Chapter 8

When we broke for lunch, I followed him into his kitchen, glancing at the faux-brick backsplash and track-lit granite countertops.

“Are frozen burgers okay?” His head in the mini fridge’s freezer section, he spoke over his shoulder.

“Absolutely, can I help?”

“Nope, I’ll just nuke ’em.”

I pulled up a stool at the breakfast bar.

“Want the radio on?”

“It’s up to you.” Feeling like a visitor, I shrugged, unwilling to express a preference.

He pushed the button, and a country song twanged on the radio.

“A two-step.” His face lit up. “And you’ll be in town Friday. Interested in kicking up your heels?”

“I don’t know.” I wrinkled my nose. “I never really learned how to dance.”

“I’d be happy to teach you.” His dark eyes flickering, he held my gaze a beat too long.

I bet you would. A hot flash made me shrug off my sweater. “Thanks, but we’re keeping this arrangement strictly business, right?”

As he sliced the tomatoes, a slow smile warmed his face. “True, but nothing says business associates can’t socialize.”

I focused on his full lips, remembering how they felt, and his tantalizing grin melted my reserve.

The microwave beeped.

Attention refocused, I jumped from my seat. “Where do you keep your plates?”

“The second cupboard on the left, over the sink.”

Standing on tiptoe, I stretched to reach the dishes, and felt his gaze burn into my back. Turning, I lurched beneath his stare’s intensity.

The air was so electrically charged, I could barely catch my breath. Gathering my composure, I set the table and sat at the far end of the breakfast bar.

“Want anything to drink?” His voice was thick.

“Water’s good.” I tried to sound nonchalant despite my racing pulse.

He handed me a chilled bottle, set out the condiments and buns, brought the burgers to the bar, and took a seat.

Only the radio’s background music broke the silence.

After several uncomfortable minutes, I side-glanced. “Good burgers.”

“Thanks.” He dipped his head in a nod.

Then a country-western ballad about a cheating heart came on the radio.

Cody came to mind. Was he cheating? Did he find someone else? Is that why he broke our engagement? Reemerging, I shook off the resentment. “What’s on the agenda for this afternoon?”

“More of the same—pruning vines.”

Nodding, I collected the plates, then washed them under running water. “Since you cooked, I’ll do the dishes, and if we’re going to share the labor, it’s my turn to make dinner tonight.”

“Works for me.”

“Nothing fancy, but my cooking hasn’t poisoned anyone yet.” I set the plates in the dish rack to drain.

He chuckled deep in his throat.

Pushing aside thoughts of Cody, I wiped down the bar and counters, staying busy. “Did you hear about the Italian chef who died from food poisoning? He pasta way.”

“Ba-doomch.” Luke pantomimed tapping a snare drum. Then his slow smile returned. “Ready to trim vines?”

****

After dinner, I stretched, rotating my neck and shoulders. “I didn’t realize how much work was involved with vineyards.”

He chuckled. “You’ve put in a long day. Why don’t you relax, while I clean the kitchen?”

“Sounds good.” I hid a yawn behind my hand. “I’ve still got to unpack, then shower and turn in. What time do you want to start tomorrow?”

“Come around seven for coffee and breakfast. We can go into the fields when we finish.”

A yawn overtook me. “Sorry. See you in the morning.” With a wave, I let myself out, too tired to worry about my new surroundings.

I punched the code in the cabin’s keypad, pushed open the heavy wooden door and, as I entered my temporary quarters, again felt transported back in time. The viga beams’ dark wood contrasted against the whitewashed tongue and groove ceiling, and the focal point—the kiva fireplace’s hearth and mantle—seemed to smile, as if welcoming me home.

Then I noticed my bags waiting to be unpacked. Crap, knew I forgot something. I hung up my clothes, found homes for my toiletries, turned down the bed, and took a long, hot shower in the Talavera-tiled bath.

Exhausted, I climbed under the covers. Then something tickled my neck. Wide awake, I leaped from bed and turned on the light.

A silvery white feather lay centered on my pillow as if hand-placed.

This wasn’t here when I got in bed. Where did it come from?

I checked the door and windows—all bolted and locked. I glanced at the hearth’s glass doors—closed. Nothing could’ve flown in or blown in.

