Page 19 of The Magic We Made

“Uh.” He looks almost pained. “Well, I’ve always—”

“Maintained a healthy skepticism about the possible existence of the supernatural?”

“Uh, no.” Ash keeps glancing back toward his own house. I have the feeling he wishes he was safely inside of it, away from me. “I think it exists. There’s a lot of stuff that can’t be explained any other way.”

“You mean the way people used to think plagues were caused by witches, but now we know they’re caused by bacteria spread through respiratory droplets?”

“No. Well, yes. But that doesn’t mean those witches didn’t have magical powers.”

“Doesn’t it?” I’m enjoying myself. My last patient for the day texted earlier to reschedule, so now I have nothing but time to decimate my handsome neighbor. “I can’t say that I agree. There is a rational and scientific explanation for everything on this planet, and that includes so-called ghost sightings. While it’s true that forty-six percent of the population believes that ghosts exist, what most of them are referring to as ghosts are actually hypnagogic hallucinations caused when a person is in a state between deep sleep and wakefulness. They most often occur when someone issuffering from excessive stress in their life—for instance, after the death of a loved one—and can seem very realistic.”

He looks stunned. “Wait... really?”

“Yes, really. Those hallucinations are, however, completely harmless and go away as soon as the person gets a full night’s sleep and is feeling less anxious. That is why so many colleges receive an increase in ‘ghost sightings’ around the dorms during finals. Students are stressed from studying on very little sleep and so they hallucinate and think they see ‘ghosts.’”

I’m delighted to observe that he’s now staring at me with his mouth slightly ajar.

“So I think we can safely guarantee that what happened to your renters wasn’t because of ghosts,” I say. “And I think we can also safely rule out dementia, too.”

“We can?”

“Yes, we can. Because I have some footage of my own.” I reach into the pocket of my cutoffs for my phone. “May I show you?”

Ash nods dumbly as I find the video I’m looking for in my photo library and hold my phone screen up close to his face.

“It rained a little earlier this week, but fortunately I took this just a few hours after Mrs. Baumgarten reported the theft to me. Harbor Hideaways has a copy. I guess Rochelle didn’t mention that to you?”

“Uh,” he says, glancing from me to the phone screen in confusion. “No.”

“I see.” I know exactly why Rochelle kept the information to herself: her bosses told her not to say a word to anyone, in case of any lawsuits. That’s why I also sent the footage to Jackie.

“What am I looking at here?” Ash has lost all his former swagger.

“This.”

I pressPlay.My video is probably just as difficult to see in the bright afternoon sunlight as his was. I know by the way his brow has lowered, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling—somewhat attractively—as he squints at the images I’ve studied myself so many times: the dirt beneath the back deck of his house, the side facing the lake, by one of his basement windows. The screen to the window is sagging loosely in one corner, the metal rusted everywhere—except the part where it’s been recently severed.

That’s not the main focus of the video, however. The main focus is on the area in front of the window. Little to no rain gets through the slats of the deck above, leaving the dirt there dry, devoid of vegetation, and dusty...

And full of the footprints of the people who broke into his home.

I know Ash can see the footprints because his expression has fallen. Those laugh lines at the sides of his eyes—eyes I’m now able to see are as dark brown as my own—go slack as his jaw sags, and his face, beneath his healthy tan, has gone pale.

Despite my glee over his discomfort, I find myself feeling a tiny bit sorry for him. It’s always a little sad when Summer People realize West Harbor isn’t the vacation paradise they’ve built it up to be in their heads. The fact that it does have real problems—the same problems faced by every town in America, excluding the witch stuff—can come as a blow to many who’ve idealized it.

I watch as Ash mulls over this realization, the muscles of his perfectly square jaw twitching a little.

“Unless ghosts have taken to wearing running shoes,” I say, “I would guess by those footprints that someone—or rather, a number of someones—broke into your house through the basement window to steal from your renters.”

Ash snatches the phone out of my hand and squints at the screen, holding it close to his face. A few seconds later, having watched the entire video again, he yells, “Son of abitch!”

Without another word, he thrusts my phone back at me, turns, and runs back toward his own house.

This is not at all what I was expecting. In my imagination, when I confronted Ash with the incontrovertible truth of Mrs. Baumgarten’s claims, and his own (potentially criminal, or at least criminally negligent) follow-up to them, I never anticipated that he’dcare, let alone beupset. I thought I was going to have to use the opportunity to make him understandwhyhe should care.

But he does. He obviously does care....

Unless it’s only because he doesn’t want to get sued by his own tenants.