Mrs. Flood poured a cup of coffee for Charlie, then herself, then sat down. She still seemed embarrassed, and Alice couldn’t think of a way of relieving her of that embarrassment. Was she self-conscious about her memory? Afraid that they’d report back to Richard that his mom was losing it? When the silence went on for a while, Mrs. Flood stood up again. “Excuse me, girls, I forgot the cookies. Stay where you are. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as Mrs. Flood was out of earshot, Charlie leaned across the table and said, “Better get those cookies to go. I’ve had about enough of this. And we’ve been here now for”—checking the clock on her iPhone—“fifty-seven minutes. You have three minutes to wrap this up.”

“Or what? You’ll turn into a pumpkin?”

“Not a pumpkin, a punk,” Charlie said, clearly pleased with her phrasing. “As in a very rude person.”

Alice made sad clown face at Charlie.

“I’m serious, Allie. Ticktock, ticktock.”

“First of all, you’ve been kind of rude all lunch.”

“And that was without trying. Imagine how rude I can be if I put my mind to it.”

“Second of all, we can’t just run off, leave her with a bunch of dirty dishes. Clearly she doesn’t get too many visitors.”

Charlie shrugged. “Not my problem. It’s spooky here. Like being in a haunted house.”

Alice stood, stepped away from the table, her eye caught by a photograph on the mantel. Camilla, fifteen or sixteen, on her stomach reading a book. She was in Alice’s room, or rather, in her room that was now Alice’s. (Alice recognized the headboard on the bed Camilla was lying across.) So Richard did give Alice his daughter’s old room. She knew it. “Oh really?” Alice said distractedly to Charlie. “Because I don’t see any ghosts.”

“That’s because you’re not looking in the mirror.”

Alice put down the photo, turned to her sister. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you are the ghost.” A beat, while Alice stared. “Isn’t it obvious?” Charlie said. “She thinks you’re Camilla.”