Twirling the downy feather in my fingers, I glimpsed the viga beams overhead but saw no perch for birds. Where did it come from? If not roosting birds, a pillow? I slipped off the pillowcases to check the material—fiberfill, not feathers.

Again, I tested the door. Luke wouldn’t have slipped in, would he? I shook my head. That doesn’t sound like him…yet he does have the keypad code…I drew an uneasy breath as I placed the feather on the nightstand.

Then I dragged the cedar chest in front of the door and brushed off my hands. Let’s see if anyone can push past that—even if they know the code.

****

The alarm woke me at 6:45 am. Yawning and stretching, I turned on the lamp and shrieked as I bolted from bed.

Another feather lay beside me on top of the duvet. Fluffy and silvery white, the feather resembled the first. How did those feathers get in this room?

Dressing quickly, I rushed to Luke’s and banged on his door.

“Good morn—”

“Did you leave these?” Outraged that he’d trespass while I showered or slept, I twirled the quills in his face.

He caught my hand as he eyed the feathers. “Where’d you find these?”

“On my bed…” I squinted, trying to see the situation more clearly. “Did you leave them?”

He shook his head. “Nope, but from the looks of them, they belong to long-tailed gray hawks. Maybe they have a nest nearby.”

“But how did the feathers get in the cabin.” Angry he had violated my privacy—my trust—I fumed.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “My best guess is the fireplace needs a chimney cap—”

“The hearth has glass doors.”

“Those bi-fold doors don’t have an air-tight seal. If birds were near the chimney or nesting on it, a change in air pressure could’ve sucked their feathers into the room.”

“But onto my bed?”

“It’s possible, though not likely…” He stared at nothing, then turned toward me. “Do you recall if an air vent’s over the bed?”

“Yes, every time the heat comes on, it blows right on me.”

“I bet that’s it. Warm air vents are perfect for nesting birds this time of year.”

“You think that’s what happened?” Embarrassed by my snap judgment, I winced.

“But if you think I stole into—”

“Sorry, guess I jumped to conclusions.”

“Guess you did.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ll check the air ducts after I put a deadbolt on the door.”

“That won’t be necessary. Don’t know why I ever suspected…” I chewed my lip.

“What? That I’d sneak into your cabin?” His neck cording, he clenched his jaw. “If I had any ulterior motives, you’d have known the first night…”

Squirming as the heat crept from my neck to my cheeks, I recalled that night all too well. I’d lain awake, relieved he’d been a gentleman, yet oddly disappointed…

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Why can’t I trust people? Why am I so wary all the time? Cody’s betrayal came to mind. Is he the reason, or is this just another side effect of PTSD? “Sorry.” My chin dipping, I mumbled into my chest. “Didn’t mean to—”

****

“Hey, our emotions got the best of us…both of us.” He placed a contrite hand on her shoulder.

Instead of flinching, she radiated a warmth through her shirt.

Encouraged by her body heat, he turned her toward him and inhaled her subtle lemony scent.

Her gaze connected with his as she leaned into him.

His libido rising, he lifted her chin until her parted lips were millimeters from his. What began as a consoling embrace, graduated to tentative exploration, and exploded in a melding of lips and tongues.

What am I doing? He pulled back his head, gasping for air. Staring into her dilated eyes, he blinked and loosened his grip. “Sorry…something came over me.”

“Me, too…” She gave an edgy laugh. “I take it we’re not mad at each other, anymore.”

“That’s a given. I…” His groin aching, he stepped back. “That won’t happen again.”

“It was mutual, so…” She took a deep breath. “Let’s just try to forget it.”

“Are you okay with pruning the vines on your own today?”

“Relatively. Why?”

Collecting his wits, he swiped his hand across his chin. “I’d better start pouring the slab—after I check the cabin’s air ducts.” How can I work alongside her when I can’t keep my hands off her?

****

Just before noon, a high-pitched whine pierced the air.

Ears perking, I searched the grapevines. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—just swaths of dried grass between rows of reedy vines. Am I’m hearing things?

Another sharp whine sliced the air. What looked like a small mound of hay slowly approached. Then yipping, a tawny fluffball of a puppy hunkered down as if wanting to play.

“Oh, you little cutie.” I stooped to pet the fur baby, its curly coat matted with straw and caliche dust.

The puppy lifted its front paws, begging to be picked up.

