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“Grants are always a thing in academia.”

A faint smile. “Then you might understand what it means when I say I’m in danger of losing my funding. My expenses are low, but they exist, and since I’m hardly discovering a cure for CF, it’s difficult for me to get funding, and rightfully so.”

“Okay.”

“If I’m excited about what I have here, it’s because success would help me secure funding.”

“You should have told me that.”

“It will still be anonymous data, Nicola. The person you heard me talking to is the department head, who is also a friend and supporter. He knows nothing specific about you or your husband.”

“I mean that if you need funding, and success here would help you secure it, then you aren’t as unbiased as I needed you to be.”

“I am.” He meets my gaze. “Because I’m a scientist and, yes, there is always a bias toward proving what we set out to prove, but in a field like mine, the worst thing I could do is inflate the data. There are professors in my own department looking for an excuse to discredit me. They consider me an embarrassment to the college. I’m excited because the most I expected was possible signs of contact, and I have much more.”

“A malevolent spirit.”

He stops short, as if just realizing I’d heard that.

I continue, “You said it wasn’t a second ghost.”

“I said it wasn’t an ordinary ghost, meaning we didn’t accidentally summon some ancestor of Anton’s who died in this house and wants us to pass on a message. When you think of contacting someone like Anton, that is a ghost. When you think of a haunting, that is what I call a spirit. The difference is twofold. One, the intent—whether to communicate or to frighten. Two, whether it has been summoned… or comes of its own accord.”

“So you think Anton is here as a ghost, but there’s a malevolent spirit, too, which your department head suggested could also be Anton.”

He makes a face and gives a dismissive wave. “It’s not.”

I want to pursue that, but I don’t dare speak the words. They’re a betrayal of my husband. Whatever “dark spirit” is here, it’s not Anton. It can’t be.

Can’t it?

“Tell me about the Moorehouse case,” I say.

He sighs.

“Since you used a name, I presumetheydidn’t require anonymity,” I add.

I get a sour look for that, but he says, “No, they did not. Still, the family never went public, so there’s a limit to how much I’m willing to say, particularly now that you have their surname.”

I grudgingly respect that. He’s protecting his source even if they didn’t demand anonymity.

I take a seat and pass him his coffee and apple.

“Oh, so I’ve earned these now?” he says.

“Nah, it’s a bribe for the basics of the Moorehouse case. Also, the coffee is probably cold by now.”

“Well, so is this case.” He glances at me and sighs. “Fine, my sense of humor needs work.”

“Never said it, Doc.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then sips his coffee instead. He takes a bigger swig before putting it on the table. “The Moorehouse case was a sad one. The family lost their fifteen-year-old son in a shooting.”

Accidental shooting, my ass. Someone put that kid down like a rabid dog.

Cirillo continues, “The family became convinced that their son’s ghost was haunting them. They thought he was tormented because his killer hadn’t been caught, and so his ghost was acting out in desperation.”

“And…”