Frank’s eyes flicker with hope. He holds out his hand. “Of course,” he says. “The one with the gift. That report on the news. What you did for the Mulligans. Amazing.”

I timidly shake his hand. “Here to help,” I say.

The Mulligans had a severe rat infestation. Elliot installed some traps and we went hunting for them through the walls. It was a tricky case, but after a few days, the pitter-patter of little ghosts was gone. That would have been the end of it, but the Mulligans were so grateful they kept blabbing about our spirit catching skills to anyone that would listen. When the local news decided to do a story on us, the Mulligans were notorious around town. The news team made sure they were on the segment.

Beth clears her throat. “Where can we set up?” she asks.

“Oh. Um, let’s see…” Frank says.

“Should be somewhere far enough from the ‘activity.’ We won’t want to disturb what Ange’s doing,” Jackson says.

Frank nods and squeezes Carrie’s shoulder. “Baby doll, how about you wash up for bed, okay?”

The basement is filled with dusty boxes and mannequins. They’re neatly arranged and labeled, which is more than I can say for the other houses we’ve been in. Elliot stands on a stepladder. I pass him a small video camera that he rigs to the wall. His face scrunches in concentration.

This is how it goes. First we set up the job, everyone playing our parts, and then we get to work. It’s rather simple, like clockwork now. We’ve come a long way from those first few gigs, though none of our progress makes me feel better about what we do.

Beth’s voice crackles through Elliot’s walkie. “Okay, try it now.”

Elliot adjusts the setting on the video feed.

“Again,” Beth says. They go back and forth like this. Turning knobs, calibrating dials. I head upstairs where Jackson and Beth have set up the equipment in the den. Beth’s by the computers as Jackson keeps Frank busy, making sure to ask him lots of questions so he’s just distracted enough that he can’t fully pay attention to what we’re doing. It’s all in the details. That’s what Jackson always says, and he’s right.

When Jackson’s done talking to Frank, it’s my turn. Frank waits expectantly for me as he sits on a leather couch. His smile is warm, his eyes kind. I try to ignore all that.

“Do you happen to have any pictures of your wife?” I ask. “It helps with communicating.” He nods and reaches over to a framed photo on a table. It’s a family shot. The middle-aged woman in the photo is gaunt and bald from chemotherapy. She sits arm-in-arm with Frank and Carrie. Everyone’s smiling like nothing’s wrong, but their eyes are troubled.