“If you like trains, the next time you guys come visit your grandma, you should go to the depot,” Ryan said.

Kimmy squinted at the sun, then at Ryan. “You didn’t answer, though, if you believe in ghosts.”

Ryan tapped his fingers over the water before him, like it was a table. “I don’t wanna put something in your head that’s gonna get you in trouble with your priest, have you saying Hail Marys for the next ten years.”

“I don’t always tell him everything I’m thinking,” Kimmy ventured.

“I think believing in ghosts is a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Ryan said. “Same with believing in anything that can’t be proven. Like God. Or karma. Anything that’s a feeling, not a fact.”

“You think those things are feelings, not facts?”

Ryan raised one shoulder indifferently.

Kimmy said, “What’s a self-fulfilling prophecy?”

“It means once you’ve decided you do or don’t believe in something, everything you see is just going to reinforce your decision.”

Kimmy considered this, then she said, “Wait, so do you think ghosts are real or not?”

“I think there’s a strong possibility.” Ryan slapped at some fish that had bonked up against his back underwater.

Kimmy gazed toward the beach and waved at her sister. Rae did not wave back. “I can’t ever tell if she’s ignoring me,” Kimmy said, “or if she’s just not seeing me.”

Lisa and Poppy stood together in the kitchen as Lisa stirred her sangria with a butter knife. The pale skin of her cheeks was a patchwork of delicate ruddy veins, and Poppy didn’t know if this was from twenty minutes of midday sun or whatever it was that she had just witnessed at the front door.

Lisa said, “Have you heard of Megan’s Law?”

Poppy nodded. “Girl was abducted by her neighbor a couple years back, right? The guy killed her.”

“That’s right,” Lisa said. “The guy was living right across the street from Megan’s family for years and had some prior convictions, sexual offenses, served his time. The parents didn’t have a clue. After she was killed, they advocated to change the law on making that information public, so parents can know if they’re living next to somebody with a record.”

“Sure,” Poppy said. “I remember reading about that.”

“The story hit close to home for me because Kimmy was about the same age as Megan back when it happened. And the idea that that guy was living so close to her family, right there the whole time, and those poor parents didn’t have a clue . . .”

“Why’ve you got something like that on your mind?” Poppy said. “You watching too much late-night Forensic Files?”

Lisa said, “I know this sounds like total paranoia, but ever since then I’m in the habit of getting names off the registry.”

“How’s that?”

“The sex offenders registry. Any local police department will give you a list of names and addresses if you ask.”

Poppy stared at her. “And?”

“There’s no one in our neighborhood at home,” Lisa said, “no one near the girls’ schools. But”—a chill shook through her shoulders—“I always get the list for any place we’re vacationing, too. It’s total paranoia,” she said again, “but I want to know. Not that I’d do anything or say anything, but I’d just want to know.”