“Willa? You sure you’re okay?”

The voice snapped me out of my reverie, and I turned to see Reed standing a few feet away, watching me with concern.

“I didn’t mean to come in the house without knocking….” He spoke carefully, self-consciously. “But you didn’t answer the door, and the alarm wasn’t set. It seems like something’s wrong.”

“No,” I said, though my voice sounded like it had been run through a cheese grater. “I’m … fine.”

I glanced back at the pool water. Now it was perfect, pale aqua. Reed spoke again, but I didn’t quite hear his words.

“What?” I said. “Sorry. I’m a little … out of it.”

“I said I won’t keep you, but now I’m wondering if I should stay for a little while. Do you think you might have a concussion?”

“I’m fine,” I said blankly.

“I’m sure you are.” He shot me a smile and took Jonathan’s laptop off the kitchen counter. “Any big plans for your parent-free weekend?”

I glanced at him without smiling. I didn’t feel like pretending to be normal or okay. “No,” I said. “Not really.”

“I’ll just go, then. Seems like you want to be alone.” Reed’s cheerful expression faltered and he headed for the door.

I started up the stairs, but as I approached the second floor, I became aware of a static quality in the light behind me.

When I glanced down, Reed was looking up at me from the doorway, biting his lip. “This is going to sound odd, but were you by any chance … looking at some of Jonathan’s files?”

“What?” I asked.

Balancing the laptop on his left forearm, Reed turned it toward me.

The Development Notes folder was still open.

“Oh, um, yeah,” I said. “I didn’t realize right away that it wasn’t my computer. I clicked on the files without really looking.”

He glanced at the screen. “Oh. Okay, then.”

I went back down to the foyer. “But … I found something kind of strange.”

“Strange?” His eyes cut sharply up to meet mine. “How do you mean?”

I had to tell him, even if he wouldn’t believe me. “Um … Brianna Logan,” I said. “She was the Hollywood Killer’s first victim. And the agency name the police found in her calendar was Scales. Do you remember reading that in the news?”

“Possibly.” He blinked. “I’m not sure. What are you trying to say?”

“Um,” I said. “Nothing, really. Just that I found this chart …”

He leaned back against the doorframe, looking up at me with concern in his eyes. “I do know that Jonathan has been working with his agent to try to get the film rights for the story. I mean, so is everyone else in town. But that’s what you found, I’m sure.”

I nodded.

Reed didn’t seem willing to let it go. “He wasn’t even here when the last girl disappeared. He was in Connecticut.”

Suddenly, he frowned.

“Although he came back for one day,” he said. “At the beginning of the week. But I’m sure there’s no connection.”

Except he didn’t sound sure. He sounded distinctly unsure. And he was acting really unhappy and flustered all of a sudden.

“Reed …” I said.

He shook his head. “Listen, it’s nothing. I’ll figure it out, okay? I mean, it has to be nothing.”

I nodded.

Looking at me, Reed visibly relaxed, even cracked a smile. “What are we even talking about? This is crazy. Jonathan couldn’t be a … I’d better get going. I’ll talk to you next week, okay?”

He shut the door, and I walked to the bottom step and sank down, my head in my hands.

Who just accuses their stepfather of murder, without even asking him about it?

A crazy person, that’s who.

I sat like that for probably fifteen minutes, utterly at a loss as to what I should do or even think. Forget the computer file. Forget the ghost. Did I really believe my mother had fallen in love with a serial killer? Some vague sense of dissatisfaction, of an unanswered question, lingered at the back of my mind.

Finally, I stood up and padded slowly to my bedroom. I was tempted to crawl back under my covers right then and there, even though it was the middle of the day. I was worn out from the morning — the week — the month — my life. I was so tired.

Then I heard a sound from downstairs.

I crept to the top of the stairs and listened with every bit of attention I could scrape together in my panicking mind.

A sound — a footstep? Or my heart again?

I closed my eyes and listened so hard it hurt.

No, I wasn’t imagining it. A footstep. Downstairs.

There was someone in the house.

“Reed?” I called. Maybe he’d forgotten something and come back inside.

But there was no answer.

My cell phone was downstairs, and the battery was dead anyway. I tried to recall what time Mom had texted about Jonathan driving back from Palm Springs.

Something moved in my field of view, practically giving me a heart attack. Looking down, I saw a thin stream of water moving forward like a snake, trailing ahead toward the end of the hall, almost as if the floor slanted downhill – which, of course, it didn’t.

I glanced back down the stairs, and as I did, the thought came automatically: Don’t be crazy, Willa.

But you know what? This wasn’t crazy. This was me trusting my instincts.

The water reached the end of the hall and seeped under the door to Jonathan’s office. I went on tiptoe, staying as close to the wall as I could, praying I wouldn’t step on any creaky floorboards.

Then, shattering the quiet, there came a cough from downstairs.

And a dragging sound, like someone was moving furniture around.

I kept going. With every agonizing step, I was sure I was going to give myself away. Somehow I made it to Jonathan’s office and opened the door.

When I saw the room, I gasped.

The whole room was covered in the same two words, repeated over and over:

GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT

The rose petals led to an open window. I deviated from the path just long enough to pick up the phone and hear the thick silence of a dead phone connection.

Someone had cut the line.

I no longer had the luxury of agonizing over whether I was overreacting.

I hurried to the window. The drop was at least sixteen feet, but there was a trellis bolted to the exterior wall below the window — where the jasmine bloomed so fragrantly at night. I didn’t have time to worry about whether it could support my weight. I swung my leg over and struggled to grip the tiny holes with my toes. By the time I got to the ground, my bare feet were full of splinters and cramped from holding on so tightly — but at least I was out.

I crept around the side of the house, pausing to peer into the front yard. Unfortunately, there was no way to get through the front gate without coming into easy view through the huge den window. If Jonathan was still in the house, I could run for it — but if he saw me, and chased me, he would almost certainly overtake me.

I saw the front door start to open and darted back to the rear of the house, where he wasn’t bothering to keep watch.

He didn’t have to. Because he knew, like I did, that the only way into and out of the property was through the front gate. The fences at the sides of the house were eight feet tall, with metal spikes on top and nothing to use as a foothold. Behind the citrus trees in the back, the hillside dropped off steeply into the ravine, littered with cactuses that had spines the size of sewing needles. Even if I made it down there, I wouldn’t make it more than five or ten feet — and then I’d be a sitting duck.

Why hadn’t I grabbed a pair of shoes?

He would have heard you. He would have known what you were planning to do.