“What made you change your mind?” I asked.

She looked at me.

“What made you suspect this Luther guy was involved?”

The old lady smiled, and for a second, I could see the child that she once was. “You don’t believe in magic, do you, Mickey?”

Oh, please, I thought. “No.”

“Neither do I. I’ve seen too much suffering to believe in the superstitious. And yet . . .”

I waited. When she didn’t speak again, I tried a new avenue. “Who is this Luther? What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

She shrugged. “We worry about the rescue, not the name.”

“But my father rescued him?”

“Yes.”

“And then you thought—”

“That your father died in a car accident.”

“So what made you change your mind?” I asked again.

“You won’t believe it. I don’t believe it either. And yet I know what I know. I don’t believe in magic or superstition. But I believe that there are some things we cannot yet comprehend—that there are things beyond our capabilities to understand. Sometimes, explaining how the universe works is like teaching a lion to read. Reading is real. The lion is real. But he’s never going to read.”

I shook off the analogy and yet I got it. “So what happened?” I asked.

“My refrigerator broke.”

“Huh?”

“It’s an old refrigerator,” she said. “It hums so loudly. But I’ve had it a long time. I like it. Even the noise comforts me.”

I tried not to sigh.

“Miss Sobek?”

“Lizzy.”

“Pardon?”

“Call me Lizzy.”

“Okay, great. Lizzy, I was asking about this Luther guy and my father.”

“And I’m telling you. You need to be patient, Mickey.”

I said nothing.

“Where was I?”

“You loved your loud refrigerator,” I said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“Oh, right. Thank you. Yes, my refrigerator. I’ve had it since, oh, I don’t know. Many, many years.”

“Fascinating,” I said, because I couldn’t help it.

Lizzy ignored it. “One day, the refrigerator broke, so I called the repairman. This was, oh, I don’t know. Maybe two months ago.”

“Okay,” I said, just to keep her moving along.

“So he said that he would come between noon and five P.M. That’s how they do it, these repairmen. They don’t give you a specific time, like they used to. They give you a block of time. You’re supposed to sit and wait, but then again, I had no place to go.”

I wanted to pull the words out of her mouth, but I guess that she needed to go at her own pace.

“So anyway, at noon I came downstairs. I like to sit in the living room and listen to my old record player. I play it all day long. I know it’s funny for an old lady, but I love the old rock. The Who. The Rolling Stones. I have Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys. Have you ever heard it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

“Very much.”

“Me too. My favorite is HorsePower. Do you know them?”

I nodded. “They’re my mother’s favorite.”

“I know.” She smiled at me again. “But on that day, I wanted to be sure to hear the doorbell. I didn’t want to miss the repairman. So I kept the music off. I made myself a cup of Earl Grey tea and sat at the kitchen table and waited for the repairman to arrive. It seemed to take forever.”

“I know the feeling,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Never mind. You were waiting for the repairman.”

“Yes. And I fell asleep. Right there. Right at the kitchen table. I don’t know why. I never nap during the day. But I was tired, I guess. Or maybe it was because the refrigerator was silent. Or that there was no music playing. I can’t explain, but I fell asleep. And that’s when I heard it.”

“Heard what?”

“In my sleep. In my dream, I guess. I heard your father’s voice.”

I tried not to make a face. “In a dream?”

“Maybe.”

“And, uh, what did he say?”

“I couldn’t hear much. It was very muffled. But I knew it was his voice. I could make out the word Luther. That was about it. He sounded in trouble, though. There was panic in his voice. A knock on the door woke me up. The repairman was there.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “And this is why you thought my father was alive?”

“Yes.”

“Because you heard a voice?”

“His voice.”

“In your sleep?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t even know what to say to that.

“Mickey?”

“Yes.”

“You know about the fate of my family, of course. My mother. My father. My beloved brother.”

I nodded.

“They are all dead,” she said. “So I know.”

“Know what?”

“I know,” she said, her voice a low cackle, “that the dead never speak to me.”

Somewhere, way in the background, I heard hospital machines beeping.

“Not once,” she went on. “All those deaths, all those years, all those ghosts. But they never speak to me. You want to roll your eyes at the old lady hearing voices? I understand that too. But as I’ve learned, we can’t explain everything. Not yet anyway. I know what I heard. I heard your father. I heard him warn me about Luther.”

I just sat there.

“And now Luther is back, isn’t he? So maybe, just maybe, I’m not so crazy.”

Silence. For a few moments we just stayed there, not moving. Finally I spoke.

“Is that why you Photoshopped his head on that Nazi picture?” I asked.

“Trick photography. Yes.”

“You wanted to see my reaction? To see if I knew Luther?”

“Yes.”

“Did you think that, what, I was working with him?”

“I didn’t know. But he was there. You said that he took your father away.”

“He did,” I said. “But Dad rescued Luther, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why would this Luther guy want to hurt him?”

“Things go wrong, Mickey.” She looked at Spoon. The implication was obvious. “Just because you do right doesn’t mean that wrong won’t still find you.”