Its coat was so puffy, I expected a heavy butterball, but it lifted effortlessly, and beneath the bushy fur was nothing but bones. “You’re all fluff. You can’t weigh more than a few ounces.” Cuddling the pup, I glanced about for its owner or mother, but nothing else moved among the vines.

The puppy wriggled, tickling my ears with his velvety tongue.

I laughed as goosebumps broke out on my neck. “I’d better get you scanned for a microchip. In the meantime, let’s get some meat on those bones.” Nuzzling the pup, I whispered in its floppy ears as I walked back for lunch. “You can stay with me until we find your owner. Just need to check.”

“Where’d you find him?” Trowel in hand, Luke straightened his back.

“He found me.” Avoiding the wet cement, I stepped closer. “Want to hold him?”

“Sure, let me wipe off my hands first. Just finished floating this concrete.” A moment later, he reached for the puppy.

As I leaned toward him in the exchange, his fingertips accidentally grazed my breast. My nipples stiffened, and I stepped back. Then avoiding his gaze, I pretended not to notice. “He’s a sweetie, isn’t he?”

“And cuddly as a teddy bear.” The puppy licked his ears, and he laughed aloud. “What are you going to call him?”

“How ’bout Teddy for teddy bear.” I smiled at the idea. “I’ll try to find his owner—make signs to place around town—but in the meantime, do you mind if I keep him in the cabin?”

“Not a problem.” He laughed as the pup reached for his ears. “No, you don’t, you little stinker.” Then he turned toward me. “I’m going to town this afternoon. Want to come along?”

****

During the short drive, the puppy found the rubber ball in the cupholder and happily teethed it while I cuddled him.

In town, the veterinarian scanned Teddy but found no microchip. “Sorry.”

“No collar, no tags, no chip.” I grimaced. “The only thing left is to put up signs. Okay to leave one here?” I carried the puppy inside my jacket as I distributed the other signs until I met Luke at the grocery store. “I’d better pick up a dog bed and a bag of puppy chow.”

Back at Luke’s, the puppy entertained himself by bringing us the ball, then stretching out his front paws and whining until we threw it again.

“Doesn’t he ever get tired of playing fetch?” Luke grinned as he tossed the ball.

“I don’t know, but he’s wearing me out.” I hid a yawn. “I’m going to hit the hay.” I whistled. “Want to try out your new bed, Teddy?”

****

Inside the cabin, the puppy continued his game until I tucked the ball on the cedar chest, out of his reach. “Sorry, kiddo, but I’m going to shower, and then we’re both going to sleep.”

I relaxed in the steamy shower until the THUMP…Thump…thump of the ball bouncing into the room sent chills down my spine. Déjà vu.

Then Teddy bounded in after it.

Chuckling with relief, I stepped from the shower. “How did you reach the chest, you naughty pup?”

He nosed the ball toward me, then bowed and whimpered, asking me to throw it.

“This is the last time.” I tossed the ball and, after brushing my teeth, entered the main room.

Teddy crouched before the rocker, as if begging it to throw his ball.

“You silly pup.” I set his toy on the hope chest and placed him in his dog bed. “Now, go to sleep.” Yawning, I climbed into bed and turned out the light.

Creak…creak…creak.

Just as I slipped off to sleep, a rhythmic squeaking woke me.

Creak…creak…creak.

What’s making that sound? I turned on the light, squinting against its glare.

The chair rocked back and forth as if someone sat in it.

Again, the dog bowed, whimpered, and rolled his ball toward the chair.

Goosebumps rose on my arms, but I shrugged it off as an overactive imagination. Teddy must’ve bumped the rocker. Then I compared the pint-sized pup to the tall chest. “But how did you reach the ball?”

Cocking his ears as if listening, he brought me the ball.

I put it in the nightstand’s upper drawer. “Let’s see you get that ball now.” Then I put him to bed, turned off the light, and lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

Creak…creak…creak.

I flipped on the light and screamed.

Again, the chair teetered back and forth as if someone sat in it, rocking.

The puppy was asleep, nowhere near the rocker.

Hopping from bed, I pushed the chair in the corner, confining it between the two walls. “Move now. I dare you!”

Again, I turned off the light, and lay awake, straining at every sound.

My eyes were still wide open when the alarm went off. I dressed quickly and peeked at the rocking chair. Good, it hasn’t moved. The puppy in tow, I knocked on Luke’s door.

