Rosaria’s expression flickered. Something almost human passed across her features.
“Because you are the only one I can trust.”
I laughed. The sound came out sharp, slightly unhinged. “You never trusted me a day in your life. You told Sal our wedding was the worst mistake he ever made. You said itat the reception.”
“Yes. And I was right. Hewasmaking a mistake.” She waved a translucent hand. “But I was wrong about which one of you was the problem.”
I stared at her.
“My son is not a good man, Gina. I knew that. I enabled it because he was mine and I could not help myself.” Her jaw tightened—same stubborn set I’d seen a thousand times across holiday dinner tables. “But someone in that family killed me. And you are the only person who does not benefit from my death.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone else inherits. Salvatore, George, Paula—even though she claims she does not want the money. Claudia has been circling the estate like a vulture since the funeral, asking about property values, about my jewelry, about the house.” Rosaria’s lip curled. “But you? Because of the divorce you knew you would not benefit financially. You had no reason to kill me.”
“Gee, thanks for the reminder.”
“It is not a criticism. It is aqualification.” She fixed me with those dark eyes, so like Sal’s but sharper. “You have nothing to gain from my death and everything to gain from finding my killer. Clear your name. Make the family see who the real monster is.”
Something twisted in my chest. The family. My kids. All these months of being the villain in a story I hadn’t written.
“I can’t investigate a murder,” I said. “I’m not a detective. I’m a fifty-two-year-old woman who hasn’t unpacked half her boxes and keeps forgetting to buy milk.”
“Then it is time to become something else.” Rosaria straightened her spectral shoulders. “I did not survive seventy-eight years and two ungrateful sons to be poisoned in my own home by someone who is probably redecorating my living room as we speak.”
The venom in her voice when she saidredecoratingmade me pause.
“Someone like who?” I asked. “Rosaria, do you know who did this?”
She hesitated. Actually hesitated. In thirty years, I’d never seen Rosaria Ferraro pause before answering a question. She always knew everything. She always had an opinion. She always?—
“Unfortunately, I don’t,” she said quietly. Her form flickered, going staticky at the edges like a bad TV signal. “It is difficult. To speak of it directly. It... destabilizes things.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It is notconvenient, it is—“ She flickered again, more violently this time, and something like pain crossed her face. “I will tell you what I can but you need to investigate. You need to find the evidence.”
“And if I refuse?”
Rosaria smiled. It was not a nice smile.
“Then I suppose we will be spending a great deal of time together, Gina. I have nowhere else to be.”
The temperature in the bathroom dropped. Not a hot flash this time—the opposite. Cold crept up my arms, raising goosebumps which actually felt pretty good.
“You can’t just—haunt me forever.”
“I am anchored by unfinished business. My murder is unfinished business.” She examined her translucent fingernails with studied disinterest. “Find my killer, and I cross over. Refuse, and...” She shrugged. “I hope you were not planning on having any privacy. Ever again.”
“This is blackmail.”
“This ismotivation. You always needed external motivation, Gina. Thirty years of marriage and you never once stood up for yourself until you had no other choice. Consider this your push.”
The words landed like a slap. Because she wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. She wasn’t wrong. I looked down at the sink, gathering my thoughts.
When I looked up she was gone.
Just my own reflection staring back. Flushed and sweaty, hair sticking to my temples, dark circles under my eyes.
