“Because Sophie was genuinely upset, and I wanted her to calm down enough to let me get her to a shelter for the night. It didn’t work—she slept under an overpass, but I think she might be safer there. The city won’t let her get hurt, and I had work to do. They’re gone, Jenna. Not just the ones you know. The ones who keep to themselves, the ones like you, they’re gone, too. Some of them have been haunting this city for centuries, and now they’re nowhere to be seen.”
I didn’t know anyone knew all the ghosts of New York. There’s no union, no government, no central authority that tells us what to do. I know there are some support groups Uptown, masquerading as grief counseling, where the dead gather and talk about how hard it is to keep their footing in a world that insists on changing all the time. Some people say there’s a vigilante in Chelsea, creeping down alleys and offloading hours onto muggers and thieves. I’ve always assumed that last was exaggerated, or Delia, or both. The fact remains that New York has a lot of ghosts. For all of them to be gone . . .
“How do you know?”
“City’s full of glass and mirrors. I’m a witch, and you’re the dead. I know.”
“But we’re not all gone. I’m still here. Delia’s still here.”
“I know.” Brenda’s frown deepens. “Jenna, I want you to understand that I’m not accusing you of anything. You didn’t do this.”
I blink. “What?”
“I had to consider it. You’re still here, and so many ghosts who are older than you, more established than you, aren’t. You’ve always been very committed to your own idea of ethical behavior. Many of them are not. You could have decided that they were a pox upon the living, and started luring them into glass. Don’t look so surprised. The best ghost-hunters have always been dead themselves. No one catches a ghost like a ghost does.”
My voice feels as dead as the rest of me as I struggle to whisper, “But I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”
“I know.” Brenda isn’t frowning this time. She said those same words only a second ago, but now they’re soft, gentle, like she’s trying not to scare me. “You may not like how some ghosts spend their time, but you’d never interfere. You’ve always been willing to let others make their choices. It’s part of why I respect you. That’s why I know you’ll tell me the truth when I ask . . . Jenna, is Delia doing this? Did she decide she got to choose the afterlives of others?”
“What?” My voice is back. That’s nice. It’s a little too loud. Heads turn, people looking curiously in our direction before they go back to their own food and conversations.
Brenda looks at me, mouth tight, and asks, in a softer voice, “Is this your landlady?”
“No. I can’t—no.” I shake my head. I know she’s wrong, I know it, but finding the words is difficult. At last, I settle on “Danny’s missing too. He used to have the apartment downstairs from me. Even if Delia were doing this, she wouldn’t hurt Danny. He’s one of her children.” She never had kids while she was alive. Her tenants—her dead ones, anyway—we’re her kids. We’re the ones who come over for the holidays and submit to her enthusiastic hugs, who hold her brushes when she’s painting in Central Park, who know how to take care of Avo when she decides she needs to go haunt her husband’s grave for a week every September.
I believe Delia could hurt people. I believe anyone can hurt people. Humanity is endlessly capable of doing harm, and that doesn’t change just because someone has died. But I can’t believe Delia would hurt Danny.
Dimly, I realize that I’ve accepted that the missing dead have been harmed: they’re not just off doing something interesting, distracted from the minutiae of the living by the appearance of a new haunted house or the ghost of a famous person. I died long after Marilyn moved on to whatever waits for ghosts on the other side of this world, but apparently, when she stepped out of her grave and into the light, she was greeted by a legion of adoring fans and interested onlookers. A famous ghost can pull people from hundreds of miles away, just because it’s something to do.
“Delia would never hurt Danny.” It’s a statement of fact, small and simple and undeniable. “Sometimes she gives time back to muggers, to make a point, and I guess that hurts them. But she wouldn’t hurt Danny, and she wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Whoever’s doing this hasn’t hurt you,” says Brenda. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” I worry the skin on my left thumb between my teeth. “I don’t get out much. I mostly just work and take care of the cats and try to be nice to people.”
“Still, it would be possible to catch you alone. Not hard, even.” Brenda glances at her guitar. “I think we need to talk to Sophie.”
“Sophie never makes sense.”
Brenda smiles. “You just haven’t been talking to her under the right circumstances.”
7: Streetwise, Shadowfoolish