Grace brushed the tears from her cheeks and sat back. Already she felt exhausted, and they were only ten minutes into the evening. She glanced at Freya, who winked at her, and at Mia, who gave her a gentle smile. Her heart thumped, and her brain was in a spin trying to analyse everything she’d witnessed. Instinctively, she knew this wasn’t staged. The pain on the women’s faces was too raw, their shock too natural to be acted. And, in Mia’s words, if you followed Occam’s Razor, that could only mean one thing. He really could speak to people who no longer inhabited their earthly bodies. He really could talk to the dead. The crowd was falling silent as he stared at the floor again, raising his hand to indicate toward the front of the middle section. “I’m down here,” he said. “I’ve got a woman here, short-ish and with curly hair. I think her name’s Trish, or Trisha.” And that was it, he was off again. Over the course of the next hour and a half, he gave messages to a dozen different people, nearly every single time stating names and details with such accuracy that it made Grace gasp.
