18
Angie, Caterina, and Maria sat on the ugly green and gold sofa and equally outdated side chair in the living room of the house on Clover Lane. On the table in front of them were glasses of chardonnay, plus a bowl of plain and chocolate-covered pretzels and another of cashews.
Outside, the stars were hidden by heavy clouds, and the only sound was that of waves lapping on the beach far below.
“I don’t like this,” Maria muttered. “It feels like blasphemy.”
“It’ll be fine,” Angie said, checking her watch. It was nine-fifteen; Connie was late. “Connie insists this person is quite good. Her séance will prove that the house isn’t really haunted.”
“It’s hard to prove a negative, Angie,” Maria said.
“Unless that negative has no logic or common sense,” Cat said, staring daggers at Maria.
A
