Page 116

“Nicola didn’t do this,” Cirillo says.

My breath catches.

Dear God, is someone else here being reasonable? Hallelujah.

He continues, “Either way, though, it’s obvious why she wants us to call the police.”

Because there’s a dead body in the room? A mutilated corpse that was stuffed in a furnace? I have to bite my cheek against the wild urge to laugh at the absurdity.

“She wants us to call the police because she knows she’ll get away with it.”

“What?” I pivot to face him.

Cirillo says, “Anton was there for those teenage séances. He orchestrated the fake hauntings.”

Shania nods.

I fight against the surge of howling frustration and resume my role as the voice of reason. “Anton was only at the first one. His friends wanted to play a prank, and Anton went along to keep them in check. They were all at a movie when Heather died.”

“Are you sure?” Shania says. “That’s easy to fake. Just buy tickets. Maybe they were setting up an alibi.”

“Anton didn’t kill—”

“Even you suspected he might have been involved.”

My mouth opens in protest, but she barrels on. “I caught you looking up the case yesterday, and you confessed your fears. Dr. Cirillo thinks we have two entities—Anton and something dark. You’re afraid Antonisthe something dark.”

“I considered it… and dismissed it.”

“Conveniently,” she mutters, and part of me wants to laugh. Ever since I’ve known Shania, I’ve wanted her to be more assertive, more confident. Now she is… and it’s at my expense.

I can be hurt, but I understand. She read the details of my past online and then found Brodie murdered in a way that matches my friend’s horrible death. At the very least, I’m the kind of woman who marries a sociopath and tries to cover for him.

Cirillo nods. “All right then. That confirms my suspicion. Why is Nicola so eager to call the police?”

“Because there’s a fucking—” I begin.

“Because she knows she can get away with this,” he says again. “No one is going to believe a terminally ill widow sliced open this boy. And no one is certainly going to believe a ghost did it.”

“Why would Anton’s ghost do this?” I wave at Brodie. “Why would I do it? If there is something here and if it killed this boy, then it’s not my husband. I’m not even sure it’s human. Maybe it’s Roddy Silva—”

“Who?” Cirillo says.

“The other young man she mentioned,” Shania says. “The one who killed his girlfriend twenty years before her friend, Heather, died. Roddy Silva murdered his girlfriend in the same way and then took his own life and was found holding the knife. Like that.” She points at Brodie.

He wasn’t found like that, but again, I won’t nitpick.

“Also?” Shania says. “Roddy was Anton’s uncle.”

Cirillo rubs his temples. “So we’re dealing with generational homicidal madness. But Nicola? If you swear those ashes upstairs belongto Anton, then that is who I’ve summoned. Not this Uncle Roddy. Not some random ghost. Your husband. Anton. Who seems to have murdered this Heather girl when he was alive and now, as a ghost, he has murdered Brodie Kilmer.”

“You said ghosts can’t seriously harm the living.”

“Obviously I was wrong. Now whatever the story, you know the police won’t listen to nonsense about homicidal ghosts. That’s why you want to call them, and that’s why we are not letting you.”

“We have a dead body. A murdered young man—”

“And I can get his story. From him.”