The clouds began to break up and drift away. Looking out the window, Reggie thought that they’d be gone within half an hour. The sky would be as blue as it had been in the morning, the birds would sing, and only some fallen branches would testify that anything had ever been otherwise. She wished she could make herself calm again as quickly. Either she managed a decent bluff or everyone else was too rattled to take notice of how many times she wiped her hands on her skirt, or how often she had to lick her dry lips. She wanted to be sick. More than that, she wanted to crawl somewhere dark, curl up, and wake when the whole damned mess was over—when the ghost had been found and put to rest and Whitehill was just Whitehill again, without mysterious white figures, sudden storms, or homicidal birds. Reggie had asked what to do now, but her first impulse had been to storm at her father: You couldn’t have left well enough alone, could you? It would have been better, she’d thought just then, if they’d never tried to contact the ghost at all.
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