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for my actions. I’ll figure it all out on my own.”
    â€œIt’s not that simple. I know it might not feel like it, but you did well. Your energy is extreme, but . . .” His voice trails off and then he meets my eyes. “Don’t worry—you’ll find ways to help everyone you love move forward.”
    His tone is gentle again. I soften, letting my frustration give way to sadness as I sink down onto my bed. Thatcher scans the room once, taking in each corner of my old life, and then he comes back to the bed and sits down with me. When I look up at him, I notice a tiny scar on the left side of his chin. I wonder how he got it.
    â€œBut how do I move forward?”
    â€œI need you to be patient while you learn,” he says. “You are not to haunt anyone unless I’m by your side. Do you understand?”
    â€œYes.” I’ve always been independent, willing to explore new things, but it’s not like I can research this realm on Google and figure out where I need to go or what I need to do. As much as I hate to admit it, I also seem to have no instincts when it comes to this haunting business. It felt horrible trying to make Nick see and hear me without any response from him. Thatcher is the only thing here that makes me believe that I still exist .
    Then he stands up, and panic rises in my chest. I don’t want to go anywhere, not now. “No, I’m not leaving my house. I need to stay here. I want to see my father—”
    â€œCallie, I swear to you, you’ll see your father,” says Thatcher. “Right now let’s just take a break.”
    I look down at my yellow area rug, all tufted and bright except for the worn-in spot where I step out of bed in the mornings. I want to lie down under my soft comforter and sleep forever, only waking up if I can start this day all over again.
    â€œI don’t want to go,” I whisper.
    â€œI know,” he says, a tinge of regret in his voice, like he does know.
    â€œDid you . . .” Within the depths of his gray-blue eyes is an openness, an honesty that draws me in. “Did you, you know, haunt your family?”
    He turns away from me. “I tried.”
    The back of his neck stiffens.
    â€œDo you still haunt them?” I ask.
    â€œNot really,” he says, turning to me again. “But sometimes I—”
    His eyes meet and hold mine. I see him struggling to find the words. For the first time, he seems almost as vulnerable as I feel.
    â€œSometimes you . . . ,” I prod gently.
    Sadness flickers in his eyes, and he doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead he says, “We’ll come here again very soon.”
    I decide not to push him. “Promise?”
    â€œI promise.”
    â€œIt wasn’t Nick’s fault. My death, I mean.”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œYou know how I died?” I ask.
    â€œI know enough.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to hurt anyone, to cause so much sorrow.”
    â€œWe never do.” Thatcher’s voice holds an immense amount of understanding. I wonder who-all he hurt. Maybe I do need to trust him. It’s clear that reaching out to Nick on my own won’t work—I can’t even connect with a perfume bottle, let alone a person.
    â€œWill I ever be able to tell him that?” I ask. “That it wasn’t his fault?”
    â€œYes,” Thatcher says, creating a portal and motioning for me to stand up.
    And I do, because I want to believe him.

Six
    KALMIA, MAGNOLIAS, AND ROSES are growing in this perfectly kept garden. It’s dark outside, but I’d know this spot even if I were blindfolded.
    â€œMiddleton Place,” I whisper.
    After speeding through the portal, I find the stillness of the historic plantation startling, almost like a quiet morning after a torrential rainstorm. We’re on Ashley River Road, right along the water. There’s a main house with