“Can you teach me how to talk to her? My sister?” I asked. I may have been doomed to light candles for the Portnoys for the rest of my life, and I wasn’t interested in receiving messages from dead people like a reality TV ghost whisperer. But I couldn’t resist the possibility of strengthening my connection to Jennie. Finding a way to communicate effectively with her would have been for me like anyone else having the ability to hop into a time machine and revisit the happiest day of their life. “You’re right. I am in trouble. I mean, I thought I was out of it, but I might not be.”

Mrs. Robinson told me, “I can try. But first, is there any salt around here?”

Each of the suites had a tiny kitchenette: two cabinets, a sink, and a small fridge, and I was pleased to find brand-new, sealed salt and pepper shakers in the cabinet over the sink.

“Good girl,” Mrs. Robinson said when I told her she was in luck. “Shake salt along the perimeter of this room. Right where the wall meets the floor. And do a little extra around the doorway.”

As I did what she asked, I felt like a total weirdo. I went somewhat easy on the amount of salt I shook because I didn’t want to attract bugs, even though housekeeping would probably vacuum up all of it within the next two days. Despite salt being mostly harmless, I knew I would probably be fired in a heartbeat if Luis were to find out. I wondered why Mrs. Robinson’s daughter hadn’t sprinkled the salt for her when they’d moved her in earlier that day if it was a priority. Probably because dumping an entire shaker of salt into carpeting was ridiculous.

“The salt keeps the evil out,” Mrs. Robinson called to me as I emptied out the rest of the shaker near the door.

“Okay,” I announced. “You’re all salted up.”

“Good. Good,” Mrs. Robinson told me, and “Now. When you come back, bring me some filtered water and essential oils—orange, lavender, and clove. And fennel! Don’t forget the fennel. And red brick dust.”

“Um, I don’t know where to get that,” I admitted, reluctant to disappoint her but knowing better than to commit myself to something insane, like smashing bricks into dust on my night off. She clearly wasn’t going to teach me what I wanted to learn until I fetched the items on her wish list, which was frustrating. But I couldn’t blame Mrs. Robinson for taking advantage of the situation. In the eight long years since Jennie had died, I’d only been able to communicate clearly with her once beyond simple yes-and-no answers to questions, and that had been at Christmastime, when she’d appeared in the form of a ghost that was rumored to roam along a highway during snowstorms. Having to wait another two days shouldn’t have felt like as much of a punishment as it did.

“Then eggshells. You can peel them off boiled eggs if you have to. Just bring me eggshells, as many as you can,” she said. “And sprinkle some salt and pepper in your shoes before you go to the store. Don’t want you handling my business with evil following you around.”