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His lips tighten a fraction, not enough for the other two to notice.

Too bad, asshole. My trauma isn’t your fucking meal ticket.

“We should have a ghost story,” Shania blurts.

Jin obviously struggles to hide a wince. “I’m not sure that—”

“No, it’s fine,” I say. Anything to distract me. “So, whose turn is it?”

Cirillo looks my way. “Nicola? I have a feeling you might have an old story for us.”

I go still. Very still. My gaze slowly pivots his way, but he’s just sitting there, watching me.

Does he know about Patrice?

“I have one,” Shania cuts in. “Let’s save Nic for tomorrow and the last séance. This one’s mine.”

Cirillo clears his throat. “Actually, I think we’ll skip tonight’s ghost story. Can we get yours tomorrow, Shania?”

Her look of disappointment has me opening my mouth to say no, let her tell her story. But everyone—Shania included—quickly gets into place, and Cirillo is beginning before I can object.

After a few words, I tune out Cirillo’s invocation and force myself to relax. If I self-sabotage, I’ll blame myself for it later. I’m really good at that.

Anton? If you’re out there, we need to talk.

Yes, I’m using that voice, the one you always said reminded you of when your parents said they needed to talk to you and you knew you’d done something.

But even when you knew it wasn’t going to be a happy conversation, you always talked to me. You never blew me off or made excuses.

Please. I’m sorry if anything I say upsets you, but understand that I need to know, and if the situation were reversed and you had questions, I would absolutely want you to ask.

I’m beating around the bush, and I hate that. Shania said to reach out and just ask, and Anton and I had the kind of relationship where I could do that. But imagine wanting to ask your spouse a vital and personal question and needing to do it before an audience.

Anton, I’m sorry. I just need to talk to you.

A sigh ripples past, and my eyes fly open. I look around. Everyone else seems to have their eyes shut, but Jin must be peeking because he glances over, frowning. My headshake tells him to ignore me.

When he shuts his eyes, I whisper as softly as I can, “Anton? We need to talk. Please.”

That sigh again, and in it, I feel a frisson of something like frustration. I open my eyes with my face turned away from Jin.

“Are you there?” I whisper.

That bristle-static sense of frustration increases. Then it vanishes, and everything goes silent, preternaturally silent, as if I’ve fallen into a vacuum. I’m straining so hard that when I hear something, I jump, and the table jumps with me.

“Nicola?” Cirillo says. “Did you experience something?”

I shake my head, and Cirillo’s voice firms, as if I’m a stubborn child.

“Nicola? If you’re experiencing anything—”

“I will tell you,” I snap. “Something startled me. Now I’d like to focus on figuring out what it is.”

He holds my gaze, every bit the professor with an uppity grad student. I only meet his stare. If he wants a battle of wills, I can give him one.

“All right,” he says. “I trust you will let us know when you hear something.”

“I will.”