The unfairness makes my skin burn. “And you’re surprised I couldn’t use it effectively?”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“The photographs? The ones from Disneyland?”

“My boss, Annie.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Thomas scoffs, “You don’t exactly stand on moral high ground.”

I swing out of bed, use the edge of the top bunk to haul myself inches from his face. “Why do you hate me?” He recoils. In the moonlight his eyes are the dark blue-green of the deep sea, where the most dangerous predators hunt. Moose presses against my thigh. His low growl vibrates. Maybe he would eat Thomas’s leg.

Thomas tries to sit up, bumps his head, swears under his breath, then manages to get his elbow up, rests his head awkwardly in an open palm. “I don’t hate you.”

“Liar. If you want the truth, then have the courtesy to tell it.” I slide back down, burrow beneath my covers, heart pounding. Silence stretches taut.

Thomas finally asks, “What do you want to know?”

“The wedding band you wore. It wasn’t new, it had a history.”

“How do you know?”

“It was worn, scratched.” There’s a man . . . he says to tell her she was right about the rain. “It belonged to the man who pushed forward, who wanted to apologize about the rain.”

Thomas clears his throat. “It was my father’s. But you already know that.”

“Suddenly you believe?”

“Not likely. You had enough time to dive into my past before we met at the station.”

“All I know is that you grew up in Portland and your job history.”

“. . . My father died in a car accident when I was eleven.”

“Was it raining?”

“Yes. But that means nothing. Plenty of people die in the rain. His car skidded on an old bridge, broke through guardrails. He was killed when it struck the water. For the past twenty-one years, my mother has been trying to contact him—on the other side. She’s blown through all her savings.”

I was right. This is personal. “The younger spirit with the leather journal?”

“I told you, no idea.”

I don’t need to see Thomas’s face to tell he’s lying. Hope, dormant for much of our conversations, pads out of its cave, sniffs the air. Find out why. Use it.

“I don’t hate you, Sylvie. I hate what you do.”

“I help people.”

“Have you ever considered that by giving the easy answers people want, you’re stealing their chance to come to terms with loss, grief, and themselves?”

“Have you ever considered that you’re the vampire? You tear people’s lives apart for a story and you don’t care about who you hurt in that process. And FYI? I hate what you do, too.”

I beckon Moose, wrap my arms around him, follow the rhythm of his breathing, and summon sleep . . .

I’m a little kid standing on a street that’s tree-lined, leaves the size of dinner plates painted brilliant shades of orange and gold. Ornamentals fill bark islands. Red geraniums edge manicured lawns. The air is warm and sweet with the scent of the white roses planted in front of a forest green bungalow. I walk on . . .