Although this is our third gig and we’ve rehearsed this moment, I find myself frozen, smiling dumbly at our customer. Thankfully, Jackson jumps in. “Mr. Hampton, do you have family you can stay with?” he asks. “It’s best if we investigate the house overnight. Ghosts are more receptive in the nocturnal hours. They can be rather shy during the day.”

“I can go to my daughter’s, I suppose,” he says, a bit hesitant.

“It’s just better for the occupant to lay low and let us do our thing. We will, of course, provide video footage of any contact we have with Millie. In case she wants to say her farewells,” Jackson says.

“It’s also safer,” Beth says. “For you. Less emotional this way.”

“You’re the experts,” Mr. Hampton says. “She’s probably tired of having me around anyway.”

He stands oafishly by the door.

This is wrong, wrong, wrong, I think. I look to Elliot to make sure he agrees with me. He shifts from foot to foot, but doesn’t say anything.

Mr. Hampton hands over the keys. Jackson takes them with a little bow. As the old man leaves, he rests a hand on the wooden doorframe. “Take care, my love,” he says. “Sleep tight.”

When Mr. Hampton shuts the door, we don’t do anything at first. Everyone stands still, studying the old man’s living room. I plop down on the couch. “Can’t believe it worked again,” I say.

“I know,” Elliot replies.

“Of course it works. We’re pros,” Jackson says.

“Next time this might be more efficient if we have them stay,” Beth says, hooking up the computer equipment.

“You think?” Jackson asks.

“Definitely. Get in, get out. Then we spend less time with the wackos.”

Jackson kisses Beth. “Revise. Rinse. Repeat.” He claps his hands together. “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”

I lift the window curtain and peer out into the driveway. Mr. Hampton sits in his car, staring off into space. Elliot sidles up next to me. We watch him start the car and slowly reverse, backing out onto the street.

“Let’s go, Ange,” Jackson says. “Vamanos.”

Elliot takes out the cameras one by one. I pick up the EMF meter. Jackson studies my face. “Beth, let’s get some more make-up on my sis. Cover up the bags under her eyes.”

“I can do it,” I say.

“You want to borrow some stuff?” Beth asks. She pulls out her arsenal of eye shadows, creams and glosses.

“No. I got it.”