“Excuse me, but I thought I made it abundantly clear that I am not attracted to Kelly Prescott’s husband. What does he even have to do with any of this?”

I realized I’d just violated my mediator-NCDP confidentiality. “Uh . . . nothing. Sorry. I’ve had way too much caffeine. How’s Adam anyway? Have you heard from him lately?” I always used my most soothing tone, the way we’d been instructed to in our counseling practicum (part of our required core, worth three whole units), when bringing up CeeCee’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.

“Adam?” CeeCee laughed bitterly before folding her arms and slumping down in her chair. “Whatever. We hooked up a few times over the summer, and he said he was going to try to stay in touch, but that things were going to be super busy for him at school this year. And yeah, I get that he just made Law Review, and yeah, I’m happy for him. But it’s like he’s forgotten I exist. He never returns my texts or even likes my status updates anymore.”

She looked as sad-eyed as a puppy in one of those late-night commercials asking for donations for starving and abandoned animals.

“Well, he’s a jerk,” I said loyally, even though Adam was my friend, too, and there are always two sides to the story. “Screw him. But honestly, Cee, you can’t expect a guy to like all your status updates. Come on. If we held everyone to that standard, there’d be no hookups ever in the history of mankind. You know Adam. He adores you—”

CeeCee shook her head at me sadly. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. You found the perfect guy. You and Jesse don’t have a problem in the world.”

“Uh,” I said. Where to begin? “That is so far from true, CeeCee, I can’t even—”

Fortunately, at that moment, my cell phone chimed.

“I have to take this,” I said, getting up from my seat. I’d hoped it was the blogger, Shahbaz, since I’d given him my cell number in my e-mail, but it was someone almost as important. “It’s my mom. But hold that thought, CeeCee. I want to talk about this. Your feelings matter to me. They really do.”

CeeCee rolled her eyes and reopened her laptop. “You think I can’t tell when you’re using your stupid thera-speak on me? Say hi to Mrs. S from me anyway.”

My mom had kept my dad’s name, instead of taking Andy’s, because Simon was the name under which she’d become known professionally. More important, it’s my last name. It rocks.

On the other hand, de Silva rocks, too. If I changed my name when Jesse and I get married—if we get married, which was beginning to look less and less likely unless I figured out a way to stop Paul—I won’t have to change my initials, as CeeCee had pointed out, just add a de.

“I’ll tell her,” I assured her. “And thanks in advance for anything you can do regarding the, uh, dead kid situation.”

CeeCee gave me the finger, which caused more than a few people in the café to raise their eyebrows. You don’t often see an albino in an asymmetrical haircut giving a hot brunette the finger.

I was going to have to do better than a mere thank-you. A generous gift card to CeeCee’s favorite online store was probably going to be in order to placate her for this one.

I stepped outside the café—CeeCee’s aunt Pru doesn’t allow cell phone use inside the Happy Medium since she’s convinced the electromagnetic radiation they give off interferes with her psychic flow and also kills bees—and answered my cell. “Mom?”

“Oh, Suzie.”

My mother is the only person in the world who’s allowed to call me Suzie. When I was a kid, I didn’t like the name Suzie because I was a tomboy who saw dead people, and didn’t think a name ending in a babyish ee sound suited me. Then as I got older, it reminded me too much of the old song “Suzie Q,” which my dad liked to sing to me. It’s a perfectly good song, except for the part where my dad was dead, and hearing it always makes me a little sad for what might have been.

“How are you, honey? Listen,” Mom went on, before I could reply. “This isn’t really the best time. We’re at a shoot. But you sounded so frantic in your message. I hope there isn’t anything wrong.”

“Well, there is. I need to—”

“If it’s about Thanksgiving, Andy and I are still planning to be there next week. We’re staying at the Carmel Inn downtown, by the beach. Debbie says she’s making dinner, but God only knows how that’s going to turn out—I’m sure you remember the fight she and Brad had last time—so I managed to get a table for all of us at Mariner’s, just in case. Oh, did Jesse get that grant he applied for?”

“Uh, no,” I said. “Not yet. I didn’t call about Thanksgiving. I’m wondering why you guys didn’t tell me that you sold the old house to Slater Industries?”

“Slater Industries?” Mom sounded confused. “We didn’t sell it to Slater Industries. We sold it to a man named Mitchell Blumenthal. He seems like a wonderful—”

“Mitchell Blumenthal is the president of Slater Properties, a subsidiary of Slater Industries, which is owned by Paul Slater,” I interrupted her. I’d looked it up earlier in the day, after my computer was fixed. “I got an e-mail from Paul today saying his company bought the place. He’s got it scheduled for demo later this month.”

“Oh, honey, that’s terrible.” My mother sounded genuinely upset. “Are you sure? The same Paul Slater from your class? I didn’t think you two kept in touch.”

“Yes, I’m sure, and we don’t.”

Through the phone, I could hear hammering. Last time I’d watched Andy’s home improvement show, he’d been refinishing a Craftsman cottage in Santa Monica, but they don’t show episodes in order so I never know where they really are unless Mom tells me.

“Oh, dear,” my mother said. “That sounds terribly . . . aggressive.”

“Yeah, you think?”

“You know, I always thought Paul had a little bit of a crush on you, Suzie. But you never had eyes for anyone but Jesse. You didn’t even apply to a single out-of-state college, which I still think was a mistake. Not that there’s anything wrong with Jesse; you know Andy and I adore him, but when I was your age—”

“Mom,” I said, in a tired voice. “Paul Slater is a dick hole.”