In the envelope, Maria found a lock of what she immediately recognized as Jacob’s hair, along with a plain white business card that said only, “Mathilde Waters, Ghost Hunter.”

“Trust me,” said Tall Daddy, “trust me and perhaps we’ll let you live.”

It was morning, it was raining, and to make matters worse, Hootie and the Blowfish blared at me from the alarm clock radio, exhorting me to just “Let Her Cry.”

I found the stack of obituaries exactly where David had told me they would be, clipped together and neatly organized by date of birth.