She wasn’t being haunted by a dead woman.
He looked up from his journal, genuinely puzzled. “No. You must be forgetting.”
Chloe said nothing.
Then came the music. Martin had a vinyl collection—old jazz, Coltrane, Davis. Chloe preferred silence or podcasts. But at 5:47 PM each evening, just as she began to cook, a specific album would click onto the turntable by itself. Kind of Blue. Elise’s favorite.