Gertie had said on the phone that he could pay her at his discretion. She had a thick Rhode Island accent, leaving off the last consonant of words and adding an R after a vowel, per state law. “Pay me whatevah y’ think the readin’s wehth, Jawshuer deah.”

“You have arrived,” announced his iPhone. Josh pulled into the driveway of a modest, well-kept gray-shingled Cape, the yard graced by what had to be a three-hundred-year-old tree, based on its circumference. It was a good sign, that tree. He didn’t know why, but it reassured him.

“Don’t give her anything to go on, okay?” Josh asked Ben as they got out of the car. “Try not to nod or say, ‘Yeah, his wife died from a lung disease.’ Just let her talk.”

“You’ve told me that three times, Josh. I think I’ve got it.” Ben clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll sit silent and stone-faced, okay?”

“Sorry. And yes. Thank you.”

Before they even knocked, the door opened, making Josh jump. “Hello!” said a small, white-haired woman. Her face was extremely wrinkled, her eyes hooded like a turtle’s. “I’m Gertie, your psychic medium. Come in, come in, sweetheart.” Her accent was thick and comforting. “You’re Josh—can I call you that?” He nodded, and she turned to Ben. “And you are . . .”

“Ben. Nice to meet you.”

They followed Gertie into her little house, which was full of photos of family members. Cardinals were her favorite bird, apparently, because images of the red bird were everywhere—on the curtains, throw pillows, framed photos and cross-stitched samplers. It looked like a classic old lady’s house—too much furniture, outdated carpeting and the comforting smell of lemon Pledge.

In one corner, there was a round table, covered with an orange vinyl tablecloth. They all sat. Josh had already begun to sweat. His neck muscles locked, and his fingers felt tight with anxiety.

“So here’s how it works,” Gertie said. “We sit here, and I light this candle and say a prayer, and we ask your loved one to come forth. They show me signs, and I tell you what they are. Sometimes, I’m not one hundred percent sure what it means, so you’ll have to help me.”

Ah, yes. The leading questions. They’d say, “I’m seeing the number four. Is that meaningful? No? Think about it. They’re telling me four means something. Birthday? Death? Anniversary? Fourth floor of the hospital? Number of kids? Did you have four cats throughout your life? Four tires on your car?” And you were supposed to think your dead loved one was floating around you.

Why was he here? It wasn’t as if Lauren would know if he blew off her suggestions. Great. Now he felt guilty on top of sweaty and anxious. Ben was studying his hands, stone-faced and silent, as promised.