So that’s what my parents do.

They find the red paint.

The only difference is, we have a history of the house. We’ve been told where to look.

“And the red paint is dead people,” says Jacob.

And that, I think.

We step through the doors, and I brace myself for the Veil, but the first thing I feel isn’t the patter of ghosts, it’s the sudden, merciful wave of air-conditioning. I shiver with pure relief, the muggy night air replaced by an icebox cool.

I feel my limbs sigh into it.

The restaurant on the ground floor is huge. Green ivy drips from planters hung like chandeliers, and big round tables have been draped in white linens. A dark wooden staircase leads up to a landing.

“Oh, hey,” says Jacob, pointing at the walls. They’ve all been painted red. I roll my eyes.

“It’s just a metaphor,” I say, but as I stand in the front hall, I have to admit, I’m starting to feel something besides the air-conditioning.

It’s early for dinner but there’s already a decent crowd, the chatter of guests, clinking glasses and cutlery drowning out the tap-tap-tap of ghosts, any whispers beyond the Veil. But the other side leans against me, like a tired friend, and when I swallow, it feels like there are ashes on my tongue.

My hand drifts up to the mirror around my neck.

Ever since my accident I’ve been able to see and hear the other side. Sometimes, I can feel it, too. But in Muriel’s, I can taste it.

And it tastes like smoke. Not stale smoke, the kind long soaked into curtains, but fresh, and hot. It burns my eyes and scratches at my throat.

Was there a fire here, too? I wonder. I don’t realize I’ve asked the question out loud until Lucas answers.

“In 1788,” he says. “The Good Friday Fire tore through the French Quarter, destroying most of the houses.”

“Out of eleven hundred buildings,” adds Dad, “eight hundred and fifty-six were burned.”

Jacob whistles softly as Lucas nods.

“This house, like most of the ones in the Quarter, was rebuilt.”

“This city is a phoenix,” says Mom. “Always rising from the ashes.”

Fire and ash.

No wonder I can taste smoke.

A hostess from the restaurant appears to greet us. She seems breathless, and has that I’m on my way can’t stay and chat energy. “You must be the Investigators,” she says, scanning our motley group.

“Inspecters,” corrects Mom.

“I was told you have what you need, yes, I see you do, very well, we’re short on staff today, so I’m afraid I can’t spare a guide—”

“No worries,” says Dad, gesturing at Lucas. “We brought our own.”

“Great,” she says, “all right, welcome to Muriel’s …” And with that, she’s already gone.

“Well,” says Jenna, her camera on her shoulder. “Which way to the ghosts?”

Jacob and I look at each other. Mom and Dad scan the restaurant. Adan shifts his weight from foot to foot.