“Morning.” He opened the door with a welcoming smile. Then one glance at my face, and his smile vanished. “Another rough night?”

I relayed the evening’s events. “I can’t explain them. Can you?”

“Maybe Teddy bumped the rocker.”

“That’s what I thought, but the chair just rocked on its own. Am I going crazy or being haunted?”

His forehead creased. “Did you find any feathers last night?”

“Nope. Bouncing balls and rocking chairs replaced them.”

“I have a hunch…” He opened the door. “Want to come along?”

“Sure.” With the puppy trotting after me, I followed Luke to the cabin.

He punched in the code, and as we entered, the furnace turned on. Then he pointed to the vent over the bed. “Yesterday, when I checked the air ducts and changed the filters, I closed this vent, so no feathers would blow onto the bed.” He gestured toward the rocker in the corner. “I take it you moved it there.”

“Yup. It was right—”

“Over here?” He moved it to the exact spot it had been.

“How’d you know?”

“Watch.”

Within seconds, the chair teetered. Then it began creaking as it rocked back and forth.

“See what I mean!” I panicked as the chair gained momentum. “Am I being haunted, or is it this place?”

He chuckled as he motioned from one vent to another. “When I closed the vent over the bed, the air pressure increased through the others. Plus, I redirected this vent to blow away from the bed.”

I squinted. What kind of nonsense is this? “Your point?”

“The point is ghosts don’t rock chairs. Air does.”

“You’re telling me the air pressure’s strong enough to move this chair?”

“Have a seat.” He gestured toward the rocker.

As soon as I sat, a draft from the vent whooshed against my chest. “You’re right. That vent really forces the air.” Then I remembered how the puppy had bowed and whimpered by the chair. “But why would Teddy try to give his ball to the chair?”

“Maybe because the chair moved, he assumed someone was sitting in it.” He shrugged. “Who knows what dogs think?” He leaned over to pet the puppy.

“That might explain it…but another thing.” I scratched my head. “How could Teddy reach the top of the cedar chest to get the ball. Even if he stands on his hind legs, he’s too short.”

“Can you show me?”

I took the ball from the nightstand and placed it on the chest.

Within seconds, air from the same vent rolled the ball over the side and onto the floor with the same THUMP…Thump…thump.

The heat rose from my neck to my face. Smothering a giggle, I retrieved the ball, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

“Satisfied?”

“You must think I’m an idiot.” I swallowed a sigh. “But the rocking chair, the dog staring at it, and the bouncing ball last night—on top of the feathers the night before—just unnerved me. Sorry. I don’t normally get so spooked.”

“No harm done.” His smile was empathetic, then stiffening, he glanced at the door. “Want me to add a deadbolt?”

“No.” I shook my head, sorry I’d distrusted him.

“In that case, let’s get breakfast. I’d like to finish that patio floor this morning.” He pushed open the door.

“Good morning, Lucas.” Rosie stepped from her car, carrying a sack. “Oh, Maeve, I didn’t know you were here…”

“Luke asked me to help with the pruning, so I’m bunking here.” I squirmed like a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

“Glad someone’s using this cabin—so much history here.” Rosie smiled as she handed him the bag. “Breakfast tacos with plenty of salsa.”

“What for?”

“It’s Taco Tuesday.” Her smile maternal, she shrugged. “Besides, you’re my favorite nephew.”

The puppy yipped as he dropped the ball at Rosie’s feet.

“Who’s this perrito?” She leaned over to pet him.

“That’s Teddy.” I grinned as he rolled on his back, begging to be scratched. “He’s a friendly little guy—just showed up yesterday.” My smile sagged. “We’ve put signs around town, trying to find his owner. Do you recognize him?”

“No, I’ve never seen him before, but I’ll be happy to hang a poster in the café.”

“Great, I’ve got one left.” I started for the antique chest.

“Oh, my heavens.” Straightening her back, Rosie watched. “I remember this cedar chest.”

“You do?” Luke’s eyes lit up.

“And this rocking chair, too.” Rosie crossed to the rocker and skimmed her fingers over its back, as if caressing it. “My father refinished it just after my sister—your mother—was born, though originally it belonged to your great-great-grandmother.”

“If Mother told me their histories, I’ve forgotten.”

“Really?” Rosie’s eyes darkened. “These were Marianna’s when she married Mateo just before the Spanish-American War—”

“Wait a minute.” Luke held up his hand. “Who’s Mateo?”

