Savannah brushed past the woman, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table. “Did you hear Ms. Lenke might not be back before the city finals? She’d better be. Callahan doesn’t know the difference between a dead ball and a free ball.”

The boy snorted. “I’d be surprised if that moron could tell a basketball from a football. At last week’s practice…”

I tuned them out and focused on the woman. As I drew near, I could hear her muted sobs. I sighed and leaned against the dining room doorway.

“Look,” I said. “Whatever happened to you, I’m sure it was bad, but you have to move on. Go into the light or click your heels three times or whatever. Get thee to the other side, ghost.”

The woman didn’t even look up. Only thing worse than a stubborn spirit is a rude one. I’d seen her here at least a dozen times since the kids had moved in, and not once had she so much as acknowledged my presence. Never spoke. Never left that chair. Never stopped crying. And I thought I had a lousy afterlife.

I softened my tone. “You have to get over it. You’re wasting your time—”

She faded, and was gone. Really. Some people.

“Where’s that new stereo you got?” the boy asked through a mouthful of multigrain bread.

“In my room.” Savannah hesitated. “You wanna go up and see it?”

The boy jumped to his feet so fast his chair tumbled over backward. Savannah laughed and helped him right it. Then she grabbed his hand and led him to the stairs.

I stayed at the bottom.

A moment later, music rocked the rafters. Nothing I recognized. Dead three years, and I was already a pop-culture has-been. No, wait. I did recognize the song. “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper”…but with a techno beat. Who the hell was this? Not Blue Oyster Cult, that’s for sure. What kind of crap—? Oh God, I was turning into my mother. I’d avoided it all my life and now—

A man walked through the wall. Two inches taller than me. A decade older. Broad shoulders. Thickening middle. Thinning blond hair. Gorgeous bright blue eyes, which followed my gaze to the stairs.

“And what does our daughter desperately need your help with today?” he asked.

Kristof Nast’s contribution to “our daughter” had been purely biological, having not entered her life until just days before the end of his. My choice, not his. After I’d become pregnant, I’d skedaddled. Took him thirteen years and a mortal blow to the head, but he’d finally caught up with me.