Mom looks over from putting her hair up to go to work, her uniform shirt all nicely pressed. Her hair is long, like Grandma’s and Shelly’s, but she almost never wears it down outside the house. She doesn’t want anything clinging to it.

“I made dinner for you and Shelly.” Mom points a finger at Grandma as the oven timer goes off. “You could charge a little more.”

“We’ve got to undercut the frauds so people come to us instead. We can help people,” Grandma says, pulling the lasagna out of the oven. “Sit and eat before you go.”

“Someone has to pay the bills,” Mom says, but she sits and cuts up the lasagna in its tinfoil pan. “What about helping us?”

The duplex they rent isn’t anything like the fancy apartment Shelly and Grandma spent the afternoon in. The floors creak when it’s cold and the front door opens right into the kitchen because there’s no space wasted. The cabinets are sturdy wood but old, and every room has orange wallpaper Shelly’s mother hates but can’t change because they’re renting. She did cover Shelly’s walls with posters of cats and dogs and other pets Shelly likes but can’t have to help make the room look nicer, though.

Shelly’s bedroom is the smallest one. With her dresser shoved into the doorless closet, there’s enough room for her bed and a bookshelf but not much else, especially since she tends to leave her clothes on the floor—clean things folded and stacked neatly, dirty clothes in a heap in the corner—instead of putting them away where they belong. The only thing Shelly puts away is a sweater, blue with an orange cat on the front. Shelly and her mom found it brand-new at the thrift store and it always goes in a drawer because it’s Shelly’s favorite. The room feels softer and more lived in around the edges with clothes everywhere—more comfortable.

Grandma grabs her purse as she sits at the table, pulling out the money she and Shelly made for the ghost dog. “Is this useful?”

Mom looks surprised. “For just one ghost?”

“The lady was rude,” Shelly says, leaning over to scoop noodles from the pan and onto her plate. “She talked about burning sage to cleanse the spirits from her home, but it was just a little dog.”

Mom laughs, setting the cash down on the table. “One of those clients,” she says. “You need to get more rich people who don’t know anything about the dead—this is the kind of money we need around here.”

“It was a one-time thing,” Grandma says, shaking her head. “I don’t want to seem like some kind of fraud.”