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“I’m very sympathetic to Mrs. Kilmer’s situation,” Cirillo says as we head back upstairs. “But her son has a key to this house, and that’s very troubling. I had a younger brother who suffered from addiction. Thankfully, he pulled through, but there was a time when we couldn’t leave him alone in the house, and not just because we feared an overdose. He stole everything he could get his hands on.”

“And we’re leaving laptops just lying about,” I say.

“Not only that but… We don’t know this young man and how desperate he is. We could be in danger of losing more than valuable but replaceable tech.”

“Are you saying we should leave?” Shania sneaks a look my way.“Obviously, it’s up to Nicola, but I’m willing to take whatever precautions are necessary.”

“Precautions should be enough,” Cirillo says. “We’ll speak to Mrs. Kilmer and be compassionate but firm. We’ll lock the doors and put something behind them to alert us to entry. We’ll check all the windows to be sure they are closed and locked. Nicola and Shania should share a room, if that’s all right with them.”

I glance at Shania, who nods. She’s obviously eager to stay. We’re close to getting proof of an afterlife, and that’s what she’s here for.

“Can anyone think of other steps we can take?” Cirillo asks.

“I’ll think on it,” Jin says. “I’m really hoping, though, that a talk with Mrs. Kilmer will do the trick.”

“It should.”

After my nebulizer therapy, Jin and I head out to speak to Mrs. Kilmer. We’d debated driving, but the bugs seem better today, and I really could use a walk. I wear my vest to get that over with.

As we quick-march down the road, I swat at bugs and growl under my breath. “I thought they were better.”

“They are,” Jin says. “Doesn’t mean the stragglers are any less annoying.”

I pull up the hood on my sweater and cinch it tight as the bugs drift around us. Individually, they don’t make any audible noise. They just fly into us and drift around us.

“I’m not sure what I’m more annoyed with,” I say. “The bugs themselves? Or the fact that I’m letting something so harmless get on my nerves.”

“And there, Nic, you have a metaphor for life.” Jin swats at insects. “Or maybe it’s a simile? A symbol? I’m a science guy. The point is that it’s easy to let the little things bother us, even when they’re harmless. One or two minor annoyances pass with barely a ripple, but when they’re nonstop, like these damn bugs, it’s aconstant irritation that doesn’t let us relax. Then we get annoyed with ourselves for not toughing it out. Like we get annoyed with ourselves for being conned into hiring spiritualists to contact our dead husbands.”

“That was the worst segue ever.”

He shrugs. “I take them where I can get them. You’re angry with yourself for not toughing out the bugs. You’re angry with yourself for not moving faster through the stages of grief. You’re angry with yourself for being conned by charlatans who take advantage of that grief. Stop being so hard on yourself. The bugs annoy you. Accept it. Accept that you’ll experience grief your own way, and that the ones to blame for preying on that are the predators.”

“I don’t like being prey,” I mutter.

He puts an arm around my shoulders in a quick squeeze. “I know.”

We walk past a row of maples, and Mrs. Kilmer’s little house appears ahead.

“Do you think Dr. Cirillo is preying on me?” I ask.

Jin shakes his head. “No. I don’t consider his field hard science, but he isn’t a quack running home experiments. He’s the closest thing to legitimate you can get. Or, at least, that was my impression when we hired him.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He shrugs. “I’m still not ready to believe anyone can speak to the dead but . . I heard Anton’s laugh the other night, Nic. I can tell you’ve had more happen, including things you aren’t ready to discuss with me. We’re on the cusp of something here. A breakthrough. An answer. If that answer is ultimately silence, then thatisan answer. If Dr. Cirillo can’t summon Anton, then I don’t think Anton can be summoned.”

Jin looks over at me. “How areyoufeeling about it?”

I lean my head to touch briefly on his shoulder. “Same. I’m not ready to accept what I’m experiencing as proof, but I feel that either we’re going to get that proof or the lack of it will answer my question.That doesn’t mean Anton isn’t somewhere, just that he can’t communicate with me.”

The Kilmer house is tiny compared to Eventide Manor. I’d peg it at mid-twentieth century, a little brick bungalow with a fence surrounding a yard that would be massive in the city. The gardens are immaculate and already bursting with flowering annuals. More flowers hang from baskets. In the middle of the front yard, there’s a chair under a tree, with a little table that begs for a book and a glass of lemonade.

The driveway is empty, but there’s a garage that I’m hoping holds Mrs. Kilmer’s vehicle, meaning she’s at home. As we head up the drive, I realize that I don’t know whether there’s a Mr. Kilmer. I get the impression there isn’t and hasn’t been in a very long time. Widowhood? Divorce? Or just never a “Mr.” Kilmer in the picture?

Until she mentioned a son, I would have guessed she lived alone. I’d had multiple conversations with the woman when Anton and I were here last time, and yet all I knew for sure was that she was an excellent cook.

The front door is teal blue, like the garage door. A burst of cheerful color against the gray brick, bolder than I could have expected from the woman I’ve met. There’s an antique door knocker, polished bright.