She stood there, since she disliked the specially made window seat pads the former owners had left. Looking out at the green and grassy front yard, the brick wall and iron gate, pleasure welled through her.

Her gaze was caught by a fluttering—a white and misty pulsing—at the window of the second floor of the Spanish-influenced house across the street.

Hand at her throat, she drew back in horror and spun to stare at Enzo, who lay on one section of the wide butterscotch leather couch her aunt had had in her consulting room . . . much as the live dog had done.

“I shouldn’t be able to see any ghosts in this area . . . in this neighborhood . . . it was built too late for my time period, in the twenties!”

Enzo lifted his head, then loped over to the window, hopped onto the semicircular window seat, and stared out.

Clare found her hands in her hair, tugging, as she muttered. “There are rules, right? I need to understand the darn rules!”

There are always . . . anomalies, Enzo said. But you are not experienced enough to handle THAT specter. Maybe in a few years. We should not discuss this, now. He seemed to shiver, then ran back to the corner of the couch and curled into it.

“Great. Just great. The view from this window is ruined for me.” She tromped back to the couch. Yes, she was being a drama queen! Sniffing, she rubbed her arms. She’d turned on the air-conditioning, hadn’t she? Because August continued to be record breaking? Yes, she had, and now she wished she hadn’t.

With a little more control she sank into the couch. She’d hated the wild drama of her parents, and as they continued their out-of-control emoting, she didn’t spend much time with them, and she buttoned down her own tendencies to any great emotional reactions. But look what her gift had driven her to! She was changing and no longer recognizing herself. So she took a couple of those deep breaths that Enzo had coached her in when she’d had her meltdown a few days ago. Her cheeks heated as she thought of the mess she’d been in public.

“Anomalies,” she said quietly to Enzo, repeating that word. Anomalies in accounting never meant anything good—usually hours of work backtracking to a mistake . . . or fraud.

We will not talk of her now.

So the ghost across the way was female. Clare shrugged and thought about making two home offices, one for the regular business of her life, and the second for all the wretched books and research and whatever that seeing ghosts would entail. Yes, that was a good idea. Different computer, desk, and setup . . . she wondered what color to paint that office . . . and maybe put it on the first floor instead of the second floor. Her real office would be next to her bedroom.

A couple of minutes passed before a chill no longer skidded along her skin. The contemplation of good, solid, practical ideas had helped with that. Another deep breath. She’d get through this, and without drama.

Enzo hopped down from the couch to walk over and sit about a pace away from her. He cocked his head and looked her up and down, his forehead wrinkling. You have only helped SIMPLE ghosts pass on, spirits without much trauma. Only one thump of his tail. The darkness of his eyes seemed to swirl.

Clare thought of the Native American. She figured he’d had plenty of trauma, she just hadn’t comprehended it. She swallowed, matching gazes with the dog. “What do you mean?” Her voice went high and her skin goose-bumped. She scrambled futilely for something else to think about, but . . . knowing the rules was important.

His mental voice began to take on that hollow depth she dreaded.

You think your gift demands the little effort you’ve expended so far? That helping souls transition is easy?

“No, no, I don’t think that at all,” she snapped.

A low thrum, not quite a growl, sounded in the phantom dog’s throat.

There is a special process for sending ghosts from this world to where they need to be.

All sorts of alarming ideas in that sentence made her brain hurt.

A process you must learn by doing.

She wet her lips. “A process I haven’t done and that isn’t easy,” she stated.

The dog dipped his muzzle and radiated sternness.

After an uneven breath taken and released, she held up a hand at the spectral Lab. “Let me guess. If I don’t learn to do this right, I’ll . . .” What would be the worst? “Go crazy,” she said. “Crazier.”

Enzo whimpered.

Clare gulped, then couldn’t fend off the emotional train wreck of the whole hideous week. Just when she’d thought she’d gotten better, accepted strange stuff that she never thought she’d believe in in a million years, the universe whacked her again. She burst into tears.

Flattening out on the couch, she let herself empty of tears, release all her anger and self-pity, sobbing, breath hitching, even letting a few wails out. When she thought of the loss of her great-aunt Sandra, she cried some more. She should have spent more time with her aunt that she’d loved, but Clare had wanted so much to be normal. Now she had regrets.

The door knocker banged, easily heard from where she lay. That had to be Zach. Naturally he’d show up when her face was red and blotchy, her eyes swollen.

Clare jackknifed up and yanked out tissues, took care of mopping up, though she wished she could take the time for a nice cold washcloth. Anyway, Zach was a manly man and probably didn’t care for tears. If she didn’t say anything about her crying jag, he probably wouldn’t.

When she opened the door, he examined her. “You okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He nodded.

She stepped back and let him into the entryway, saw him inhale the scent of well-cared-for wood and leather.

“Nice house. Really elegant.”

His eyes were those of a cop, scanning everything, checking for exits, no doubt.

She shut the large door behind him and gestured for him to follow her. “You want something to eat and drink? I have coffee, tea, milk . . . and two sorts of pie.”

He grinned and focused on her. “Pie? What kind of pie?”

“Blueberry with a crumb crust and—”

“Sold on the blueberry,” he said.

“Me, too.” But she walked slowly enough through the opening hall so he could check out the living room on the right and the door to the garage on the left before she turned toward the kitchen.

“Very elegant house. Know it cost you a bundle, looks worth it.”

She cringed as she thought of the price, then straightened the line of her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I have the money,” she said calmly, then glanced back at him and smiled. “I fell in love with the house.”

“Plenty to fall in love with,” he agreed.

Enzo loped up to them, straight through a wall. Zach is here, Clare! He wagged his whole body, the Other who used the ghost dog as a mouthpiece gone, leaving pure puppylike joy.

“Yes, Zach is here.” She glanced down at the dog.

He barked.

Zach’s hand clenched the handle of his cane, but he said courteously enough, “Hello, Enzo.”

He is talking to ME! He sees ME!

Clare stepped into the big kitchen with new appliances. “I don’t think Zach sees you, Enzo—”

“I don’t,” Zach said.

“But he hears you.” She waved to the counter where an untouched blueberry pie stood on a platter under a glass dome. She’d bought several pies for the movers, some of whom had been female and all of whom had appreciated the food and drinks.

“There’re some pizzas in the fridge.”

“Pizzas? Plural?”

“Yes. And some good beers and lagers, too.”

“You fed the movers.”

“Yes.” She could afford to be more generous now, to reward good work with more than sincere thanks. “I even gave both sets—the ones who moved me from my house, and the ones who showed up from Chicago with Great-Aunt Sandra’s things—a bonus.”