I’m filling the fourth thermos with coffee when Belinda wanders into the kitchen the next morning.
“And I thought yesterday’s was good.” She accepts the cup I hand her.
“Fresh beans from the Coffee Depot,” I say. “They finished roasting them this morning.”
She slumps against the refrigerator and sighs. “God, I could get used to this. Do you need me to scrub toilets or something? Because you could pay me in cups of coffee to do that.”
I almost laugh. The only thing that stops me is the question swirling in my mind, the one I must ask Belinda but dread doing so.
“Actually,” I say, “I could use your help.”
“Sure.”
She pulls up a chair, but before she can sit, I spring my question.
“How do you talk to ghosts?”
Belinda lands hard, chair legs stabbing the kitchen floor. Amazingly, she h
