Theo leans forward, brow creased. “My wife’s name was Katy.”

The audience rustles, excited that I’m on the right track. “Theo, we’ve reached the part where I say that I can’t promise anything, okay?”

He attempts a smile. “Okay.”

“Then let’s begin.” I open the red door and silently beckon. Katy? No one comes forward. My fingers press the diamond into my palm, and still . . . Nothing. A young spirit finally rushes through, but he’s not what I want. I need Katy. The energy persists, shows me a leather-bound book with the word journal embossed in gold on the front. “Theo, does a journal mean anything to you? It’s blank?”

He doesn’t blink. “No.”

Body language experts say a lack of blinking indicates a possible lie . . . but Theo’s need for a connection is palpable. Part of him feels walled off, like he’s opened the front door, is willing to show me his clean living room, but not the mess in the other rooms. He’s partially shut down from grief. The male essence slips away, but still, there’s nothing from Katy. Sometimes this happens.

I ask, “Is being here really hard for you?”

“I’ve never been to a psychic before so this isn’t, um, normal, for me.”

“Can I share a secret?” He nods. “It’s never normal for me.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“To help people,” I say.

“Is that the only reason?”

He looks so earnest that it’s clearly not a challenge, just nerves. “Yes.”

“What if you can’t help me?”

He really needs this. I tug my earlobe, a nervous habit, wait a beat, then nod a few times. “Um, okay . . . There’s a female presence stepping forward, but she’s faint. Did Katy pass recently?”

“A week ago.”

The audience sighs. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sometimes when people have just gone to the other side, they have difficulty coming through.”

Frowning, Theo asks, “How do you know it’s Katy? Can you describe her?”

“I never see a face . . . but . . . okay, strange . . . this spirit is showing me a plate of pasta? Is Italian food important to you?”

Theo sits up straight. “We went to Italy for our honeymoon. Katy loved to cook so we took a course, learned how to make homemade pasta.” His eyes shine. “It’s her. It’s really Katy.”

The audience claps, thrilled for Theo, but something feels off. Probably, it’s me, still rattled after Lucas’s call. I turn the wedding ring over and it catches the spotlight, sends a rainbow prism onto Theo’s shirt. “Katy is showing me the back of a head. Did she die from a head injury?”

“Kind of. She had brain cancer.”

“. . . Is the number 3 important? She’s referenced it several times.”

Theo rubs his eyes. “Three months from diagnosis.”

The audience gasps. Lightly, I touch his arm. The urge to keep my hand there, stay connected, surprises me. He pulls back. “Katy wants you to know that she’s found peace, but she’s worried about you.” I place the engagement ring on the table between us and turn to the audience, draw them back in. “No matter how your loved ones died, their biggest concern, wherever they are, is that they’ve left you in pain; that you’ll try to live their life, not follow your own path.”