Agatha lifted a hand to Eloise, who took it.
Once long ago, Agatha had turned up on Eloise’s doorstep. She’d seen Eloise on the evening news, shortly after Alfie’s and Emily’s passings, and knew immediately that Eloise needed a visit. Eloise had been in the throes of despair, grieving, trying to understand what was happening to her. And Agatha, a seasoned medium with years of experience under her belt, had guided her with a firm and loving hand into the next phase of her life. If it hadn’t been for her friend, Eloise might have been consumed by misery. Still, Eloise always thought of herself as a bad student. So many things Agatha had tried to teach, Eloise never learned. Finley was already better at those things—setting boundaries, saying when. Agatha was a vastly superior teacher for Finley than Eloise because she had, like Finley, grown into her abilities at a young age. They hadn’t been thrust upon her in midlife, in the wake of tragedy.
“You are a part of this place, Eloise,” said Agatha. “Like the tree in your yard, rooted deep into the earth, your branches reaching up to the stars.”
The Whispers reached a crescendo, then fell off, growing softer. They demanded that she listen. And Eloise had been listening. She’d done little else, her life devoted to answering the call. She didn’t have any regrets. Sorrows, but not regrets. She closed her eyes and let the cool wind caress her. When she opened them again, Agatha was gone. Eloise was alone in the gazebo.
She sat there for she didn’t know how long, listening. And then finally, perhaps for the first time, she took the advice she’d just given to Finley that morning. She heard.
As Finley climbed off her bike, her cell phone chimed.
howz it goin freakshow?
Her brother Alfie.
id try to explain, but ur such a muggle u wont get it, she typed back.
hangin with dead people cuz u can’t make frenz who breathe
at least my friends dont drag their knuckles on the ground and beat their chests
oo oo ah ah—seriously
its ok the hollows is a little lame. hows mom?
misses u. seems sad. seeing dad again.
Ugh. wus up w/u?
Ssdd
come on
all good—school, soccer, board—livin the dream
nothing weird?
i wish.
no you don’t
tell rainer I said hey
Finley’s brother Alfie was three years younger than she was and her opposite in every way. His hair was as sunshiny blond as hers was midnight black. He was big—tall with broad shoulders—where she was tiny. And he was totally normal, not a hint of any ability. He wasn’t even especially intuitive. He was the good boy—never in trouble, never causing their parents any grief—did well in school, total jock, competitive skateboarder. Alfie Max Montgomery was their mother’s favorite child. But Finley didn’t blame her for this. Alfie was Finley’s favorite, too. He was a soft place in a family full of hard angles. He was even nice enough to go by Alfie when he really wanted to be called Max—a way better name for a skater punk.
Finley always thought her name was a living symbol of how badly her parents got along, even in the early days. Her given name was Emily Finley Montgomery; her mother had insisted on naming her after Finley’s deceased Aunt Emily. Phil was totally against it, something about the cyclical nature of existence and One Hundred Years of Solitude—bad juju. There was a big fight, which ended in the compromise that they’d give their baby both names and let her choose when she was old enough. Finley was three when she made her choice. She didn’t want to be named after a dead person.
Same deal with Alfie; Amanda wanted to name her son after her father; Phil wanted Max—because it was a cool name. Both children bore Amanda’s last name; she’d kept her last name in the marriage and felt her children should have it, too. Another thing that drove Phil crazy.
“After I carried them in my body for nine months, delivered them naturally, and breast-fed for a year—why in the world would they get your last name? Because of some anachronistic idea of paternal lineage? Grow up, Philip.”
Control, control, control. That was Amanda’s thing.
If she misses me, Finley thought (with a little twinge of guilt), it’s only that I’ve escaped her grasp. Of course, that wasn’t quite true or entirely fair, but Finley didn’t want to think about her mother right now.
She stuffed her phone in her jacket pocket and walked up the drive to Cooper’s office as a golden patina of early afternoon light broke through gunmetal clouds. The house had a bright red door with a gold knocker, an autumn wreath. On the stoop sat a chaos of brightly colored ceramic pots.