My daughter died two years ago; last week the school called to say she was in the principal’s office.

—But whoever it was knew her name. The person on the phone sounded like her, Neil.

—Obituaries are public. Social media exists. Anyone could have obtained that information.

When I took my keys from the hook by the door, Neil stood in front of me.

“Love, you can’t go,” she said, panic crossing her face. “Please.”

“Please what, Neil?” My hands were trembling, but my voice wasn’t. “If she’s dead, why are you afraid of a ghost, unless it isn’t one?”