My GPS got me right to the brownstone apartment building where Michael Swenor lived. Or used to live. I was lucky to find it without getting lost, because the whole way all I could think about was that pinched old lady who tried to push me into the speeding train.

Surrender the key.

Was she a ghost too? She sure popped in and out quickly enough. That’s not exactly normal. Or human.

I looked down at the sidewalk. Was I standing on the very spot where Michael Swenor had hit the ground? The thought gave me the creeps, so I jumped away and ran up the cement steps to the front door. Inside was an entryway with another door, which led to the lobby. That second door was locked. I scanned the row of buttons on the wall. Each had a name and an apartment number next to it. There was only one that mattered.

Swenor. Apartment 4B. Top floor.

I hesitated. What if Mrs. Swenor was there? What would I say to her? She wasn’t going to feel like talking to a crazy kid about her husband’s ghost. I actually took a step back, ready to run the heck out of there, but forced myself to stop. The fear of not knowing why I was being haunted was even scarier than facing a sad lady.

I pressed the button next to her name.

Five seconds passed. Maybe nobody was home. Or maybe she was in the shower. I didn’t want to buzz again, because that would be rude. I waited a few more seconds, wondering if I should take off, when the speaker came to life.

“Yes?” came a woman’s small, frail voice. It sounded as though she had just woken up.

My throat closed. Just as well. I hadn’t thought of what I was going to say, anyway.

“Is someone there?” she asked.

“M-Mrs. Swenor?” I said meekly.

“Can I help you?” she asked, now sounding more awake and a little irritated.

“I hope so,” I said tentatively. “You don’t know me, but—”

“I’m not talking to any more reporters,” she said curtly. “Go away.”

“I’m not a reporter,” I said quickly, as if grasping for a lifeline that was being pulled out of reach. “My name’s Marcus O’Mara. I live in—”

A harsh buzzer sound made me jump. It came from the inside door. It took a second for me to realize she was letting me in. I leapt for the door, grabbed the knob, and pulled it open. There was no turning back now. I walked quickly to the elevator and rode the creaky old box up to the fourth floor. Apartment 4B was at the end of a long, dark hallway. I stepped up to the door and was about to knock when it opened slowly.

My knees went rubbery. I hadn’t really thought I would get as far as this, and I went into total brain lock.

Mrs. Swenor peeked around the door. She was probably younger than my mother but looked a lot older. Her eyes were—I don’t know, hollow. I guess grief over losing your husband will do that. She wore gray NYU sweats and had her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Mrs. Swenor?” I asked tentatively.

When she focused on me, her face lit up. She actually broke out in a smile.

“Oh, Liam,” she said as she pulled the door open. She stepped forward quickly and wrapped her arms around me to give me a hug.

I don’t know what I was expecting from her, but it sure wasn’t that. I didn’t hug back. I didn’t know the lady, and I sure as heck wasn’t Liam.

Awkward.

She pulled back and held me at arm’s length. She was crying, but her tears seemed more like tears of joy than of sorrow because she kept smiling.

“Come in,” she said, and pulled me inside.

This felt totally wrong, but I was too stunned to do anything but go along. She led me down a short hallway and into the living room of the warm and homey apartment.

“Sit,” she said as she brought me to a big old couch. “I want to take a good look at you.”

She didn’t let go of my hands as we both sat. The whole time, she kept looking me straight in the eye.

“I think you made a mistake,” I said. “My name isn’t Liam.”

She smiled warmly. “I know. It’s Marcus, right?”

“Yeah, and we’ve never met before. I’m here because…”

I stopped myself. I couldn’t bring myself to say the crazy words.

“It’s okay,” she said kindly. “Tell me.”

“It’s not going to make sense.”

Mrs. Swenor turned serious. “Marcus, I promise, there’s nothing you could say that would surprise me.”

She wiped her eyes and gave me a pleasant smile.

“I…I’m sorry about your husband,” I said, figuring that was the best way to start.

“Thank you. Do you know anything about him?”

What I wanted to say was Absolutely. His ghost has been haunting me! Does that count? But that wouldn’t have been cool.

“Not really” was my answer.

“Would you like to?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said with relief.

“Michael was a great person. A firefighter. The kind of guy who was always the first to run into a burning building.” She took a deep, sad breath. “I worried that something terrible would happen to him at work. I never imagined that the terrible thing could happen right here at home.”

“I’m sorry” was all I could think of saying.

She got herself back together and continued. “Michael also had a hobby. I guess that’s what you’d call it. He investigated paranormal events.”

I sat bolt upright.

“Really?”

“It was mostly online research. It wasn’t like he was traveling around to haunted houses or anything. It was all done right here. So many times he’d come bursting out of his office, all excited because he’d solved a mystery about how someone died or why a house was haunted.”

Her voice trailed off as if the memories she was digging up were painful. “That was a long time ago,” she finally said. “Twelve years. He suddenly stopped and never mentioned another word about anything to do with the paranormal.”

“Why did he stop?” I asked.

Her pained expression made me feel as though she had something to say that wouldn’t be easy.

“Michael had a partner. His best friend. They did the investigations together. I liked him. His wife too. We were all good friends.”

Her voice caught as if she was fighting back a wave of sad memories.

“Why did you call me Liam?” I asked, trying to get her mind onto something else.

She smiled as if remembering better times. “Because that’s who you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“But you are. I’ve known you since you were a baby.”

My head started to spin. Was this lady off her nut?

She added, “Besides, you look just like your father.”

“Wha—? You know my father?” I exclaimed, my heart racing.

“I do. He was the friend of my husband’s I told you about.”

I jumped to my feet.

“No way!” I shouted. “My father’s not a…a…ghostbuster. If you really knew him, you’d know how impossible that is.”

“I’m not talking about Ed O’Mara,” she said.

“But that’s my father,” I shot back.

“I know. Your adoptive father. I’m talking about your biological father.”

The rush of adrenaline nearly knocked me over.

“You knew my real father?” I exclaimed.

“Your mother too. They were our best friends. Michael was so upset when they died that he completely stopped his investigations. He was done with it all…until last week. Something happened that scared him, Marcus. He kept saying that it was back and it was real.”

“What was back?” I asked.

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

I was getting dizzy and had to sit back down.

“There’s more,” Mrs. Swenor said. “Michael kept saying he had to tell someone about what had happened. Someone special. But he never got the chance.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“He said he had to tell you, Marcus.”