Sam leaned back, a thoughtful frown on his face, and she hurried forward. She needed to get this all out. “I told you earlier it was like something that happened to someone else.” She paused while he nodded. “But that’s not—that’s not exactly right. When I was in it, it was real. I just wasn’t me.”

“Who did you think you were?” He looked at her like he already knew the answer.

“Right afterwards? I thought I was living the ghost’s story. That I had just experienced her death. I was so sure, Sam. I would have bet my entire fortune on it.”

“And now?”

“Now … now I believe that’s what I was supposed to think. All the hauntings, all the horrible visions you’ve recorded from people who lived here, they’re all violent deaths, aren’t they? We all think we know the truth of the ghost that’s touched us, the reason they’re lingering on. That’s why we don’t know how many there are. You called it an infestation.”

Sam nodded, his eyes steady on hers. “Go on.”

Alva took a deep breath. “All right. We all see different things. You’ve recorded what, five different encounters? But here’s the thing: I don’t think we have five different ghosts. I think we have one.”

Sam stiffened, but he didn’t interrupt. He kept watching her.

“We’ve been assuming the hauntings are basically random,” she continued. “Or at least that there’s no particular connection between the ghost and the person that’s haunted. But what I saw…”

She trailed off, a dead, tired feeling blooming inside her chest.

“I’m going to tell you some things about my past,” she began, dragging the words up through her throat. “I’m giving this information to you to use scientifically, but I need you to understand that I’m not ever going to want to discuss it again, or face your pity, or your sympathy. All right?”

“Alva—”

“No, Sam. All right?”

There was a long silence as they stared at each other across the table.

“All right,” Sam said at last, inclining his head slightly.

“You know my marriage was unhappy. What you don’t know is that it was violent. Alain hated me, and when he was angry, or threatened—which was often—he enjoyed reminding me of that. Physically.”

“Oh, Alva.” Sam’s voice was soft, and she heard the lack of surprise, the forbidden pity. The pity could not be tolerated. It made it too real, not like a set of facts that had happened to someone else, but like something that had happened to her. Years that had happened to her.

She set her shoulders. “It’s not uncommon for a husband to use … bodily coercion … upon his wife.”

“It should be,” Sam said gently. “It should be illegal.”