Becca immediately put on the brakes, refusing to budge from beneath the chilly shade of the breezeway. “We aren’t allowed to go out here,” she balked, staring at the warm, sunny courtyard like it was the pit of a lava-filled volcano, and she was the hapless missionary I was about to sacrifice to the native gods.

“You are if you’re escorted by a staff member. And lucky you, I just happen to be a staff member.”

I pulled her off the smooth flagstone and onto the pebbled pathway that meandered through the courtyard’s many garden plots. She came blinking into the sunlight as cautiously as a mole person.

It might have been November, but in Carmel, that’s one of the most beautiful months of the year—which was why Jesse and I wanted to be married in November, only a year from now. An explosion of brightly colored flowers—milkweed, bougainvillea, azaleas, wisteria, and rhododendrons—lined the paths and even the rooftops of the breezeways and buildings surrounding the courtyard. The milkweed had attracted monarch butterflies, which flew in lazy circles around the yard like low-flying, drunk hang gliders.

Though the stucco walls were three feet thick, and the birds flitting across the clear blue sky overhead were calling noisily to one another, it was still possible to hear the organ music being played at morning mass over in the basilica.

“Sit,” I commanded Becca when we came to an ancient stone bench in a mossy alcove, not far from the fountain the girls were marauding. The bench, coincidentally, was beneath the feet of the Father Serra statue I’d so wrongfully been accused of decapitating.

Maybe this was why Becca looked more nervous than ever as she sat down. “I didn’t mean it about my stepmother. All she said was—”

“I don’t care what Kelly said about me.” I sat down beside her. “I want to know what really happened to Father Dominic. But first, I want to know what really happened to your friend Lucia Martinez.”

Becca stared at me as round-eyed as if I’d slapped her. “L-Lucia Martinez? Wh-who’s that?”

“Come on, Becca, don’t bullshit me.” I’d had about as much as I could take from this girl. “You know exactly who Lucia is. You like the game Ghost Mediator? Well, your old friend Lucia’s ghost has been following you around for years. You want to know how I know that? Because I’m a real-life mediator, and it’s my job to send her to the next level.”

Becca stared at me expressionlessly for several seconds from behind the lenses of her glasses.

Then she burst into tears.

veintiuno

Great. Just great. You would think after all these years I’d have figured out how to deliver this kind of news without causing young girls to burst into tears.

But no.

It was a good thing Jesse wasn’t around. He was infinitely more tender and patient than I was, and would probably have given this particular mediation one out of five stars based on my swearing alone.

I pulled a minipack of tissues from my messenger bag and passed it to Becca. A mediator needs to be prepared for any emergency.

“Becca,” I said, glad for the soothing sounds of the worshippers singing hymns over in the basilica, since they would hopefully keep my voice—and Becca’s sobs—from carrying over to the girls. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be quite so . . . blunt. I know this is probably very new to you. But Lucia’s ghost really has been following you around for years, probably since the day she died.”

Becca took a tissue and dabbed at her streaming eyes with trembling fingers. Her breath came in short, hiccupy sobs.

“How . . . how can that even be possible?” she asked. “Lucia? Here?” She glanced furtively around the courtyard, as if expecting a ghoul to leap out from behind a nearby rhododendron. “I don’t believe you. This is some kind of trick.”

“It’s not a trick, and she’s not there. She’s over by the fountain, playing with my nieces. You can’t see her. But trust me, she’s there. She’s dressed in riding clothes and carrying a stuffed horse.”

Becca inhaled sharply. Something I’d said had struck a chord. I wasn’t sure what, but she was squinting toward the fountain. “How come you can see her but I can’t?”

“It’s a genetic thing. But trust me, she’s there. She’s the one who tore up the office the other day.”

Becca was so startled she stopped crying. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me. That was no earthquake. Lucia didn’t like it when I tried to touch you, even though I was only trying to help.” Becca’s eyes, behind the lenses of her glasses, had gone as bright and shiny as the coins the girls were fishing from the fountain and holding toward the sun. “What can you tell me about how Lucia died? She hasn’t exactly been illuminating on the subject. She seems to be mostly concerned about you.”

For the first time since I’d met her, Becca smiled—really smiled, with her whole face. It transformed her, turning her from an average-looking girl to a very much above-average, almost startlingly attractive girl.

“I can’t believe she’s worrying about me. I don’t understand why, since she’s the one—” Becca broke off. The smile hadn’t lasted long.

“Yes, I know, Becca,” I said, gently. “She’s the one who died. But the dead aren’t always known for their logical reasoning skills. If they were, I’d be out of a job. Why is Lucia so worried about you, especially now, so many years after her death?”

“I don’t know,” Becca said, her eyes filling once more with tears. She reached up to clutch her horse pendant. “Or . . . or maybe I do. What happened to her was my fault.”

“Your fault? How was it your fault? I know you went to school together, but you were little when—”

“She died because of me,” Becca said, the sides of her mouth trembling. “That’s why I wear this necklace. To remind me that it’s my fault she’s dead, and that I . . . that I have to live life for the both of us. She was my best friend.”

“Okay,” I said skeptically. “But you told me the other day that you hate yourself. If you really want to live life for Lucia, you might want to start by living it for yourself.”

Her fuzzy eyebrows furrowed. “I am living life for myself.”