work. One wall held a thick corkboard with a mounted map of metro Denver. She’d outlined in red the bad zones thick with ghosts—where she couldn’t drive. She’d also stuck golden pins, only four, of ghosts she’d helped transition, and none of those had been major projects, just phantoms she’d moved on while coming into her gift. That main map dominated, but others hung, too. Of Colorado, of the Old West, and old maps, too. The room smelled exotic, both from the perfume her great-aunt Sandra—and Clare—loved, and the furniture she’d inherited from her relative. Great-Aunt Sandra had liked burning incense. Straight ahead sat two bookshelves full of her great-aunt’s journals—books the woman had sitting around in every room, much like Clare had clocks, and would write in at whim. Once more Clare deeply regretted not spending more time with the woman she loved but had considered a flake. Not only had she missed wonderful times with Sandra, but she hadn’t let the woman groom her for this vocation.