“Oh…” Rosie’s eyes flashed. Then frowning, she chewed her lip. “You’ve never heard the story?”

“What story?” He gave a dry laugh. “This is the first I’ve heard of any Mateo.”

Lowering her chin, Rosie made a humming sound in the back of her throat. “Ramon wasn’t your great-great-grandmother’s first husband. Mateo was.”

“A love triangle.” I handed Rosie the last found-dog flyer.

“Thanks, I’ll hang it in the café.” She scanned the poster before continuing. “Marianna was so in love with Mateo that, when he enlisted in the Rough Riders, she convinced Ramon to join, too.”

“What’s her love for Mateo got to do with Ramon’s enlistment?” A deep V appeared between Luke’s eyes.

“She asked him to watch Mateo’s back.”

“You mean the Buddy Program, where friends enlist, train, and sometimes serve together.” I nodded, familiar with the idea. “Was Ramon Mateo’s friend?”

“No, but he was devoted to Marianna.”

“From her diary, we know she married him.” Luke glanced at me. “What’s the story?”

“Ramon was her second”—Rosie drew a deep breath—“or some speculate he was her first legal husband…” Tapping her nose with her finger, she gave a deep nod.

“You mean—”

“Rumors say she had Mateo’s child out of wedlock.”

“So maybe Ramon wasn’t our great-great-grandfather.” Tilting his head, he half shrugged. “Maybe Mateo was.”

“No, after receiving word of his death, she went into labor. The baby was premature and lived only a few days. Back then, they had no neonatal wards. People just did the best they could.” Her shoulders slumping, Rosie trailed her fingers over the rocker’s decorative trim. “According to family stories, Marianna slept in this chair, rocking the baby night and day until he…expired.”

“How sad.” I bunched my lips. Then the words sank in. “Wait. This rocker?”

“This very one.”

I sucked in my breath. Air vent or no air vent, something’s weird about this chair.

“So, Marianna lost Mateo and then lost his baby?” Luke hooked his thumbs under his arms.

“I didn’t say that.” Rosie shook her head.

“But Mateo died, right?” Shrugging, he spread his arms. “Why else would she marry Ramon?”

“A few weeks before the Rough Riders disbanded, she received a letter of condolence, saying Mateo had died of typhoid fever. She took the news hard and refused to eat.”

“Young, pregnant, and alone—the news must’ve been devastating.” I sympathized across time.

“The details are lost to history”—Rosie pressed her lips together—“but Marianna married Ramon when he returned from the war.”

“So, Marianna did lose Mateo.” Frowning, Luke leaned against the desk.

“No.” Rosie vehemently shook her head.

“But you just said—”

“She received word that he’d been killed. Then six weeks after she married Ramon, she got another letter…from Mateo. He’d been delirious from typhoid fever but had recovered and was coming home.”

“Whoa!” Luke jerked back his head.

“Yeah.” Rosie stifled a sigh. “Imagine Marianna’s dilemma.”

“What thoughts went through Ramon’s head?” Luke stared at the chair. “Did he know Mateo was alive? Did he deliberately marry Marianna under false pretenses, or was he in the dark like everyone else?”

Shrugging, Rosie gazed at the rocker “If only this chair could talk…what would it say?”

“Keep your options open?” Luke chuckled as he echoed his aunt’s earlier words.

“No, wise guy, think of the tales this chair could tell.”

“And you said this was Marianna’s hope chest?” I fingered its smooth wood.

“Yes. As I recall, your great-great-grandfather Ben made it.” Rosie nodded, then glanced at her watch. “But I’m late for work.” Starting for the door, she gestured to the sack. “Hope the tacos are still warm. If not, wrap them in a wet paper towel and reheat them for ten seconds in the microwave.” She hugged Luke, then hugged me.

“Thank you for breakfast.” I gave her a warm squeeze.

“And the family history.” Luke grabbed the sack and opened the door.

I picked up the pup and waved goodbye as we walked to Luke’s. “Your aunt’s such a sweetie.”

“She’s been a second mother since my mom died.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know. When did she pass?”

“When I was away at school.”

“That’s something else we have in common. You’re an orphan like me.” My parents and grandmother sprinted through my memories. Then the rocking chair came to mind. “But even after people die, I believe traces of them linger.”

