A bottle of wine, a wheel of brie and crackers sat on the glass coffee table. Al Green drifted through the speakers.“Do you believe in ghosts?” Kate asked, hoping Mal didn’t think she’d finally lost it. She was avoiding her apartment. Avoiding the voice.“Once, after Charlie died,” Mal said quietly, referring to her best friend who had died of AIDS years before, “I thought I saw him standing at the foot of my bed. I woke up, and there he was. He didn’t look sick. He was smiling and looked so peaceful, but then I decided I was dreaming.” Mal frowned and looked over at Charlie’s picture on the sleek chrome-and-glass shelves against the wall.Kate stared down at the glass of pinot noir she was nursing. She swirled the glass. “I don’t know…I keep getting this weird feeling like my apartment is haunted. Maybe someone died in it. It’s a really old building.”“Oh, I love things like that. We should go see a psychic. Have a séance. Get an exorcist.”“Sure, Mal.”
