I shrugged. “I guess it’s a ghost thing. Creepy?”

“Little bit,” he confessed, but he did so with a smile. I sighed, once again grateful for his seemingly endless ability to accept all the strange things about me. I didn’t get the chance to express this gratitude, though, because the sound of a slamming door made us both jerk our heads toward Joshua’s house.

A small, darkened figure now stood on the highest platform of the patio. I could see from its silhouette that the figure was a woman. In the bright light from the house windows, she appeared backlit, her features obscured by shadows. I could tell from her stance—hands on hips, back rigidly straight—that, whoever she was, she wasn’t terribly happy.

Immediately, I dropped Joshua’s hand and hunched my shoulders, suddenly feeling like a child who’d been caught doing something bad by someone else’s mother. When the woman spoke, however, I knew I wasn’t the child about to be scolded.

“Joshua Christopher Mayhew.” The woman’s voice was high and delicate, but right now it sounded strained from worry. “Do I even need to ask if there’s some valid explanation for why you’re so late?”

“No, Mom,” Joshua groaned, looking down at his sneakers.

“And do I even need to tell you that we were this close to filing a missing person’s report on you?”

“I’m not that late,” Joshua mumbled, so quietly that the woman on the porch couldn’t hear him. More loudly, he said, “Yes, Mom. I’m sorry, Mom.”

Then he sighed and began to trudge forward. I followed him, ducking my head.

“Is she always like this?” I whispered, even though Joshua’s mother couldn’t hear me and Joshua couldn’t answer me.

He surprised me by whispering back through gritted teeth, “My grandmother’s worse—think pit bull. A really mean one.”

I gulped lightly and shook my head. As if I needed another reason to be afraid of Ruth Mayhew.

I’m not sure whether Joshua’s mother heard his unflattering description of his grandmother, because, without another word, she spun around on one heel and marched to the back door, opening the screen door and then letting it slam behind her with bouncing thuds.

Joshua gave me a sheepish glance before leaping up onto the porch and crossing to the door. I followed quickly, as if I too had been ordered inside. Joshua reached the screen door first. He caught it midbounce and held it open, turning back to me.

“My parents’ names are Rebecca and Jeremiah, by the way,” he whispered as I approached him.

I laughed, jittery. “Got it. So even though they’ll be too busy screaming at you, and they can’t hear me anyway, I’ll at least be able to address them properly?”

Joshua rolled his eyes but still gave me a quick grin. Then he stepped through the doorway and waved for me to follow suit. With a gulp, I crossed the threshold and let Joshua shut the door behind us.

Once inside, I walked several paces behind him, down an unlit hallway. Watching his darkened form ahead of me, I experienced a moment of almost overwhelming nervousness. I’d already opened my mouth to tell Joshua Thanks, but maybe some other time when we passed through an archway and into yet another fantastic scene.

The Mayhews’ kitchen sprawled before me, well lit and pleasantly cluttered. The entire room was paneled in a warm, red-colored wood; and jars and gadgets covered every inch of its seemingly endless counter space. In the center of the huge room sat a small wooden island over which various pots and pans hung from the low ceiling beams.

The room looked as though it stretched across the entire width of the house, running from the north-facing bay windows in front of us to the large window box on our left. Underneath that window, a man and a young girl stood at a sink full of dishes, laughing.

Jeremiah and Jillian Mayhew, I guessed.

Across from them, Joshua’s mother had just walked over to the center island, and she began sorting through the dishes stacked on it. For a moment her sleek black hair covered her face; but when she glanced up at the sound of the laughter, I could see her lovely features and bright hazel eyes. Her eyes sparkled happily for a moment before landing on Joshua. When they did so, they sharpened.

“So, prodigal son,” she said. “What’s a good punishment for skipping dinner and scaring the hell out of your mother less than a week after your car accident?”

Rebecca Mayhew’s voice stirred Jeremiah and Jillian, who both turned away from the dishes in the sink. In my peripheral vision, I could see Joshua wince from all the scrutiny. I gave him a quick, sympathetic smile and then directed my attention to his family.

Though Jeremiah had brown hair instead of black, his dark blues eyes matched Joshua’s perfectly. Despite the separation of at least twenty years, the two men could have been brothers; they shared the same high cheekbones and tan skin, the same broad grin. Jeremiah’s grin spoke clearly enough: whoever wanted to punish Joshua tonight, Jeremiah wasn’t on their side. At least not internally.

Judging from her expression, however, Jillian obviously shared her mother’s anger. With both hands, she pushed back her long, black hair and scowled.

She had her mother’s angular face. On Jillian, however, the features were sharper, less delicate. Not that Jillian wasn’t pretty—she was. But something about the way she held her mouth and tilted her head gave her an arch sort of look, as if she was always crafting some vicious comment.

“Yeah, Josh,” she sneered. “So thoughtful of you to join us in time to finish the dishes.”

Joshua opened his mouth to protest, but another, older voice cut him off.

“That might be a fitting punishment for him: cleaning this massive kitchen all by himself.”

Joshua and I simultaneously spun around toward the speaker. An elderly woman approached us from a dining table tucked into a back corner I’d missed upon my first inspection of the kitchen. The woman had her head down, focusing on a small stack of envelopes in her hands, so I couldn’t catch a glimpse of her face.

Still looking at her mail, she sighed heavily and shook her head. Her chin-length hair swung lightly with the movement. Its color—a bright, almost translucent white—seemed to shimmer under the kitchen lights.

Finally, after a few more steps, she looked up at Joshua. Immediately, I knew who had given Joshua and Jeremiah their unusual eyes. Ruth Mayhew’s midnight blue–colored eyes looked out from her pale, oval face, which angled slightly at her sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. When she frowned, deep wrinkles creased around her mouth and across her forehead. Instead of making her look elderly and vulnerable, however, the expression made her seem unbreakable.

Halfway across the kitchen, Ruth’s strange-colored eyes flickered toward me, and she froze.

“Joshua?” she asked, her tone strained. “Who is that with—?”

She didn’t finish the question but instead leaned forward to peer at the space beside Joshua. The space in which I currently stood.

At that moment I froze, too.

I had the instant, disconcerting notion that Joshua’s grandmother was about to ask him who was standing beside him. But that was impossible. Only Joshua and Eli could see me. I’d proved it today in Joshua’s classroom. Nonetheless, I itched with the impulse to run; and before I could give it any rational thought, I whispered, “Joshua, maybe I should come by some other—”

The entire sentence hadn’t left my mouth when Ruth jerked upright, rigid-straight again. Her eyes riveted on mine. Her right hand, which had previously clutched the mail, dropped to her side, scattering paper in noisy flutters across the kitchen floor. Still facing me, she drew in one sharp breath.

And with that breath, she told me all I needed to know.

Ruth heard me. She saw me. There was no other explanation for her abrupt behavior. Ruth could hear and see me just as clearly as Joshua could. Realizing this, I couldn’t move. I was pretty sure I couldn’t even blink.