Inside the Mystic Rose, Honey is showing two girls not much older than me a collection of carnelian stones that are supposed to enhance sensuality and boost passion.

“Now, this little beauty,” she says, holding up the darkest red one, “this one is guaranteed to get a fire going.” She winks at the taller of the two. “If you know what I mean.”

The girls are giggling quietly, heads close together as they examine the stones and make their selections. They communicate in the secret language of best friends. Nudges and raised eyebrows. Embarrassed smiles half-hidden behind hands. And watching them is like peeling off a scab.

I head back to my tiny bedroom off the kitchen and find Sweet-N-Low, Honey’s ancient wiener dog, asleep on my bed. I lie down next to him and scratch his belly. He’s deaf in one ear, mostly bald, and noxiously gassy. Honey says he reminds her of her third husband, Eldon – one of the dead but not entirely departed.

I look around the familiar room – everything just where I left it last August – but my eyes keep wandering back to a framed photograph that sits on my bedside table. Elora and me at our tenth birthday party. We’re holding hands, both of us sunburned and happy, leaning over a pink-frosted sheet cake. Cheeks puffed out and eyes closed tight. Caught in the very moment of making a wish.

Our birthday is just a few weeks away, and the idea of turning seventeen alone settles on my chest with a suffocating weight. I close my eyes and find the little blue pearl hanging around my neck, then I try with everything I have to pull up one of those images of Elora. One of those terrifying flashes. Maybe if I can conjure up some clue –

But there’s nothing. At least at first.

And then it’s there. Just for a split second.

Elora is running –

    I’m running –

         for my life.

Rain.

And howling wind.

Moonlight on dark hair.

My stomach lurches and I feel sick. I’m sure I’m going to throw up.

I suck in a breath and open my eyes, and Honey is standing in the doorway watching me. She comes to sit on the edge of my bed and smooth my hair.

“Not everyone is born into their gifts,” she tells me. “Some people have to develop them over time.”

“Just a dream,” I lie. “I fell asleep for a second. That’s all.”

But Honey doesn’t give up. “Your mother was still coming into herself . . . into her abilities . . . when she crossed over. And she was a lot older than you are.”

My mother killed herself. But Honey never says it like that.

I was eight years old when she did it, and after, I remember asking Honey if she could talk to my mother for me. If she could ask her why. But Honey says the dead are picky about who they talk to. They get to choose who they communicate with, if they choose to communicate at all. And my mother has never reached out to Honey from the other side.

She’s never reached out to me, either.

Since my mother died – or crossed over or whatever – I’ve spent the school years up in Arkansas with my dad and the summers down here with Honey.

That’s one of the things Elora and I went round and round about last summer. She couldn’t wait to turn eighteen and get the hell out of here. And I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen and finally come home. Full-time. I imagined myself helping out in the shop, then running it on my own. Someday.

Honey is still watching me. She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, and I somehow find the courage to ask the question I couldn’t ask her earlier.

“Has she reached out to you?” I hear the fear in my voice. “Elora’s ghost? Or spirit or whatever?”

Honey chuckles a little. “Oh, goodness, no, Sugar Bee. Why would Elora want to talk to an old lady like me?” Then her voice turns serious. “Besides, if Elora has crossed over, she may not have the energy to reach out to anyone yet. Sometimes it takes a while for spirits to gather themselves. And even then, they may only have the strength to communicate with one person, so they have to be choosy about which channels they open up.” Honey is quiet for a moment before she goes on. “It would make much more sense for Elora to contact someone she was close to in life. Someone she already had a deep connection with.”

I know she’s talking about me, but I’m not ready to share those strange flashes with Honey yet.

“Did you know Mackey had a death warning?” I ask. “About Elora? The night she disappeared?” I shiver a little in the air-conditioning. “Death in the water.”

Honey sighs and pulls the blanket over me. “I heard about that,” she admits. “But a death warning is just that. It’s a warning. That’s all. It means death is close by. But it’s not a sure thing. Not always.”

I remember an old story about Mackey’s uncle knocking on the front door one morning to give Honey’s first husband, my grandfather, a death warning that had come to him over breakfast. Death from below, he’d told them. And sure enough, my grandfather had been bitten by a huge water moccasin that very afternoon while he was out hunting. He nearly died that night. But come morning, he was still hanging on. He ended up losing his big toe, but he didn’t lose his life. Not until a heart attack took him a couple years later. And nobody had warned him about that.

Honey’s hand is still in my hair. It’s making me so sleepy. I can hardly keep my eyes open, and an old nightmare comes creeping in around the edges of my consciousness.

“Do you remember anything about Dempsey Fontenot?”

Honey tucks the blanket around my shoulders. “Well, I never knew much about him, to tell you the truth. He lived way out there all alone. Kept to himself, mostly.” She pauses, like she’s trying to choose her words. Being careful. “He had some odd ways. There were stories . . .” She stops and smooths my hair again. “I don’t guess folks cared much for him, even before what happened.”

“Do you think he got Elora?” The words come out thick and sleep-coated. Heavy in my mouth. “Like he got Ember and Orli?”

“No. I don’t think so,” Honey says, and for a long while, there’s only the hum of the air conditioner in the window and the soft sound of Sweet-N-Low snoring beside me. By the time she adds the next part, I’m almost too far gone to hear it. “I don’t imagine poor Dempsey Fontenot ever got anybody.”