He indicated the stacks of papers and folders scattered all over the table and the floor around it. Boo nodded, made a quick circuit of the room, and planted herself next to him. Stephen came in a moment later. He was dressed in a worn and slightly baggy pair of jeans. I’m not sure they were supposed to be baggy; I think he was just thin. With his striped black sweater, red scarf, and glasses, he really looked like a student, probably in the English department. Someone who quoted Shakespeare for fun and used Latin terms for things. He did not, under any circumstances, look like a cop. But as soon as he saw us, he got that look on his face—instantly focused.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Boo said. “I just brought Rory round.”

“Why?”

No. They didn’t want me here. Boo had not caught on to this.

“I was thinking,” she said. “We should go ghost-spotting. Rory’s never been.”

Stephen stood there for a minute, gripping his newspaper.

“Can I speak to you in the other room for a moment?” he said.

Boo got up, and the two of them disappeared into another room. Callum continued to sip his tea and watch me. In the other room, I could hear a very animated conversation, one low voice (Stephen’s) and one relatively higher voice (Boo’s). I distinctly heard Stephen say, “We are not social services.” The higher voice seemed to be winning.

“I didn’t ask to come here,” I said. “I mean, here, to this apartment. Today.”

“Oh, I know.” Callum stretched lazily and turned to watch the door where the conversation was going on. Last time, I had taken in the basics about Callum—he was black, he was shorter than Stephen, he was extremely well built, and he wasn’t thrilled about my presence. All of those things remained true today. In the daylight and in slightly less shock, I could take in some more. Like Boo, Callum had an athlete’s build—he wasn’t huge, just well developed in what looked like a very deliberate way. His face was round, with wide, appraising eyes and a mouth that always seemed to be cocked in a half smirk. He had very thick, very straight eyebrows, one of which was sliced through by a scar.

“What’s the thing on your arm?” I asked, pointing at his tattoo. “Is that some kind of monster?”

“It’s a Chelsea lion,” he said patiently. “For the football club.”

“Oh.”

I wasn’t being stupid. It didn’t look like a lion. It looked like a skinny dragon with no wings.

“So how do you like England so far?” he asked.

“It’s kind of weird. You know. Ghosts. Jack the Ripper.”

He nodded.

“Where are you from?” he said. “That accent?”

“Louisiana.”

“Where’s that again?”

“In the South,” I said.