“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s a vintage-style milkshake,” replied Sam.

“But I didn’t—”

“You said you didn’t want anything,” Sam said, cutting me off. “Usually, when a customer says that—especially one of my normally hungry regulars—it’s because they’ve recently missed out on something they did want.”

I blinked at him, my stomach twisting, my heart giving an extra painful thump.

“Now,” Sam continued, “ice cream can’t fix that. But it’s on the house and it tastes good, and sometimes a small, sweet reminder that good things are still in the pipeline helps to ease the sting of whatever didn’t work out.”

With that, he left me to stare laser beams into the milkshake he’d made special for me.

No one said anything. But I was sure all my friends were staring at me.

I really had meant it when I’d told Sam I didn’t want anything. I’d even made an effort not to sound as dejected, defeated, or lost as I felt. But he’d still seen right through me.

Next to me, Patrick lifted his burger and took an enormous bite. Across from me, Charlotte and Wes dug into their tacos.

I sighed, then took an obliging sip. Though the coldness brought a sting to my eyes, it wasn’t the bitter sort I’d been fighting the last two weeks since Stephanie’s return. And something about the icy, familiar vanilla taste brought a comfort I hadn’t been sure I’d be able to feel again. And Sam had been right. The milkshake did taste good.

As if my acceptance of the treat lifted some kind of gag order on the group, Wes cleared his throat.

“So, food’s here. Shall we officially commence?”

Usually at our meetings, the rule was that we could shoot the breeze on non-SPOoKy stuff until the food came. After that, we shifted to official business. I was usually the one who called us to order, but I didn’t mind Wes taking the reins this time. Really, it came as a relief.

“We’ve gotten a few emails while we’ve been, uh, busy,” said Charlotte, thumbing through her phone. “One from this couple who just moved into a house in J-Town. Then we got an inquiry from this antique shop called Time and Again. Turns out they heard about us from that investigation we did at that little bookshop on Bardstown Road last fall.”

“List of complaints?” prompted Patrick before chomping another bite of his burger.

While Charlotte started rattling off purported phenomena that might have been impressive to us at one time, I zoned out, my focus trained on my milkshake, mind spiraling back through time. To the glass house when I’d plunged Erik’s knife into his chest.

I’d meant to end his misery with the action. I’d meant to end Stephanie’s. And mine.

I’d meant to do the right thing.

And at the time, violent as the action had been, it seemed like it was. But how and when had right and wrong gotten swapped? At what point had Erik become Erik again and Stephanie no longer mine . . . but his?