“And now it’s weeks later and she’s still unreachable. Her neighbor in Boston has no idea where she is. He told me the number of her PO box in Tucker Cove is 137. For all we know, her mail is still sitting there, uncollected. Doesn’t any of this bother you?”

For a moment she taps her fingers on the desk. At last she picks up the phone and dials. “Hello, Stuart? It’s Donna Branca. Could you do me a big favor and check on a PO box for me? The number is 137. It belonged to one of my tenants, Charlotte Nielson. No, Stuart, I’m not asking you to reveal anything you shouldn’t. It’s just that Charlotte left town weeks ago and I want to know if her mail’s being forwarded anywhere. Yes, I’ll stay on the line.” She glances at me. “He’s bending the rules a little, but this is a small town and we all know each other.”

“Can he give us her forwarding address?” I ask.

“I’m not going to push it, okay? He’s nice enough just to be doing this for us.” Her attention snaps back to the phone. “Yes, Stuart, I’m here. What?” She frowns. “It’s all still there? And she never gave you a forwarding address?”

I lean forward, my gaze riveted to her face. Although I’m hearing only half the conversation, I know that something is very wrong and now even Donna is disturbed. Slowly she hangs up and looks at me.

“She hasn’t picked up her mail in over a month. Her PO box is stuffed full and she never gave them a forwarding address.” Donna shakes her head. “This is so strange.”

“It’s more than strange.”

“Maybe she just forgot to fill out a change of address card.”

“Or she couldn’t fill it out.”

We stare at each other for a moment and the same possibility suddenly rears up in both our minds. Charlotte Nielson has dropped off the face of the earth. She doesn’t answer her phone or her emails and she has not picked up her mail in weeks.

“You know that body they found floating in the water?” I say. “It was a woman’s. And she still hasn’t been identified.”

    “Do you think…”

“I think we need to call the police.”

* * *

—

Once again, the police are in my house, but this time they’re not here about a minor break-in by a burglar who’s tracked dirt across my kitchen floor. This time, they are Maine State Police detectives conducting a death investigation. Dental records have confirmed that the body found floating in the bay is indeed Charlotte Nielson, who has not collected the mail from her PO box in over a month. Whose last known communication was the typewritten letter sent to Donna Branca.

Who two months ago was living in Brodie’s Watch and sleeping in my bed.

I sit in the kitchen as the police tramp through the bedrooms upstairs. I don’t know what they think they’ll find. I’ve long since finished the last bottle of her whiskey. The only traces of Charlotte left in the house are her Hermès scarf, her copy of Joy of Cooking, and the spare flip-flop that I found under the bed. There is also her handwritten list of local phone numbers, which is still tacked to the kitchen corkboard. Numbers for the plumber, the electrician, the doctor She had the precise penmanship you’d expect of an elementary school teacher, and if it’s true you can judge a person by their handwriting, then Charlotte was a neat and careful woman who would not normally leave behind an expensive scarf or a well-thumbed cookbook. The fact she did makes me think she packed quickly, so anxious to flee this house that she didn’t bother to look under the bed or reach into the deepest corner of the closet. I think of my first night here, when I’d found that bottle and poured myself a glass. A dead woman’s whiskey.

I’ve already thrown away that empty bottle, but I should tell the police about it.

Outside, the weather’s taken a turn for the worst. The storm that lashed the Carolinas a few days ago has now rolled up the coast and raindrops splatter the kitchen window. I suddenly remember that I’ve left the east-facing windows open, so I leave the kitchen and go into the sea room to close them. Through the rain-streaked glass I see waves rolling in, gray and turbulent, and I hear the wind-whipped branches of the lilac bush clawing the house.

    “Ma’am?”

