“What about the maids?” she asked.

Catherine’s expression darkened. “That part is what people whisper about. Some left crying. Some were fired. And one even claimed she heard a child singing behind a locked door.”

Maya opened her eyes. “A child?”

“Grief has many voices,” Catherine said cryptically, “and not all of them are actual ghosts.”

Maya said nothing. Her grandmother leaned closer. “Do you want to go back there?”

Maya thought of the medicine bottles on the kitchen shelf, the overdue rent notice folded under a magnet on the refrigerator, her grandmother’s breath catching in the night.