The first round of questions Ayanna composed for him all had the same how-dare-you vibe. The second felt better, a mix of genial questions, then potential follow-ups that would make him have to be explicit about what he was saying. What she wanted him to directly say was this: No, going on the path does not give you healing superpowers. No, I don’t want to encourage people to risk their lives going through the doors in the hopes that they, too, will be able to cure cancer. Yes, I am ashamed that I exploit people’s fears and grief to encourage them to give me an “offering” in exchange for a “healing session.” Yes, I am a grifter. I am the son of grifters. She wavered here. Ayanna was deeply annoyed with herself that this was the myth she did not want popped. Even if she’s dead, I want to save her, Ayanna thought.

On the Matthias of the Lord’s Path website, there were vague descriptions of healing sessions and prayers from him, and you could buy candles consecrated by his hands or oils he had blessed. The cheapest item on the website was seventy-five dollars. Matthias also did corporate events.

She looked at the Post-it next to her laptop: MARLIE NELSON written in Stephen’s all-caps-only handwriting. Ayanna was tired of procrastinating, and finally searched. All that came up were the exploits of a high school volleyball career and some wedding registries that were filled with baskets and cocktail shakers and gray cashmere throws. None of these Marlie Nelsons seemed like they were the kind of people a ghost would desperately be looking for. They all seemed like wholesome people who liked volleyball and never would have someone from the other side desperate for them.

Felix texted her to tell her the writing professor was losing it in Professor Collins’s office again. She was telling Professor Collins about a dinner she had gone to with a very famous author and it felt like being back in high school. They could not figure out why the creative writing professor was working with them other than because Professor Collins seemed to like her a lot and said things like “Ernestine is the best reader I’ve ever met.” They—Ayanna and Felix—felt they worried far more about credibility and standards than Professor Collins did. It wasn’t that she didn’t take the work seriously, but they felt like her concerns were nebulous and maybe even too playful. The creative writing professor was complaining all writers wanted to know was who had money, who was fucking whom or fucking someone over, and things about the capital-I Industry.

I am also deeply invested in that gossip, Ayanna texted him back. I would rather lie awake at night considering all the possibilities of who is secretly fucking and thinking no one knows than whatever she thinks is more interesting than that.