I turn to see the two detectives, Vaughan and Perry, which sounds like a law firm. Unlike the local cops who came to investigate the break-in, these buttoned-down and humorless men deal with serious crimes, and their demeanor reflects it. I have already walked them through the upstairs rooms and pointed out where I’d found Charlotte’s scarf and flip-flop, yet they insisted on inspecting the house on their own—looking for what, I wonder. Since Charlotte’s departure, the floors have been vacuumed, and any traces she left of herself are now contaminated by my own.

“Have you finished upstairs?” I ask them.

“Yes. But we have a few more questions,” says Detective Vaughn. He has the air of command that makes me think he’s seen military service, and when he gestures to the sofa, I obediently sit down. He settles into the brocade wing chair, which looks ridiculously feminine for a man with his broad shoulders and Marine flattop. His partner Detective Perry stands off to the side, arms crossed as though trying to look casual, but not quite pulling it off. They are both big men, imposing men, and I would not like to be in the crosshairs of any investigation conducted by them.

“I knew something was wrong,” I murmur. “But she thought I was just being a busybody.”

“Ms. Branca, you mean?”

“Yes. Charlotte wasn’t answering her phone or emails, and Donna wasn’t the least bit curious. It’s almost as if she refused to believe anything was wrong.”

“But you felt something was?”

“It bothered me that Charlotte never answered my emails.”

“Why were you trying to reach her?”

    “I had a few questions.”

“About?” His eyes are too direct, too piercing.

I look away. “About this house. A few minor, um, issues.”

“Couldn’t Ms. Branca answer those questions?”

“You’d have to actually live here to understand.” He remains silent and I feel compelled to keep talking. “There’ve been some odd noises at night. Things I can’t explain. I wondered if Charlotte had heard them, too.”

“You said you had a break-in here a few weeks ago. Do you think there’s a connection to those noises you heard?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Because Ms. Nielson also reported an incident.”

“Yes, I heard that from the local police. They thought it was probably some teenager who didn’t realize the house was occupied. They said the same thing about my break-in.”

He leans closer, his eyes laser-sharp. “Can you think of anyone who might have done this? Aside from some nameless teenager?”

“No. But if it also happened to Charlotte, could it be the same person?”

“We have to consider all the possibilities.”

All the possibilities. I look back and forth at the two men, whose silence only makes me more agitated. “What did happen to Charlotte?” I ask. “I know she was found floating in the bay, but how did she die?”

“All we can tell you is this is a homicide investigation.”

My cellphone rings, but I don’t even bother to look at who’s calling; I let it go to voicemail and stay focused on the detectives.

“Were there bruises?” I ask. “Did the killer leave any marks?”

Vaughn says, “Why are you asking, ma’am?”

“I’m just trying to understand why you’re so certain it was murder. How do you know she didn’t just fall off a boat and drown?”

“There was no seawater in her lungs. She was dead before her body entered the water.”

    “But it could still be an accident. Maybe she fell on the rocks. Hit her head and—”

“It was not an accident. She was strangled.” He watches as I take in this information, no doubt wondering if these details are more than I can handle and he’ll have a hysterical woman on his hands. But I sit perfectly still as I consider what he’s just told me. There’s so much more I want to know. Were there broken bones? Bruises left by real hands made of real flesh? Can mere ectoplasm kill a woman?

Could Captain Brodie?

I look down at my left wrist, remembering the bruise that has since faded. A bruise that I found the morning after my first encounter with the ghost. Had I caused that bruise myself while stumbling around in a drunken stupor, as I have on more than one occasion? Or was that bruise the evidence that he can inflict real harm on the living?

“Have there been other break-ins since the night you called the Tucker Cove police?” Detective Perry asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Anyone calling you, harassing you?”

“No.”

“We understand from Ms. Branca that there’s been some carpentry work done here recently.”

“Yes, up in the turret and the widow’s walk. They’ve already finished the renovations.”

“How well do you know the carpenters?”

“I saw Billy and Ned almost every day for weeks, so I’d say we’re well acquainted.”

“Did you spend much time talking to them?”