He gestured to the floor next to the bed. “Gucci isn’t your style, is it?”

He’d noticed the backpack.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

I smiled.

The sunlight danced in Reed’s eyes. “It’s okay. I’m the one who picked it out. Now that I know you, I would have picked something completely different. I just figured, east coast … probably uptight … I was wrong, obviously.”

The thought of Reed buying a gift for me — even if it wasn’t technically from him — sent a tiny electric charge through my body. Instantly, I liked the bag about five times more.

“It’s all right,” I said, picking it up. “It’s growing on me. The zipper’s, like, unbelievable.”

“You’re a good sport.” Reed glanced out into the hall. “Well, I guess I should get going….”

Was I crazy, or did he actually sound a little reluctant to leave?

Trying not to smile too brightly, I stood up to say good-bye. Just as I got to my feet, I felt a tremendous head rush.

A blinding white light flashed in front of my eyes.

It suits you,” says the voice — friendly and soft, amused. He reaches down and gently touches the delicate chain he’s fastened around my neck. Tests the weight of the rose charm in his fingers.

I turn my head away. I don’t want to look at him. I know it will make him angry, but I can’t help it. If I look at him, I’ll throw up.

“Fine. Be that way.” He withdraws his hand, stands, and walks a few feet away. “You’re all the same, you know that? So self-involved. You only think about me, me, me.”

The room is cool and dark, with a low ceiling. A lightbulb hangs down over a table in the corner. He’s leaning over something on the table, a large box. When he turns back, he’s holding up a pea-green dress.

“You’re going to change into this,” he says. “And you’re not going to try anything stupid. I’m going to be right here, do you understand?”

I nod, and he reaches down to free my ankles. Then he extends his hand. I’m supposed to take it, to let him help me to my feet. But I can’t — I can’t bring myself to touch him.

I manage to get up on my own. He gives me the dress.

“What if it doesn’t fit?” I choke the words out.

“It’s your size,” he says.

This is my chance to run — to scream, to fight back — it’s what I’ve been waiting for since I woke up. How long ago was that? Hours?

No. That’s wishful thinking. It’s been days.

But the world swims around me. The air feels thick and heavy. My legs are like the trunks of trees, useless, numb. I can’t run.

I can’t do anything.

“Right over there,” he says. “In the bathroom.”

I can feel a lump in my throat — hopelessness threatens to overwhelm me. I want to collapse to the floor and sob.

“Brianna.” Now there’s a warning in his voice. “Do you remember our talk?”

I sniffle and nod.

“There’s an easy way, and a hard way. I prefer the easy way — and I can’t help but think you will, too.” His voice hardens. “So do as I say before we have to change our tack here.”

I can feel tears biting at my eyes.

“Don’t cry!” he snaps. “How many times have I told you not to cry?”

I blink and stare at the ceiling to keep my eyes dry, and then I slowly walk toward the open bathroom door.

As I pass the box, I look down and gasp.

There’s a head in there.

A millisecond later, I realize that it’s not a head. It’s just a blond wig on a faceless Styrofoam form. But somehow that’s almost as bad as a head. And what surrounds it is even worse —

Shiny black feathers.

Birds. Dead, or stuffed, or just realistic-looking fakes, I don’t know.

Dozens and dozens of birds.

“It’s going to be great,” he says. “Just like we rehearsed. Your star-making performance.”

I gasped and raised my hands to my face, pressing them over my mouth.

“Willa?”

I shook my head, unable to speak.

“Hey — Willa?”

Maybe the only thing in the entire universe that could have snapped me out of my shock was the feather-light touch of Reed’s hand on my cheek.

I blinked and turned to look at him.

“What happened?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head and managed to say, “Nothing.”

He wasn’t convinced.

“I … I just remembered I have a huge test tomorrow, that’s all,” I said. “I should start studying.”

Reed’s eyes searched my face for a few moments, then he relaxed slightly. “I remember that feeling. It’s the worst. And Langhorn takes academics pretty seriously.”

I nodded, wondering if I’d be able to hold it together for the amount of time it took him to leave.

Thankfully, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his vibrating phone. “It’s Jonathan. I need to take it. Good luck on your test.”

I nodded mutely.

“Hey, Jonathan,” I heard Reed say. “Yeah, I’m at the house. Just finished up. On my way out right now, in fact.”

As soon as he was gone, I closed the door and sat on my bed, shaking.

What just happened? What was that?

It felt like a dream — like the most realistic dream I’d ever had. I could still picture the box on the table, with the wig and the dead birds in it. I could feel the leaden heaviness of my legs. And I could hear the voice. Low, gravelly. Distorted in a dreamlike way, just like the rest of it had been — the room I was in, the dress, the strange square outline of light in the distance.

It had to be a dream.

Except, of course, I wasn’t asleep.

For a moment, I was tempted to reach into my bag for the red notebook, but I didn’t need to look. I already understood the full meaning of the name I’d heard.

“Brianna,” the gravelly voice had called me.

But the voice wasn’t talking to me —

It was talking to Brianna Logan, the first victim of the Hollywood Killer.

My mother was blond.

When she poked her head into my room and saw me sitting dazed on my bed, she cried, “Don’t be mad, Willa! Francisco said it suited my skin tone.”

I stared at her. She didn’t look like herself, but she didn’t look like a stranger. More like a long-lost cousin from Norway.

“He said dark hair was too severe at my age,” Mom went on, her voice oddly pleading. “Do you hate it?”

I shook my head. How could I focus on my mother’s hair minutes after having a full-on serial-killer hallucination?

“Oh, no, you hate it,” Mom said. “You look horrified. Is it that bad?”

I had to tell her. This was as clear an opening as I was ever going to get. I should tell her about the corpse in the pool, and the terrifying vision — and even if it meant I was totally crazy, at least then …

I shied away from letting myself think at least then everything will be better.

Because the fact is, everything would be worse. Immediately. Much, much worse.

“Joanna! Willa!” I heard Jonathan calling from downstairs. “Dinner! I picked up sushi.”

I swallowed back anything I planned to say and followed my newly blond mother downstairs.