She leaned in, pressing her cheek against the air beside my face, careful not to let our skin touch.

“Claire, darling,” she cooed, her voice like poisoned honey. She stepped past me, heels clicking against the hardwood, looked around the spotless foyer, and sighed.

“Still living like a page out of a discount home catalog, I see. Everything’s so neat. So… lifeless.”

I closed the door gently. “Good evening, Vanessa. You look radiant. The charity work must be lucrative for your spirit.”

She paused. A flicker of confusion crossed her brow. She dismissed it. Then she turned toward the living room to pour herself a drink and stopped dead.

Her eyes locked onto the black-draped monolith beneath the chandelier.