Snap by Carol Snow

into the photo printer. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breathuntil Delilah pushed a few buttons and the photo loomed on the screen. The man’s face was unmistakable, his expression oddly sweet, like he was looking at a kitten bounding after a ball, not peering through a second-floor window.
    Leo stopped sneaking out the front door and came to get a closer look. “Mom always said this place had good energy, but she never said it was haunted.”
    â€œMom wouldn’t know if it was haunted,” Delilah said, irritation tingeing the fear in her voice. “Besides, doesn’t this guy look vaguely familiar?”
    Leo checked the screen. “No.”
    â€œHe does,” I said, shuddering. How could that be? I’d only been here a week.
    â€œI wouldn’t know if what was haunted?” Rose asked, coming through the front door. Today she wore a cutoff jean miniskirt and the same black halter top I’d seen on her the last time. Her auburn hair hung loose around her shoulders.
    Delilah pointed at the photo printer’s screen. “Madison took this picture a little while ago. She swears there was no one in the window.”
    I expected Rose to start spouting stuff about ghosts and energy and transformation. Instead, she squinted at the screen and said, “Are you sure?”
    I nodded.
    She bit her lip. “Because sometimes the light hits the window in a funny way, and you can’t see what’s on the other side.”
    â€œThere was no one there,” I said.
    â€œThere’s nothing to stand on,” Delilah said.
    Rose turned away from the printer. “Maybe he had a ladder.The building next door is a bed-and-breakfast. Maybe it was a repairman.”
    â€œHe wasn’t there when I took the picture,” I insisted.
    â€œLeo thinks it’s a ghost,” Duncan said.
    â€œThere’s no such thing as ghosts,” Delilah said. “Besides, I keep feeling like I’ve seen this guy before. Do you recognize him, Mom?”
    â€œNo.” Rose glanced at the screen. “But it’s not a ghost.”
    â€œHow do you know?” Duncan asked.
    â€œThat’s not what ghosts look like.”
    Suddenly the room felt very, very cold. I hugged myself to keep from shivering.
    Â 
    Kimberley Cove, down from Sandyland Beach on the other side of the rock outcropping, was smaller than I expected, given that Duncan had told me it was the place where all the fishing boats moored. It was just a protected inlet with maybe thirty moorings, about half of which had boats attached. The pier that Duncan had mentioned was so small and weathered that most people would call it a dock. There was also a tiny unhygienic-looking clam shack and an even tinier building with a sign that said HARBORMASTE. Still, it was a pretty spot. The blue water, calmer than the open ocean, glinted with sequins of light. Some morning, I’d come back with my camera.
    â€œThere’s my dad.” Duncan waved, and a figure in a bright blue polo shirt waved back. He looked too preppy to be Larry, but as we got closer, I recognized the friendly smile and the puppy-dog eyes, the stubble and the cross dangling from one ear. The shirt was just a uniform.
    Larry stood on the float at the end of the pier helping sunburned men in T-shirts unload their gear from an unsteady-looking white boat. Inside the boat was another man, tall with steel-colored hair, wearing a matching bright blue polo. The boat, called the Peggy, had six seats on the open back deck and a raised bridge with a steering wheel. The bridge was so high, I got queasy just looking at it.
    â€œYour dad’s boat is smaller than I expected,” I said (smooth as always).
    â€œIt’s not a commercial fishing boat; it’s a charter. Tourists pay to go out. And it’s not my dad’s boat. Captain’s this guy named Ray Clarke.”
    â€œYou ever go up on the bridge?” I asked, looking