The girls scrambled immediately from the fountain. I didn’t blame them. I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of the sister’s whiplike commands.

What I wasn’t so familiar with was what it was like to be her ally. But that’s what I was, suddenly. And I had no idea why.

But I liked it.

“Sister,” I said. “Thank you. And you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll take care of this thing with Father Francisco, whatever it—”

“Yes, you will. If I come back out here in five minutes and see any of you in this courtyard,” Sister Ernestine bellowed as she stalked away, “there will be no recess for any of you for the rest of the day. Is that understood?”

Wow. Nuns are tough. But maybe they have to be.

The girls, terrified, were scrambling to put on their shoes and socks. Lucia, who hadn’t bothered to remove her riding boots, glanced around for Becca. Not seeing her, she began to look upset . . . until she saw me, and also that Sister Ernestine was moving away, back toward the building in which the classrooms were held. Lucia raced toward me.

“Are you and Becca done talking?” she asked when she’d reached me.

“Um,” I said, looking after Sister Ernestine. “We are. It was a good chat. Becca told me how you died.”

I waited to see what kind of reaction it would have on her, but aside from a slight tightening of the already small mouth, there was none. I felt it was all right to go on.

“I’m going to try to find the man who hurt you, Lucia. I know you don’t want him to hurt Becca or anyone else. Do you have any idea where he is?”

Lucia thought about it. Finally she said, “In the woods. He threw me down into that creek. I hurt my head.” She blinked accusatorily at me. “He’s probably still in the woods if someone would just go look.”

If someone would just go look. Ghosts—especially if they were young when they died—often became confused about time, believing everything came to a standstill after their deaths. To Lucia, Becca would always be seven, and her killer was still at the place where she’d died, murdering her over and over again.

This was no way to exist.

But this was what Paul thought Jesse should be condemned to, for no other crime than that Jesse was keeping Paul from getting what he wanted—me.

“Okay, Lucia,” I said. “Thanks. I’m going to go find Jimmy, and see that he never bothers Becca again. Okay?”

I had no way of knowing this was true. I only hoped it was.

Lucia seemed to accept my assurance. She nodded solemnly. Her only focus, after all, was Becca. And, for whatever reason, the parentage of my stepnieces.

“Here.” Mopsy deposited a large handful of sopping-wet coins into my hands, which I’d stupidly held out when she said here. “I’d say that’s about forty-five dollars.”

“It’s not. One of you please take these away from me, they’re really disgusting.”

“Two hundred dollars?” Flopsy asked, cupping her hands so that I could transfer the coins to them.

“No,” I said. “Not even close.”

“Three hundred million dollars!” yelled Cotton-tail.

“No. Please stop shouting.”

“It’s seven dollars and sixty-five cents,” said Lucia. “I counted already.”

“Fine. Now go put them back. Later I’ll give you seven dollars and sixty-five cents—if you can figure out how to divide it up among yourselves, which I sincerely doubt.”

The sisters groaned, but I overheard them grudgingly agree it was the right thing to do as Lucia steered them back toward the fountain. “Because,” the little ghost reminded them sternly, “it’s a sin to steal people’s wishes.”

It was a sin to steal their lives, too. And I was determined to make sure that whoever had stolen hers paid for it.

veintitres

“I don’t see why you won’t allow me to beat a confession out of the priest,” Jesse said. We were in his car waiting in line at the visitor entrance to 17-Mile Drive. “It would be faster.”

“Uh.” I pulled down the sun visor in order to check my lip gloss in the vanity mirror. “Because this is twenty-first-century America and I don’t want us to go to jail?”

I couldn’t read Jesse’s expression, since his eyes were shaded by dark sunglasses. The afternoon sun was blazing down on us. Jesse’s car was a BMW roadster convertible, a loaner from Jake, who’d decided he needed something roomier so he could simultaneously transport his surfboard, Max, and any girl he might be dating. He’d upgraded to a Mercedes Benz G-Class SUV, so Brad could get the commission.

Then again, I didn’t need to read the expression in Jesse’s eyes. I could hear his disapproval in his voice.

“I don’t see how you think anyone will be able to find you to put you in jail,” he said. “No one will recognize you after you take off that costume.”

“Costume?” I looked down at myself. I was wearing a black skirt and jacket combo set I’d purchased months earlier at a Saks in San Francisco, along with a prim white blouse. “This isn’t a costume. I bought this outfit months ago to wear to job interviews.” And funerals.

I only hoped the next one I attended wouldn’t be Jesse’s.

By inviting him along on my trip out to Sacred Trinity, I was hoping to keep him busy enough to avoid hearing that Paul Slater was back in town, and why.

I’d driven by 99 Pine Crest Road on my way home from work only to find it crawling with inspectors in hard hats. There was no chance I’d be able to sneak onto the property to salt anything before my dinner at Mariner’s later that evening.

A large sign had been plastered across the front door, readable from the street:

WARNING: NO TRESPASSING

—PROPOSED DEMOLITION—

IF INTERESTED IN SALVAGE CONTACT:

SLATER PROPERTIES

There was a phone number listed in marker underneath.

The sign—and the men in hard hats—meant it was real. Paul hadn’t been bluffing. Not that I’d ever suspected he had, but—

“And the glasses?” Jesse asked, intruding on my thoughts.

I glanced at my reflection in the vanity mirror. I’d swapped my sunglasses for the nonprescription eyeglasses Becca had abandoned in the courtyard.