I’D WRITTEN MY GRANDFATHER’S name on a scrap of paper and put it in my coat pocket. As we wandered the woods on Christmas Eve, I kept taking off my mitten and checking that it was still there. I’d told my father what had happened (and why his table was covered in chalk) as soon as he got back from visiting Great-Aunt Esther. He dismissed the information as the result of childish games.
“But aren’t you even a little bit curious?” I asked him in front of Amy. I was still really mad at her for stealing my dad away from my mom (even if he said they didn’t meet until after the separation), but I knew I could get Amy on my side. She was obviously eager to impress me. “Dad, this ghost said he’s your father. You don’t want to find out more about him?”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Sylvie.”
