Page 18 of The Magic We Made

“Oh, well, there’s no footage from the doorbell camera ofanyone else going into the house.” He’s brushing off what little dirt ended up clinging to him. It’s a surprisingly small amount for someone who was literally sprawled in it. “I feel bad for Mrs. Baumgarten because it must be embarrassing for her. But no one broke in or used an old passcode on the lockbox or came into the house at all.” He reaches into his back pocket. “And I can prove it. I have the footage right here.”

Before I can say another word, he hits Play on his smartphone—the most-up-to-date and expensive version, which I always warn my patients not to be duped into buying—and shoves the screen into my face.

It’s difficult to see anything on a phone screen when viewing it in full sunlight, especially if you’re wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses, which I am.

And it’s even more difficult to see anything on a phone screen when it’s being held by a very virile, very handsome man who is standing less than a foot away from you, smelling very nicely of soap and some kind of clean, citrusy cologne.

So my gaze keeps naturally straying from the phone screen to the man holding it. Because not only does Ash smell very good, but the collar to his vintage tee has slipped a little, revealing a tantalizing hint of springy, dark chest hair. Unlike my brother, who wears a gold cornicello everywhere he goes, Ash doesn’t wear a neck chain at all, only a watch that looks like it must have cost him at least ten grand.

Wrenching my gaze from his watch—and chest hair—I shove my sunglasses up onto the top of my head, take the phone into my own hands, then tilt the screen until I’m able to make out Ash’s front porch as viewed from his doorbell. The footage was taken atnight, so I can’t see details. But he has enough yard lighting that I can make out his lawn and the footpath leading through it to his porch’s steps, and the front door above them.

“I’m sorry,” I say, squinting. “What am I looking at?”

He grins.

“Footage from my doorbell camera the night before Mrs. Baumgarten said she was robbed. And what do you think it shows?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, he’s so excited to tell me. “I’ve looked through all the footage from the week Mrs. Baumgarten and her husband were staying there.No onewalks up to the house. No one except for them.”

I close my eyes for a second. My pulse is beginning to thump in a way it hasn’t since Richard moved out, even when I’m swimming above a moderate pace for my heart rate. This conversation has just progressed beyond my wildest fantasies. How dare my brother imply I have no life?Thisis living.

“Are you suggesting that Mrs. Baumgartenimaginedall of her wine and groceries disappearing?” I open my eyes to ask.

Ash has got on sunglasses as well, the lenses tinted darkly enough that it’s hard to see his own eyes. But I think I notice them widen.

“No, no,” he insists. “I’m not suggesting that at all! Well, I guess I’msort ofsuggesting that, but... she’s a pretty old lady, right? Maybe she forgot that she and her husband ate all the groceries. That happens with age, right? People get forgetful?”

I pass his phone back to him. “Both of them? At the same time?”

“Well.” Ash’s grin fades slightly. “I mean, I’ve heard of—”

“So what you’re saying is that, based on the footage from your doorbell camera, you didn’t see anyone else enter the house to take the Baumgartens’ wine and food?”

“Well, yeah.” Ash’s grin is still confident as he puts his phone away. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. And that’s good, right?”

“Because—”

“Well, it means our property values won’t go down, because there’s been no crime in the area. Hopefully the Baumgartens will get the help they need. You know, we put my dad in a nursing home after he had an accident, and it worked out great.” His smile fades. “Well, maybe not for him. But for the rest of us. He was kind of a hard person to live with.”

This is a shockingly self-aware admission. I’ve had patients who’ve been in therapy for years andstillcan’t admit that their parents weren’t perfect. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, no worries. He had a lot of issues.” But Ash’s smile has returned. Whatever accident befell his father, it doesn’t bother himthatmuch. “Like I said,” he goes on. “It’s a shame, but a lot better than the alternative.”

“The alternative?”

“Well, didn’t Mrs. Baumgarten try to tell you that she thought it was ghosts?” He tosses his head and laughs, not a care in the world. He seems younger than his age, which I know from LinkedIn is the same as mine. “I mean, better dementia than that the house is haunted, right?”

This is it, my heart thumps happily.I’m going to eviscerate him.

“How interesting you would say that. Especially since, if it turns out the house is haunted or that Mrs. Baumgarten does have dementia, what happened to her can’t be your fault, and you won’t owe her a refund.”

That wipes the grin off his face.

“N-no,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean that. I mean, yes, whathappened to her isn’t my fault. But when I said ghosts, I didn’t mean—”

“Whatdidyou mean?” This is the most fun I’ve had in weeks. Months, maybe.

“Well, I mean, she said it was ghosts, and we can’t prove itwasn’tghosts—”

“Oh, but we can.” The smile I give him is my highest wattage, the one I save for my nieces when they’ve done something remarkable, like a back handspring. “Because ghosts don’t exist. Right?”