The black and white linoleum tiled floor was chipped and faded. A Formica kitchen table, grey with red and chrome trim, stood in the middle of the room flanked with four matching red vinyl chairs. The only item on the table was a white ceramic milk pitcher, with red flowers painted on the side, holding a bouquet of dust-laden silk roses. “Emil bought that for me,” the soft, shaky voice said, “on the Mother’s Day before they took him away.” Mary turned towards the voice and saw the petite, elderly ghost standing next to the stove on the other side of the room. She was wearing a house dress in turquoise blue that dwarfed her size and reached down below her calves. “Mrs. Forrest?” Mary asked. The ghost raised tired eyes to Mary and nodded. “Are you going to call me the mother of a child killer too?” she asked, pain and loneliness evident in her face. Shaking her head, Mary moved closer. “No, I just met with Emil at the prison,” she explained. “I don’t think he did it at all.
