I should have made an effort. I should have met them before this. I should have lived.
The door closes behind the last guest. The only sound is Avo crunching on a piece of toast. The parrot has eaten enough to make up for the fact that I haven’t eaten anything at all, too nervous to stomach anything but air. I look to Brenda, and I wait.
“I don’t know where the other ghosts went,” says Brenda. “I know they were taken. I know someone out there is barring ghosts in glass. And I know Delia has to stay here.”
“I provide housing for more than just ghosts,” says Delia. She looks uncomfortable, like the words are bitter in her mouth. “There’s families, college students, people who’d be priced right out of what this city has turned into, if they didn’t have me to keep a roof over their heads.”
“What she’s not saying is that right now, she’s the senior ghost in Manhattan,” says Brenda. “That comes with certain responsibilities. One of them is staying here, in case new ghosts come along and need to be taught the rules of the city.”
“Delia’s always been good at doing that,” I say numbly.
“It was always just helping out in an unofficial capacity before,” says Delia. “Hopefully, it will be again soon, when those other ghosts come back. I don’t want to be in charge of anything. Being in charge of things will interfere with my painting something fierce.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
The phone rings.
We all turn toward it. I’m the first to find my voice. “No one from the hotline would be calling me at this hour, and today’s my day off from work,” I say. “No one should be calling me at all.” Because that’s the real tragedy of being a dead girl in a world filled with the living: no one calls. No one comes over for breakfast. I am a tourist here, in a place where I never belonged, and there are very few people who would miss me if I were gone.
“Aren’t you going to see who it is?” asks Delia, when the ringing gets to be too much.
I pick up the receiver. It’s cold and heavy in my hand. “Hello?”
“Jenna!” Danny sounds so relieved to hear my voice that it hurts. I almost drop the phone. “I was afraid you wouldn’t pick up.”
“Danny?” Brenda stiffens. Delia looks relieved. I try to focus on the sound of his voice. “Danny, where are you? We’re all worried sick. The ghosts are gone. All the ghosts are gone.”
“That’s why I’m hiding—because someone’s been stealing ghosts, and I don’t want to be next,” says Danny. “I was calling to make sure you were okay. Where are you, Jenna? Are you being safe? Are you being careful?”
“I’m at home,” I say, frowning. “You called me. You should know that. How did you get this number?” A lot of people who shouldn’t have my number have been calling me lately. It’s starting to get on my nerves.
“I—” Danny stops after that one syllable, leaving it hanging for several seconds before he says, “Just be careful. Stay in public places, if you can. Don’t go to the helpline. It’s too predictable. Try the park, or Times Square, someplace where no one can get you alone. I’ll do my best to call again.”
The line goes dead. I lower the receiver, frowning. “I never gave him my number,” I say. “How can he call me if he doesn’t have my number?”
“There are many kinds of witches,” says Brenda. Then, without giving me a chance to stop and think, she asks, “Where did the call originate?”
“Mill Hollow, Kentucky,” I say, with equal speed. Then I stop, blinking slowly, and turn to stare at her. “How did you . . . how did I . . .”
“Ghosts can always find home, and there had to be a reason you’d been left alone this long,” says Brenda. She looks to Delia. “Lock your doors and windows tight. It’s not safe here anymore. I know you can’t leave—”
“You know I won’t leave,” says Delia firmly.
Brenda smiles. “You won’t leave. Yes. But you need to stay secure, if you can. We don’t want Manhattan to come unmoored.”
Delia sobers. “No,” she agrees. “We don’t want that.”
I look between the two of them, and I have no idea what they’re talking about. If I’d lived—if I’d grown up and grown older as a living human girl—I’d be an adult by now. As it stands, in some ways, I’m still a child. I always will be, right up until I reach my dying day and step across the line into whatever waits for ghosts who have moved on. It’s frustrating under the best of circumstances. Right now, it’s terrifying.
“What does ‘unmoored’ mean?” I ask.