What was it my mother had said on the phone about Paul? Oh, right: He was one of those kids who always received plenty of money from his family, but no love or attention.

How different was that from being a ghost, by Jesse’s definition, someone who kept reaching out to people and having those people not be able to see or hear him?

I had way too many ghosts in my life right now, clamoring for my attention. For the first time, I wasn’t sure I could handle them all on my own. One of the things that had become clear in my sessions with Dr. Jo was that I “compartmentalized” too much and “wasn’t open” about whatever “trauma” it was I’d experienced in my past. This, she felt, was holding me back, and was probably causing my insomnia.

Of course, I had good reason not to reveal my past to Dr. Jo.

But if Jesse was going to open up to me about his past, maybe I needed to be more honest with him about mine. Not just my past, but about the danger he was in . . . that we were both in, if Paul succeeded in his plan.

“Jesse,” I said, reaching for his hand. “I have something I think I need to tell you.”

He looked concerned. “What is it, querida?”

“I was going to tell you before, but I was worried you’d get mad.”

“I could never get mad at you.”

I laughed. “That’s actually a good one.”

Naturally, he got mad. “Susannah, you never make me angry. Sometimes the things you do make me angry—well, annoyed—because you don’t always seem to think things through before you—”

“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. I haven’t even told you what it is, and you’re already mad.”

Jesse’s dark eyebrows came rushing together. “I didn’t say I was mad. I said I was annoyed. You’re annoying me by telling me how I’m going to feel. You’re a very perceptive woman, Susannah, but you don’t live inside my head, so you can’t tell me what I’m going to feel.”

I didn’t like how this was going. I especially didn’t like the little muscle I saw begin to leap in his jaw, visible even in the darkness of the yard.

“Let’s just drop it, okay?”

“Susannah, you can’t just—”

I heard the scrape of a screen door.

“Suze? Jesse?” Debbie’s voice called out to us from the back porch. She was struggling to pull her shirt back on. So now I knew why it had taken her and Brad so long to check on us: they’d made up from their fight, probably all over the kitchen floor. “What are you guys doing out here? What was Max barking at before?”

I pulled my hand from Jesse’s, a surge of relief flooding through me. I don’t think I’d ever been so grateful to see Debbie before in my life.

Screw Dr. Jo. Screw Paul. Screw ancient Egyptian curses and bloggers who wouldn’t call me back. I’d handle this one on my own. Some secrets were better off staying secret.

“Nothing’s wrong, Debbie,” I called to her. “There was just a . . . a raccoon in the playhouse. Max scared him off.”

“A raccoon?” Brad joined his wife on the back porch, sounding excited. “Which way did he go? Hold on, let me get my rifle.”

Oh, God.

“Susannah,” Jesse said, catching my arm as I began striding back toward the house. “What is it? What were you going to tell me?”

“Seriously, forget it. It was nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Well, it was.”

Fortunately a childish voice called from the open window upstairs. “Mommy? What’s going on?”

“Oh, great.” Debbie sounded irritated. “Now the kids are up. Nothing, sweetie. Just a raccoon. Max chased it away. Go back to sleep.”

“Mommy.” Mopsy sounded drowsy, but upset. “It wasn’t a raccoon. It was Lucy. Max scared her. Don’t let Daddy shoot her.”

Looking up, I saw three small, dark silhouettes crowding one of the upstairs windows. I could dimly make out the girls’ faces as they stared down at us, their expressions concerned in the moonlight.

“Girls.” Debbie came down into the yard until she stood beneath the girls’ window. She’d done an amazing job of whipping her body back into shape after their delivery with both Pilates and a tummy tuck (paid for by her father, the Mercedes King), and she knew it. She liked to show off her great figure by wearing a lot of Spandex. She stood craning her neck to look up at the girls, a glass of barely touched wine in her hand. “You know perfectly well Lucy isn’t real. I’ve asked you repeatedly to quit making up stories about her. Now get back in bed, all of you.”

Mopsy ignored her mother, and shifted her appeal to me. “Aunt Suze, don’t let Max get Lucy. She’s our friend.”

I glanced at Jesse. I didn’t have to say anything out loud. He nodded and said, “I’ll get the dog.” He started after Max, who’d found his way back to the playhouse and was digging through the bougainvillea, where he’d apparently picked up the odor of something edible. Jesse hauled him out by his collar, though Max put up a struggle. “That’s enough for tonight, Max,” I heard Jesse saying to the dog. “Good boy.”

“Don’t worry, girls,” I said, crossing the yard until I stood beside their mother. I looked up at the three worried little faces, barely discernible in the moonlight. “Max can’t hurt Lucy, and neither can your dad. Lucy’s a ghost, and dogs and guns can’t hurt ghosts. Now do as your mother says, and go back to bed.”

“Okay, Aunt Suze,” the girls said in tones of bitter disappointment—not about their ghost friend, but about having to go back to bed. One by one, their little heads disappeared from the window.

When I turned back toward their mother, I found her staring at me in disbelief.

“What?” I asked.

“Suze,” Debbie said. “Lucy’s their invisible friend.”

“So?”

“She’s a figment of their imagination. You just called her a ghost. I know how popular that stupid video game Ghost Mediator is, and I’m fairly certain some of the parents in the girls’ class let their children play it, even though it’s age inappropriate and much too violent. But Brad and I are actively trying to discourage the girls from believing in the supernatural.”