Sandra’s mouth drooped, and her shoulders slumped. She wheezed for a long minute, losing her upbeat appearance, fumbling for a handkerchief. Then she straightened slowly, drew a deep breath, coughed again. Now her expression was bleak, as if her natural optimism had faded. Her gaze fixed directly on the camera.

“I love you, Clare. Please accept the gift, learn to live with it. I know it will be hard for you, harder than it was for me, but please . . . try.” Sandra blinked rapidly. She gulped. “I don’t want to see you hurt . . . or follow after me so soon.”

Clare gulped with her.

Sandra sat up even straighter. “You can do it.” She put a clenched fist over her heart—that old and fading heart. “I know you can.” Sandra lifted her droopy chin. “And I know you can be better than me. You have a good heart, lovey. Use it, let your heart rule your head for a little bit, please?”

Both Clare and her aunt Sandra inhaled at the same time. “Do this for me, first. If you think you really, truly can’t, open the envelope my attorney is mailing you today. There are more consequences for the family, besides your death, if you refuse the gift.”

Tremor after tremor rolled through Clare as she hugged herself.

Sandra cleared her throat. “Enough of that right now.” She gestured to a low and sturdy prairie-style table where her journals were stacked. “I’ve written now and then about my experiences, telling you some stories. And sometimes wrote down what I think the rules to be about our gift, and whatever I recall Uncle Amos telling me.”

“Rules,” murmured Clare.

Sandra smiled wistfully. “I’m sure you’re thinking about ‘rules’ now.” Her fingers fiddled with the fringe of her jacket and her gaze shifted to the side . . . looking out the window, Clare knew. For an instant she grieved that she’d sold that beautiful house . . . but her parents would never settle and her brother lived in Williamsburg, Virginia.

Sighing, Sandra said, “I’m afraid you won’t find my journals in good order, Clare.” Another flex upward of Sandra’s lips. “I’d have done better if I’d been a teacher.” She stared directly at the camera again, “I wanted to be a teacher, did you know?” Shrugging, she went on. “But I made a very good life for myself.” And Clare saw cheer bolster Sandra’s body. She chuckled. “And the ghosts can be very entertaining.”

One last intimate look. “I think that you are regretting not seeing me, feeling guilty. Don’t do that, lovey. We both had lives to live.” She looked to the side, “But John, John Dillinger here, says mine is coming to a close, and I’ll pass in peace and have help all the way to whatever is next. You can do it, lovey. Be well. I love you.” She blew a kiss and the video went dark.

Clare looked at the ghosts, Jack Slade and Enzo, thinking of rules and consequences. “You’ll hurt me if I don’t . . . help you?”

Jack Slade scowled.

Enzo yipped and slurped her cheek with a cold tongue. Of course not.

The . . . universe . . . works in strange ways, Slade the ghost said.

Clare managed a nod.

Jack Slade said, Gifts are given with strings attached. He stared beyond her. I had talents I used, and a sense of justice; sometimes they were great burdens, and I did well at first . . . but I didn’t overcome my problems. He switched back to looking at her. Don’t be like me.

Licking dry lips, Clare asked, “If you . . . if ghosts don’t hurt me . . . what happens to me?”

With a shrug, Slade said, I don’t know. His strong chin jutted. I haven’t been near a ghost seer in a long time. It ain’t a talent that comes around often . . . at least not around here. He smiled, and there was humor and gentleness and compassion. I’d be honored if you helped me out.

“Out of where?” Clare muttered between cold lips.

His face hardened. This hellish existence of no life, of memories and no reality, of impasse. His eyes narrowed. I listened to the old one speak of your family and your gift, and us.

Enzo barked.

The old one, Great-Aunt Sandra. Clare stared at the ghost; he appeared a little more dissipated, but Slade-the-ghost had not made old bones, he’d lived to thirty-three.

She shivered again. Older than she if she died soon.

Clare lowered her head between her knees. Her heart raced at the threat to her life.

She thought of Zach Slade . . . the sexy man, and ignored Jack the demanding ghost—though both men were tough enough to handle life-and-death situations every day of their life. She was a sissy marshmallow.

And handling life-and-death situations on a regular basis had harmed both of them; she saw that, too, through the black spots floating before her eyes and as her torso went up and down from her pumping breath.

But nobody other than she could save herself. She had to do it.

Alone. Because who would believe her?

If you don’t accept your gift that you can see ghosts, then you will die. And if you don’t help them, you can go crazy, Enzo said.

Clare jerked in a shudder. Exactly what she’d always feared—madness. She was living in it now.

The video clicked off. End of the post-grave “instructions” from weird Aunt Sandra. Clare held on to that appellation as if it were a lifeline rope and she hung over a cliff after an avalanche, pebbles still pinging against her body.

What Sandra had babbled about was what Sandra had believed. This was not the truth. Not reality.

She spoke the truth, and you know it. Deep in your marrow, in the depths of your mind and your heart, you know this, Enzo said.

The alarm Clare had set for an hour before tea with Mrs. Flinton pinged. She stood on shaky legs and rubbed her arms under the long linen sleeves of her blouse. She’d dressed professionally again in a skirt suit but was suddenly sick of that, the past she held on to so strongly.

Heading toward the shower, she stood under it until she felt nearly hot and better, then dressed in a short-sleeved dress with a hem longer than she usually wore to keep her legs warmer. She picked up a sweater just in case Mrs. Flinton’s mansion had air-conditioning.

Clare would be seeing Zach. That was a definite plus, though she still hadn’t taken the time to do a search about him on her computer—later.

So many things she was putting off until later, a new and bad habit, since at work she usually tackled the most distasteful task first. All right, she definitely was fumbling with stuff in her life—but, again, as Dr. Barclay had pointed out, she’d had a lot of stress factors lately.

With a map in hand of the circuitous route she would be driving to Mrs. Flinton’s, she headed out to her car. She’d like a new one but wouldn’t buy until . . . until.

Enzo followed her with no goofy comments and hopped through the door into the passenger seat, and her stomach clenched, feeling very empty. She grimaced. There’d be solid food to soak up the damn acid soon enough.

The drive went well; she must have kept her imagination under wraps because she saw very few apparitions. Five minutes away from reaching Mrs. Flinton’s, she realized she was too early, so Clare drove around a few neighborhoods.

Large shady trees threw shadows over the streets, and she felt nearly warm in the ninety-seven-degree weather. She seesawed back to denial, refusing to consider that her body temperature indicated something was wrong with her. Or that a spectral dog was curled up asleep on her passenger seat.

Then she saw it. Her gaze caught on a bright green-and-white real estate sign first, and she slowed and pulled up in front of the house, holding her breath and hoping Enzo wouldn’t wake.

Slowly, slowly, she hit the lever to move the seat back, hoping the wonky thing wouldn’t stick and would be quiet. She opened the sunroof. Equally carefully, she stood and turned, staring at a Tudor-inspired house of brown brick and roof. It was framed by beautiful bushes and mature trees, with ivy along one side of the house. The exterior wall showed that distinctive plaster and half-timbered wood—surrounding a doorway that was a rectangle with a pointed top. The most charming features were the leaded glass windows, one bowing out round in the front.