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I shake my head and settle for strolling around the main floor, which conveniently loops from kitchen to dining area to living room to hall and back to the kitchen.

As I pass through the living room, I’m reminded of the séance. Everyone heard Anton’s voice. So why does something inside me balk at admitting it was Anton?

I don’t like what he’d said. Same as what Jin and I heard in the sitting room.

That he said he loved you and he was fine?

That’s exactly what all these damn con artists have given me—whispers of reassurance from my dead husband. If Anton had one chance to say something, he’d probably crack a bad joke… only to realize he should say something meaningful… just as he’s being yanked back to the afterlife.

Just when you thought you got rid of me, my ghost comes wafting back, like a bad smell. Er, shit! Love y—!

Could Cirillo be faking it for his funding application?

It really did sound like Anton, and the con-artist recordings never have. How could Cirillo do that?

“Nic.”

The voice sounds right beside me, and I jump, spilling my pop and nearly slipping on the mess. A whispered profanity follows.

“Anton?” I say.

“—need—stop—doing—”

The words are so faint I can only parse out those few.

“Anton?” I say. “If you’re telling me to stop rethinking Heather’s death, I can’t. I’m sorry. If you have something to say, say it. But you know damn well I’m going to keep thinking and I’m going to keep asking.”

“—please—not—”

A hand shoves me from behind, and I fly forward, tripping and stumbling before I catch myself.

“Anton?”

Something flashes in front of me. The barest image, stuttering, like a broken holograph.

Anton.

IseeAnton.

He’s gone before I can blink, but his image stays seared into my retinas. Anton with his eyes blazing in fury, his mouth open as he says something I can’t hear. Anton lunging toward me.

And now there is nothing. No image. No sound. The house has gone so silent the quiet hurts my ears.

“Anton?” My voice shakes. “What the hell is going on?”

That was him. You know it was.

But was it reallyhim? My Anton? I’d never seen that look in his eyes.

I rub my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I resolutely stride to the kitchen to get a cloth for the spilled pop.

As I clean up the floor, nothing else happens. No voices sound inside my head or outside of it. No shoves. No flickers.

I’m straightening when something clanks to my left. I spin and find myself looking at the basement door.

I pause, still half crouched, straining to listen. Another sound comes from below. A hollow metallic clunk.

I set down the sticky cloth and crack open the basement door.