I can’t imagine my father sitting down to dinner with me, much less arriving at Anora’s to drink wine and chat with Jayne. Still I say, “They would love that.” I look at Anora. “Do you cook?”

She seems surprised by my question. “With Mom,” she says.

“Anora’s being modest. She’s a great cook but an even better baker.”

“You’ve been holding out on me,” I accuse playfully. “I demand cookies!”

“Mom’s exaggerating. I’m not that great.”

“I am not!” Jayne laughs. “She likes to bake at night. In New York, she had the whole house smelling like cake at midnight.”

Anora goes rigid in her seat at the mention of New York, but Jayne doesn’t seem to realize her error. I catch it, hold it tight, and pin Anora with a pointed stare. Was that why Natalie couldn’t find Anora’s school record in Chicago? Because they were actually from New York? The same state where Chase Lockwood died?

Jayne continues, laughing. “Did I mention she likes to dance too?”

“Dance?” I lift my brow, quirk my lips, watching her. What I’m really asking is: New York?

“Mom’s…misremembering,” she says tightly.

“Nonsense, Anora.” Jayne looks at me. “She dances and sings when she bakes. I used to creep into the living room and listen to her. She has the prettiest voice.”

Anora seems surprised. Her eyes widen just before they fall to her food, her face flushed. There is silence for a moment, and the lull allows a strange, suffocating tension to settle. I take a deep breath, inhaling the thick air.

“Well, you both surpass me. I can’t even cook an egg.”

Jayne laughs while I feel Anora’s anxiety rise like a tide, swelling. For the remainder of lunch, she’s disengaged from conversation and doesn’t touch her food, preferring to keep one hand on a gold chain at her neck while she chews her lip. I wonder what is on the end of that necklace.

“It was great having you over, Shy. I’ll talk to Guiliana about dinner sometime,” Jayne says as we walk to the door.

“I look forward to it, Ms. Silby.”

Anora walks me to my car. She’s quiet, and I can tell by the look on her face she’s still trying to figure me out. She’s smart. All that small talk might have convinced another human I wasn’t after anything, but Anora has seen things. Experienced things. She knows my tactics.

Because someone’s used them before.

“New York?” I finally ask.

“Mom misspoke.”

I raise a brow but don’t press, because I’m worried if I do, she’ll ask me more about the scythe.

“Does your mom know you can see the dead?” I ask.

She sort of laughs, like that’s a ludicrous idea. “No. She just thinks I’m a crazy kid.”