“We’re not normal,” I mutter, brushing off the Veil like cobwebs.

“There you are,” says Mom, appearing in the doorway. “Hungry?”

* * *

I’m not thrilled about going back into Muriel’s, but the food looks really good.

Jenna and Adan stash their camera equipment under the table, and Lucas puts away his notes as dishes arrive. Mom and Dad have this rule that when we travel, I can order whatever I want, but I have to take one bite of whatever they get. Which is how I end up with a plate of fried chicken and biscuits, but find myself facing down Mom’s bowl of gumbo, and Dad’s shrimp and grits.

Gumbo, it turns out, is a kind of stew poured over rice. It’s rich, and full of flavors—and pieces of things I don’t necessarily recognize—but it tastes good. Grits, on the other hand, look like grainy porridge, like something that was supposed to dissolve but didn’t.

But a deal is a deal, so I brace myself and take a bite of the grits, and they’re … good. Salty and buttery and simple, creamy without being rich. It reminds me of grilled cheese sandwiches, and chicken nuggets, the food I crave when I’m sick, or sad, or tired.

Comfort food.

I take another spoonful, and Dad offers to trade plates, but I think I’ll stick with my fried chicken. I glance around, trying to keep track of Jacob. I see him wandering from table to table, eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. Poking saltshakers and nudging napkins, having staring contests with people who can’t see him. He wanders into the kitchen and comes back a few minutes later, looking pale.

“You don’t want to know how they make lobster,” he says.

I roll my eyes.

When we’re all stuffed and the plates have been cleared away, Adan leans his elbows on the table and says, “I’ve got a ghost story for you.”

Everyone perks up.

“It’s about the LaLaurie,” he adds, and the mood at the table changes around me.

“What’s that?” I ask. I remember the name from the list of locations in the binder.

“The LaLaurie Mansion,” explains Lucas, his voice quiet and tense, “is considered the most haunted place in New Orleans.”

“And for good reason,” adds Mom, and for once, the topic of ghosts doesn’t seem to make her cheerful. There’s a crease in her forehead, and her mouth is a pale pink line.

“What happened?” I ask, looking around, but no one seems willing to tell me.

Adan clears his throat and presses on.

“Right,” he says, “the LaLaurie Mansion has a gruesome past, but this story isn’t about way back then. This one’s new. It happened just a few years ago. People keep buying the house, you know, but no one stays too long. Well, a big-shot actor, he buys the house, and asks a friend of a friend of mine to stay in it, to watch the property. Alone.”

Jacob and I exchange a look, and I don’t need to read my friend’s mind to hear him thinking, Nope.