“What do you mean?” As he pushed open the door, he caught my gaze.

“I think their personalities attach themselves to their personal effects…” Struggling to put my thoughts into words, I recalled items in my parents’ home after their car accident—a cigarette waiting to be lit…a toothbrush waiting by the sink. “It’s as if objects hang in suspended animation until their next use.”

“Not following.” Squinting, he shook his head.

“That’s only part of it…” I pressed my knuckles to my lips, thinking. “I believe the more a person uses an object, the more that object absorbs their essence. Or maybe, the more a person uses an object, the more of themselves rubs off on it. I’m not sure which transmits or receives—the person or the object.”

“Are you saying objects become more than just things?”

“Kind of…for instance, the scent of a person’s cologne lingers on their clothes. Chair cushions and bed mattresses sag from their indentations. Carpets get threadbare. Shirt cuffs fray. You get the idea. Objects are affected by a person’s use. But I’m not sure which is the actor, and which is acted upon. Does the cloth on a shirt cuff wear off, or does it fray from being worn?”

“Both. You wear it, and it wears out.” He set Rosie’s bag on the bar. “But let’s continue this conversation over breakfast before the tacos get cold.”

“Good idea.” I set the puppy on the floor, poured two cups of coffee, and joined him at the counter.

He felt his bundled taco as he unwrapped it. “Lukewarm.” His eyes twinkled as he passed the sack of tacos, then opened the salsa.

“Rosie brought enough for four people.” Grinning, I inhaled the spicy scents. “But I don’t think we’ll have any trouble finishing. I’m starved.” I unwrapped a taco marked Egg and Sausage and bit into the tortilla’s fluffy yellow filling with bits of chorizo. “Delicious.”

“But what were you were saying before I interrupted you?” Slathering salsa on his taco, he nodded as if encouraging me to continue.

“We mentioned how objects are affected by use, but what about emotions?”

“What do you mean?”

I hesitated to share my ideas before thinking them through. “If materials can absorb scents like cologne or smoke, why can’t they absorb emotions?”

“How?” His face widened in a cynical grin. “By osmosis?”

“I’m serious. What if strong emotions like fear or despair cling to objects?”

“Give me an example.”

“The rocker, for instance. Marianna sat in that chair, rocking her baby every moment of its short life.” I glanced at Teddy. “Like a dog shedding fur, what if she was so heartbroken when the baby died that she radiated that grief, and the rocker absorbed it? Then when something activated it, the chair discharged that energy…as vibrations.”

“Are you suggesting the chair moved of its own volition?”

“Something triggered the movement, and I don’t believe it was air flow.”

“You watched the air currents set it in motion. You felt the force. It’s simple physics.” Shrugging, he lifted his palms in the air. “How can you say it’s metaphysical?”

“I just told you.” Frustrated at not making my point, I smothered a sigh.

“All right, for a moment, let’s assume you’re right—that the chair’s haunted.”

“I didn’t say it was haunted.”

“Okay, then let’s assume it has paranormal properties. If that’s the case, why didn’t I notice anything strange when I stayed in the cabin? For that matter, why hasn’t anyone else noticed anything odd in a hundred and twenty years?” Arms crossed, he sat back, challenging me.

“I don’t know.” At a loss for answers, I pulled my knees together, shrinking. “For some reason, maybe I’m sensitive to it.”

“Have you ever experienced any paranormal activity before?”

The hotel incidents came to mind. “Only recently.”

“What’s different in your life?”

“What isn’t?” I counted off on my fingers. “Got my Army discharge, totaled my car, met you, began working in the vineyard, staying in your cabin…the list of firsts goes on.”

“Okay, but what prompted this unusual activity?” His gaze leveled with mine. “Think back.”

“Well…” I chewed my lip. “It began after we found the dime and went to your aunt’s for the barbecue—”

“Where she gave you the brooch. We’ve already established that the cameo was the trigger.” His eyes wide, he arched his brow. “But instead of objects absorbing emotions, what if restless spirits attach themselves to objects?”

Recalling the image in the mirror and my dreams, I cocked my head. “Why would they?”

“To tie up loose ends, right some wrong…who knows?” He shrugged. “But without physical bodies, spirits can’t directly communicate, so maybe they leave messages or signs.”

“Like dimes and rocking chairs?”