Warren walked into the Marsden ballroom for the company luncheon at noon, smoothing his freshly ironed shirt, and found Price Hollister standing at the head table with Winford Latham and a thick folder. “Warren,” Price said quietly, “we need to talk before the toast.” Dena and Gordon were already seated, and Clark was texting furiously beneath the tablecloth. Then I stepped through the doors in my emerald-green dress, with Ms. Voss beside me, and every head turned.

“Hello, Warren,” I said. “I am the ghost.” The ballroom went so silent that I could hear the coffee urn hiss. Warren stared at me, mouth open. Price lifted the notarized page, and Winford read the owner’s name aloud, slowly, so every guest heard it. Warren’s glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.