My stepmother called me at the end of the day, her voice so smug I could practically hear the smile on her lips, and told me that from now on I would never be allowed to set foot in the family beach house again because she had already changed every lock.

“She would not want this, Audrey,” he said quietly. “You do not get to use her voice anymore,” I told him.

When he finally left, the house seemed to inhale a deep breath. Lydia stood up and gathered her things.

“You did well because you stopped negotiating with ghosts,” she said. I stayed in the house and started opening every window to let the salt air in.

I stripped the white slipcovers off the furniture and found my mother’s old sofa in storage. I hauled it back into the living room while sweating and laughing at the absurdity.

I found the shell bowl and the copper pot rack and the porch rug. At sunset I sat on the porch wrapped in my grandmother’s quilt.

My phone had been buzzing with missed calls and messages all day. I saw a text from Cassandra telling me where the rest of the furniture was hidden.

“I am not doing it for you,” she claimed in the message. I typed back a thank you and set the phone down to watch the stars.

The next morning I woke up to footsteps on the porch at two in the morning. I grabbed a heavy driftwood walking stick and went to the front door.

“If you take one more step, I am calling the police,” I warned. A man in a dark jacket flinched and held up his hands.