There was no explanation for my reaction.

Well, I thought, maybe there’s someone else you like more than Reed.

I spent the rest of the afternoon following obscure leads online, trying to figure out why the ghost of Diana Del Mar would feel the need to soak me (yet again), and how she could be connected to the murders – if that’s even what the visions were supposed to be telling me. But something major was missing, just like Wyatt had said. By dinnertime, I built up so much frustrated, nervous energy that I knew I had to burn some off or I’d be up all night. So after we finished eating, I changed into my swimsuit and went down to the den, where Mom was sitting on the couch reading.

“Can I go swimming?” The words were a question, but I knew the tone of my voice implied an or else situation.

“Of course,” she said. “Do you want me to sit outside with you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m good. You can spy on me through the windows if you feel the urge.”

The brilliant underwater light sharply defined the tiled floor of the pool, each tiny square casting its own little shadow. I took a good look around for dead bodies and then started to swim.

I pulled myself toward the deep end with long, powerful strokes. I thought it might feel different to be in the water, after talking to Dr. Tilliman. But it was pretty much the same as always. I suppose a rational person would consider my father’s death reason enough to stay out of pools for the rest of her life. Not to mention the last terrifying thing that had happened to me in this very pool. Further evidence of how twisted I was, I guess. I couldn’t stay away. I was drawn to the water.

Maybe it’s human nature to be drawn to the things that have hurt us the most.

I swam until I was hot and panting, so tired that I could have curled up on the tile and fallen asleep.

At least the whole thing had gone off without incident.

Until.

Until I climbed the steps and wrapped myself in a striped towel. And noticed something — no, two somethings — a pair of small puddles on the tile closest to the pool. When I angled my head, I saw them for what they really were …

Footprints.

Whoever had left them had been standing at the edge, looking out over the pool … looking at me.

The prints led away. I followed their trail and found myself standing in front of the guest cottage, where they went up the steps and across the small porch. Then they stopped.

I put my hand on the knob.

“Willa?”

I spun around to see Jonathan walking out of the house, at a pace that was a hair too fast to be casual.

“Hey, sorry,” he said, coming closer. “We never talked about the guesthouse, I guess. We don’t go in there, um … ever. The wiring’s very old and I haven’t had a chance to have somebody come and look at it yet.”

“Okay,” I said. Not like I’d really wanted to go in.

“Great. Thanks for understanding.” Then he stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, looking around.

It dawned on me after a few seconds that he wasn’t going back inside until I did, so I stepped down off the porch and walked toward the main house, with Jonathan following a couple of feet behind me.

“Sorry if I startled you,” he said. “I was doing dishes, and I saw you out the window.”

“You didn’t startle me,” I said. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw that — as some part of me had totally expected — the footprints had vanished.

“All right, well … the dishwasher calls.” He made a left into the kitchen, seeming highly relieved to get away from me.

Mom glanced up from her book as I passed the den. “What was that about?”

“Jonathan came outside because he thought I was going into the guesthouse,” I said.

“Oh.” She frowned. “Nobody goes in there.”

I nodded and started for the stairs, thinking, Somebody does.

What’s going on with you?” Marnie asked the next morning. We were sitting on the floor in front of my locker, finishing up some homework before the first bell.

“Huh?” I tore my attention from the Trig assignment and glanced over at her.

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” she said. “Distant. Like you’ve got other stuff going on.”

“Oh, no, Marnie,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of having a life outside of our time together.”

She picked up on my sarcasm and shot me an annoyed glance. Then she glanced at my work sheet and copied the answer I’d just written onto her own paper.

“Wait a second,” I said, moving my notebook out of her view. “How long have you been cheating off me?”

She ignored the question. “Kas said you ate lunch with Wyatt yesterday.”

“Yeah? Well, I did.”

Neither of us spoke for a minute.

“Do you have a problem with that?” I asked.

“A problem? No …” she said. “I expected more from you, that’s all. I mean, I warned you about him —”

“Marnie,” I said, careful to keep my voice even, “I think a lot of what you said about Wyatt was lies.”

“Lies?” She laughed humorlessly. “Okay, sure.”

Not exactly a denial, was it?

I sighed and faced her squarely. I guess if we were going to do this, now was as good a time as any. “I saw the photos; I looked up the blog. You guys were clearly an actual couple.”

She didn’t get angry. She gave me a blank smile. “When did I ever say we weren’t?”

I gaped at her for a second. “At your house, after the premiere.”

She shook her head. “Hm-mm. I don’t think so. You must have misunderstood me. You can be … a little obtuse sometimes. No offense.”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t misunderstand. You said he thought you were going out and it was really awkward for you. But you guys did go out.”

“Of course we did!” she said, exasperated. “We were, like, the It Couple. Why do you think we had a blog?”

Okay. Deep breath. This was veering from uncomfortable to downright bizarre.

“And the balloons,” I said, even though I knew I should stop. “You said he came to your house with balloons, but you were the one who gave them to him.”

There was a moment when our eyes met and there was a laser connection between us, an unmistakable hyperloop of the serious, actual truth. And we both felt it.

But Marnie recovered and sat back, shaking her head. “I took a chance on you, Willa. When no one else in the entire school would talk to you, I invited you to sit with me. I introduced you to my friends. I even took you to an important Hollywood event, where you proceeded to lie to journalists about —”

“Okay, no,” I said. “Stop. Don’t even finish that sentence, please. We both know who invented Bernadette Middleton and sent that press release.”

“I thought we were friends,” she said, fixing a wide-eyed stare at me. “What are you accusing me of?”

I realized, all at once, that she actually didn’t get it. And then I realized that there was no point in continuing our conversation.

“Look,” she went on, “I realize now that you have a thing for Wyatt. Maybe you’re … I don’t know, threatened by me or something? But believe me, you’re welcome to him. He’s all yours. I’m sorry you got so many wrong ideas. I was only trying to look out for you.”

Staring at her, I felt almost nothing. No anger. No desire to make her admit her lying ways. Only a tiny hint of regret for the loss of the person I thought she had been.

Wyatt was right — Marnie was pathological. But she couldn’t be held accountable. She was a force of nature. A runaway train.