Eve nods. “They died on impact.”

My nerves jitter as I fold my fingers over the pin, close my eyes, approach the red door, and unlock it . . . A metallic tang instantly floods my mouth and a spirit steps forward. “A male energy is here . . . Does the initial G or O mean anything to you?”

“My father’s name was Gordy,” Eve says.

“He’s showing me a wooden rocking horse with bright blue eyes.”

“Daddy was a cabinet maker. He carved that rocking horse for me. It was so tall, Mother was afraid I’d fall off, get concussed. He painted the glass eyes blue to match mine!”

I tug my earlobe. “Was he musical?”

“No, but he loved to listen to all kinds of music.”

“There’s an old-fashioned radio, curved on top, woven silver-and-black speakers with shiny knobs . . .” My adrenaline surges as I’m catapulted beyond this bridge. “He’s hitting the top of it with his hand, twisting the knobs, like he’s trying to get it to work, then pointing at you.” I open my eyes, glance from son to mother. Silence. “Eve?” Her lips press into a tight white line. “Thomas?”

“Mom broke her father’s radio the night Dad and Deacan died.”

“What was your dad’s name?” I ask him.

“Matthew.”

I silently call to Matthew through the open doorway. Nothing. I use what I know. He comes across the threshold fast, like he’s been waiting for the right invitation. A younger male spirit joins him. They show me a dark night–pounding rain–two pints of ice cream on the front seat of a car–a narrow bridge–bright headlights–a skid–crash–metal on metal–the car plunges–weightless–bone-jarring impact–hands fumble to unbuckle seat belts–open doors–break windows–water floods–boots kick–fingers scrabble–screams–Help me, Dad–I love you, Deacan–frigid water surges into mouths, nostrils–I can’t-breathe-can’t-breathe-can’t-breathe!

My heart thrashes. I gulp for air. Sweat tracks down my spine. Eve lied to Thomas all these years. “It took a while,” I say once my pulse has slowed. Eve’s chin trembles.

Thomas looks from his mother to me. “What are you talking about?”

I wait for Eve to explain. She twists her arthritic hands, looks away.

“Sylvie?” Thomas presses.

He deserves the truth. “Your dad and brother didn’t die when their car hit the water. They showed me . . . They both tried to get out but couldn’t open the doors or break any windows. It took time for the car to fill with water. They drowned.” The last thing your father heard was your brother begging for help. The last thing Deacan heard was your father saying he loved him.

“You’re wrong,” Thomas says, his tone dismissive. “They died on impact. Tell her, Mom.”

Eve sniffles, wipes her nose with a wadded Kleenex, stares at the sheet covering her bony legs like a child determined to avoid punishment.

Thomas repeats, “Tell Sylvie they died on impact.”

Eve flinches. “I . . . They didn’t.” She finally looks at Thomas, the corners of her mouth tugged down, eyes shiny. “According . . . according to the medical report, Matthew and Deacan didn’t have mortal injuries . . . other than drowning. You didn’t need to know that. No one should know that.”