Worrying that I will never see him again.

“I don’t want to drive him away,” I tell her. “I just wanted reassurance that what I’ve experienced is real.”

“So you’re willing to tolerate his presence?”

“What else can I do?”

“You can ask him to leave.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes. I’ve had clients who demanded their ghost vacate the house and move on. And that’s it, problem solved. If that’s what you want to do, I can help you.”

I say nothing for a moment, thinking about how it would feel to never again glimpse him in the shadows. To never again sense his presence watching over me. Protecting me. Under my roof, no harm will come to you.

“Are you willing to live with this entity?” she asks.

I nod. “Strangely enough, I feel safer knowing he’s there.”

“Then doing nothing is a reasonable choice. In the meantime, I’ll search for any information about Brodie’s Watch. The Maine State Library in Augusta has newspaper archives going back hundreds of years, and I have a friend who works there.”

“What will you be searching for?”

    “Any tragic events that occurred in the house. Deaths, suicides, murders. Reports of any paranormal activity.”

“I already know of one tragedy that happened in the house. My carpenter told me about it. He said it happened twenty or so years ago, on a Halloween night. Some teenagers broke into the house, got drunk and rowdy. One of the girls fell from the widow’s walk and died.”

“So there has been a death.”

“But it was just an accident. It’s the only tragedy I know of.”

Her gaze drifts to the kitchen window, where multicolored crystals dangle. Quietly she says, “If there were others, that would make me wonder.”

“About what?”

She looks at me. “If your problem is actually a ghost.”

* * *

—

It is already late afternoon when I start my drive back to Tucker Cove. Along the way I stop at a diner to eat dinner and to mull over what Maeve told me: I can help you. There are ways to make the phenomena cease. Ways to make Captain Brodie vanish forever. But that’s not what I want; I knew that even before I spoke with her. What I wanted was simply to be believed. I wanted to know that what I saw and felt in Brodie’s Watch was real. No, I’m not afraid of Captain Brodie’s ghost.

What terrifies me is the possibility that he doesn’t exist and I’m going insane.

As I wait for my order of fried chicken, I scroll through the messages on my phone. I had muted it during my meeting with Maeve and now I see several new voice mails. The first is from my editor, Simon, who’s called again about the status of my overdue manuscript. The chapters you’ve sent me are terrific! When can I see more? Also, we need to talk about a new release date.

I’ll email him tomorrow. At least I can report this much: the book is still going well. (And my carpenters are gaining weight.) I scroll through the next two voicemails, both from spam callers, and come to a familiar number.

    At 1:23 P.M., Lucy called.

I don’t listen to her message; I can’t bring myself to hear her voice.

Instead I focus on my meal, which has just arrived. The fried chicken is dry and stringy and the mashed potatoes taste like they came out of a box. Even though I missed lunch I have no appetite, but I force myself to eat. I won’t think about Lucy or Simon or the book I need to finish. No, I’ll think instead about the ghost, which has become a welcome distraction. Maeve assures me that other people, sane people, see ghosts. I can certainly use a ghost’s company and the house is more than big enough for us to share. What lonely woman wouldn’t want to share her bed with a strapping sea captain?

Where have you been, Captain Brodie? Will I see you tonight?

I pay for my barely eaten meal and get back on the road.

By the time I arrive home, night has fallen. It’s so dark I have to feel my way up the porch steps, and when I reach the front door I halt, every nerve humming. Even in the gloom, I can see the door is ajar.

Today is Friday so Billy and Ned would have been working in the house, but they would never leave the door unlocked. I think of everyone else who might have a key to the front door: Donna Branca. Arthur Sherbrooke. The tenant who lived here just before me. Did Charlotte forget to return her key when she left? Has someone else gotten hold of it?

A loud meow issues from inside the house and Hannibal pushes his head out to greet me. My clever coon cat has been known to twist knobs and push open doors and he looks utterly unperturbed. Since he’s not alarmed, surely everything must be fine inside.

I give the door a gentle push and it gives an alarmingly loud squeal as it swings open. I flip on the light switch and I see nothing amiss in the foyer. Hannibal sits at my feet, tail twitching, meowing for his dinner. Maybe Ned did forget to lock the door. Maybe Hannibal managed to open it.

    Maybe the ghost did it.

I follow Hannibal into the kitchen and flip on the light. He crosses straight to the cabinet where he knows the cat food is stored, but I’m no longer looking at him. I’m focused instead on a clump of dirt on the floor.

And the shoeprint.

I spot another print, and another, and I follow the trail backward to its origin: the kitchen window, gaping open.

Ten

The police search every room, every closet of my house. By the police, I mean Officer Quinn and Officer Tarr. The Hare and the Tortoise is what first came to mind when I watched them step out of their patrol car, the younger Quinn springing out of the passenger seat like a rabbit while fiftyish Officer Tarr slowly oozed his way out of the driver’s seat. With indolent Tarr at the wheel, no wonder they had taken forty-five minutes to respond to my 911 call.

But respond they finally did, and they approach this breakin with all the gravity of a murder investigation. They accompany me upstairs to the bedrooms, Officer Quinn taking the steps at a quick hop while Tarr lumbers behind him, and I confirm that nothing seems to be missing or out of place. While Tarr painstakingly writes in his notebook, Quinn searches the closets, then dashes up to the turret to confirm the intruder is not lurking upstairs.

    Back downstairs in the kitchen, they take a closer look at the shoeprints, which are too large to be mine. Then Tarr turns his attention to the open window, the obvious point of entry.

“Was this window open like this when you left the house?” he asks me.

“I’m not sure. I know I had it open this morning, while I was cooking breakfast.” I pause, unable to remember whether I’d closed it without latching it. Lately I’ve been so distracted, by the book, by the ghost, that details I should remember have been slipping past me. Like where I got those bruises.

“Have you seen anyone hanging around here lately? Anyone suspicious?”

“No. I mean, there are two carpenters who’ve been working on the house, but I wouldn’t call them suspicious.”

He turns to a fresh page in his notebook. “Their names?”

“Ned and Billy.” Their last names have slipped my mind and Tarr glances up at me.

“Ned? Ned Haskell?”

“Right, that’s his name.”

There’s a silence as he mulls over this information, a silence that makes me uneasy. “They already have access to the house,” I point out. “I leave a key for them. They could just walk in the front door, so they’d have no need to climb in through the window.”

Tarr’s gaze slowly pans the kitchen and comes to a stop at my laptop computer, which sits undisturbed on the kitchen table, still powered on and plugged in. His gaze travels, sloth-like, to the countertop where a handful of spare change sits in a bowl, untouched. While Officer Tarr may be slow-moving, he is not stupid, and he’s reading the clues, which lead to a baffling conclusion.

“The intruder pops off the window screen, tosses it in the bushes,” he says, thinking aloud. “Climbs through the open window and proceeds to track dirt across this floor.” His tortoise-like head dips down as he follows the shoeprints, which fade away halfway across the kitchen. “He’s in your house yet he doesn’t take a single valuable item. Leaves the laptop sitting there. Doesn’t even scoop up the spare change.”

    “So this wasn’t a robbery?” says Quinn.

“I’m not ready to say that yet.”

“Why didn’t he take anything?”

“Maybe because he never got the chance.” Tarr lumbers out of the kitchen into the foyer. Grunting, he slowly drops to a crouch. Only then do I notice what he’s looking at: a clump of dirt just inside the threshold of the front door, which I’d missed earlier.

“Cast off from his shoes,” says Tarr. “Funny, isn’t it? He didn’t track dirt anywhere else in the house. Just in the kitchen and here, on his way out the front door. Which makes me think…”