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deceased in order to establish a connection, preferably something beloved that was handled frequently. I see that many of you have come prepared, so shall we proceed with the first participant?” She nodded at Hezekiah. “We will call as many numbers as we can during the next hour. Please be patient. If your number is called, please walk to the front with your memento and hand your ticket to Hezekiah.”
    Hezekiah retrieved the first lottery number. “Number one-five-eight.”
    A man in a green suit near the stage raised his hand and stood. His table clapped as he proceeded up a small set of stairs at the front of the stage and handed his ticket to Hezekiah.
    â€œWhat is your name, sir?” the medium asked.
    â€œHannity.” He nervously thrust a pocket watch in her direction.
    â€œWho does this belong to, Mr. Hannity?”
    â€œMy brother, Lenny. He was killed in the war and—”
    Miss Palmer held up a gloved hand. “Don’t tell me anything more. Please give me a second to prepare myself. If I am able to summon your brother, you will only have a minute or so to speak with him once he enters my body. I cannot hold on to him indefinitely. So I will advise you to keep your wits and don’t waste time. To ensure you’re speaking to the right person, I’d suggest you immediately question him about something only the two of you would know. Do you understand?”
    â€œYes,” Mr. Hannity said.
    The club waited with bated breath like children around a campfire listening to stories. Even the balconies above the sides of the stage were filled with spectators hanging over the railing. The medium placed her left hand over Mr. Hannity’s pocket watch and balled up the other against her thigh. Winter watched, curious. She closed her eyes. After a few seconds, she inhaled sharply and her right leg twitched as if someone had kicked her. Her eyes flew open.
    She exhaled.
    Her breath floated out in a cloud of mist . . . just as it had the night they’d met.
    Goose bumps pricked the back of Winter’s neck.
    â€œGo on, Mr. Hannity,” Hezekiah encouraged from the stage. “Ask your question.”
    The lottery winner hesitated, wringing his hands. “Uh, Lenny? If it’s really you, can you tell me where we buried the dead cat we found in the street on my sixteenth birthday?”
    Miss Palmer looked down at him. Her manner didn’t change. Ghostly breath continued to flow from her mouth as she spoke. “In Old Man Henry’s field.”
    Mr. Hannity gasped.
    â€œHello, Michael,” she said. “Happy to see you’re finally going bald.”
    Her voice was unaffected. And even though Winter had already witnessed what she could do to an existing ghost, it was startling to see her possessed—if that’s what this was called. A couple of weeks ago, he wouldn’t have believed it was possible, but now . . .
    What was that thing she’d done with her hand when she was calling the spirit? Winter tuned out the conversation between her and Mr. Hannity and concentrated on figuring out her process. It was almost as though she were holding something, but what?
    After a few exchanges between Miss Palmer and Mr. Hannity, Winter gave up cracking her method. His eyes roved over her sleek caramel bob and the freckled neck and shoulders below. He found himself desperately wishing he could set fire to her long gloves.
    Then her gown.
    His cock pulsed appreciatively at this thought. Christ, he needed air. Seeing her again had been a mistake. If he’d already had trouble tamping down fantasies of her in his bed, then watching her perform onstage, radiating poise and confidence . . . It wasn’t something he’d soon forget. After taking one last look at her, he slipped away and—quietly pocketing a program with her photograph printed on the inside—headed back through the lobby to his waiting