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bones. This house has an awful chill to it. You’d never guess it’s May.”
    â€œIt’s the spirits,” Rose told her.
    â€œPardon?” Dot wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and index finger.
    â€œThe spirits,” Rose repeated. “You know what my parents do for a living, right?”
    â€œWell, I— The woman at the service warned me it was unusual. But I get all kinds. Money’s money. I told her I didn’t want to know the details. I’m a holy woman—”
    â€œA holy woman who wears sheer nighties?” Rose said.
    Seven-twelve, I thought. Seven-twelve.
    â€œI never said sheer . I said lacy . And that was a long time ago, for my husband, Roy, on special occasions. Before he passed. I don’t parade around like some flooz—”
    â€œWhen our parents go on these trips,” Rose interrupted, “they are asked to confirm the presence of unwanted spirits. Sometimes they are asked to drive them out too. Usually from places, but once in a while, from people. I’m talking about children, pregnant women, the elderly, even animals and inanimate objects too.”
    This information bothered Dot—that much was obvious by her pinched expression—but she shrugged. “Well, I want to get my laundry done then settle into the tub and finish my book. I’m just getting to the juicy part. Sylvie, could you pick up my laundry basket like a good girl? Old Dot’s back hurts.”
    â€œThe spirits need somewhere to go after they’ve been driven out of the host,” Rose told her as I lifted the basket. “More often than not they end up— Well, I’ll give you one guess where they end up.”
    Dot pushed her owl glasses to the top of her nose and grabbed her copy of The Thorn Birds —a priest dominated the cover, far more handsome than Father Vitale from Saint Bartholomew with his drooping skin and sagging shoulders. “ Here? ” she said in a quiet voice.
    â€œ Here, ” Rose told her, lowering her voice too. “In this house. Tell her, Sylvie. Tell her about the terrible things we’ve seen.”
    There were times when Rose’s terrorizing of the nannies was, I confess, fun to watch. But this felt too easy somehow. “Let me show you the washer and dryer, Dot.”
    Dot ignored my suggestion, asking, “What do you see?”
    â€œSylvie won’t tell you because we are not supposed to talk about it— forbidden by my father to talk about it, actually.”
    â€œSo why are you talking about it then, Rose?” I asked.
    My sister manufactured a creepy, distant voice. “Because Dorothy seems like a nice lady, and since she’ll be staying here for the next five nights, I feel I should warn her.” Rose looked at Dot. “Ours is not an easy house to sleep in. Some nights they’ve even—” She stopped, as though snapping out of a trance, returning her voice to normal. “Well, never mind. Don’t worry. Mostly they mind their own business. Mostly. ”
    Dot stared at her a moment, pinched-faced still, before pushing back her shoulders and squeezing the handsome paperback priest tighter. “I don’t buy into that nonsense. Tell you what. Sylvie, I’m gonna let you put the laundry in since you’re familiar with the machines. Meanwhile, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in the tub.”
    For a while at least, Rose left her alone. I took care of the laundry. Slipped into my pajamas. Spent time completing a paper I’d been writing for the first ever Maryland Student Essay Contest—a two-hundred-dollar cash prize would be awarded to a student in each grade from fifth through twelfth and the deadline was the next morning. My topic was inspired by a documentary my mother and I had watched about the aftereffects of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination. When I mentioned it to Ms. Mahevka, my pasty, yawning English teacher,