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“The letter H or J,” he says. “That’s what the one leaving would say to the one coming in. Finally, someone told me what it meant. An ode to Robert Louis Stevenson.”
I think for a moment. Then I say, “Hyde or Jekyll.”
He nods. “They were passing on information about my mood, warning the next student who had to work with me. Ninety percent of the time, the answer was J. But if I’m in a mood, frustrated or irritable, it’s enough of a personality shift to be noticeable. It bothered me that they had to warn each other, even if it was jokingly.”
He locks his hands on the table. “Which is to say that I know I can be an ass. I apologize, and I will try to do better.”
“I wasn’t responsible for what happened earlier.”
He sighs, slumping. “I know, and I snapped at you, which is inexcusable, particularly under these circumstances. I might be excited about the research possibilities, but you are still the client.”
“So I’m in charge?”
He tilts his head with a mock-thoughtful frown. “I wouldn’t quite go that far.”
I give him a hard look. Then I say, “Do you want me to leave you alone while you figure this out?”
He shakes his head. “Whatever I felt earlier is gone.”
“Would it help to continue the séance with me?”
He hesitates. “That would be unethical. Shania and Jin are here to act as observers, which is also for your benefit.”
“Right. But if I waived that…?”
He’s quiet for a moment and then gives a decisive shake of his head. “No. I would regret it later. I want you to have others present.”
“Okay.” I glance at the doorway, ready to go. Instead, I blurt, “I’ve been having experiences.”
Shit! No. Don’t go down that road.
I change direction fast. “Good experiences. I suspect they’re just wishful thinking.”
I tell him about being at the back door, hearing a voice and feeling a hand on my shoulder. Then I tell him about the sitting room tonight—the creaking board, the click of the knob, the moving doll—
“Hold on,” he says, leaning forward, eyes glinting behind his glasses. “May I tape this?”
I frown. “I thought we agreed to a written transcript only?”
“This would just be for my records. I will destroy any recording if you ask me to. As for your experience at the back door, it was… typical.”
“For someone desperate to make contact with a loved one?”
“Yes. Which isn’t to say that it wasn’t real, but the experience in the sitting room is different. May I tape you retelling it?”
“Sure, but I’d like you to remind me that you have the recording, in case I forget. I will probably want it destroyed.”
“I’ll compile a list of any recordings I make—all of which I will receive your consent for—and send them to you later.”
He sets the recorder on the table, moving aside a photo of Anton to do it.
“Can we do this in another room?” I ask. “Or move all this?”
“Certainly.” He makes a move to stand.
“Also, may I ask that you don’t touch his ashes again, please? I know I should have taken them upstairs last night, but please ask me when they need to be moved.”
Color rises on his cheeks. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
