spiritualist who might actually be legit. We take every step to do this exactly right.”

We’re talking about a séance, not a dinner party. You can’t plan something like that “exactly right” any more than you can plan a unicorn hunt exactly right.

Except this isn’t like a unicorn hunt, because I don’t believe in unicorns. I might not want to believe in ghosts either—and some days I don’t, convinced I’d misinterpreted everything that happened twenty-two years ago. But deep down, I know there is something out there, and if it’s contacted, things can go horribly, unspeakably wrong. Only this is Anton, who would never hurt me.

That voice from earlier whispers up from my memory.

Janica. Careful.

“Nic?” Jin says.

I shake myself. I imagined it. Imagined Anton warning me that I was being tricked because deep down, I already knew it.

I look from Jin to Libby. I don’t think either of them believes in ghosts. Hell, they never thought I would either, and if asked, they’d say it’s my grief opening me up to the possibility. I need ghosts to exist, so I believe they do.

Libby and Jin want to do this for me. Not because they really think I can contact Anton but because they know I need to try. That is friendship, and I am grateful for theirs, and even if a séance isn’t the kind of thing you can do “exactly right,” I need to let them try because I need to end this.

One last time. A time where I haven’t half-assed it, allowing a medium to convince me to hire them rather than actually finding one I consider legitimate.

Get everything right. Then, when it fails, I can’t seize on an oversight as an excuse to try again.

“And Keith?” I say.

Jin straightens. “We don’t tell him. Libby and I will arrange everything. You can help if you like, but as far as Keith knows, we’re arranging a much-needed getaway for the three of us. All he has to do is take the kids for a few days.”

“So we lie to him? How’s that going to make me less ashamed of what I’m doing?”

They glance at each other.

“Nic’s right,” Libby murmurs. She looks at me. “What do you suggest?”

“I tell him I’m doing this. You guys don’t need to get involved. I say it’s like having one last blowout party before embracing sobriety. He might not like it, but it’s my life and my money.”

Jin shakes his head. “No,wetell himwe’redoing this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will. He’ll understand, eventually, and he’d rather we were there with you.” He looks from me to Libby. “Settled then?”

We nod.

Jin takes out his phone. “So where do we start?”

When someone knocks on my condo door that evening, I don’t need to check through the peephole. There are a very limited number of people with my downstairs access code, and I know exactly which one this is.

I open the door. Keith stands there, looking like he rolled out of bed still dressed in his Bay Street banking exec suit. His top button is undone, his tie is askew, his hair is rumpled. Is it possible for a face to be rumpled, too? Then his is.

He looks like he’s been up for three nights straight, and I’d feel terrible about that, if my brother hasn’t looked like he missed a night of sleep since he was a teenager. That’s just Keith, always slightly tired, slightly disheveled, and when he sees me, he sighs and leans on the doorframe, as if I’m responsible for his exhaustion. Which, to be fair, is usually accurate.

I used to envy Keith. Despite that perpetually tired look, he’s obnoxiously healthy. He doesn’t need to spend two hours a day in treatment for a chronic illness. He doesn’t need to take pills beforehe eats. He didn’t grow up needing to be hospitalized for infections once a year.

What I realize now is that it’s not easy to be the healthy sibling of a chronically ill child. My parents were very careful to give Keith an equal share of their attention, but of course, there were the little things they didn’t consider, the responsibilities they gave him from a young age.