Garland looked unimpressed. “Yeah, and maybe I won’t.”

“The point is, you have to trust that these things always work out the way they’re supposed to.”

“You know what? I’m a little short on trust at the moment. You going to work some of your ju-ju to keep me here or not?”

“It’s not that easy.”

“So talk to the kid yourself.”

“He can’t hear me. A lot of spirits can’t see the living, just like most of the living can’t see the dead,” Charlie explained impatiently. “Would you quit being such a tool and just do it? I’ll try, okay? You have my word.”

Garland seemed to reflect. Then he nodded, accepting the bargain. “So what do you want me to say?”

She could sense his continued reluctance. Because he didn’t want to interact with the boy, Charlie realized. Something about the idea of talking to the spirit of a murdered child disturbed him.

“Ask him what happened.” Her head hurt and her stomach churned. (If she had needed proof that the only spirit she was developing immunity to was Garland, she was getting it; she’d started feeling sick the minute she had stepped inside the boy’s room.) While Bartoli had been talking to the cops about getting into the house, she filled Garland in on as much of the situation as she’d felt he needed to know, which meant she’d left out the serial killer part, along with such details as the age of the victim. “His name’s Trevor. Find out anything you can. Get a description of the perpetrator if he’ll give you one.”

“You want me to ask a dead kid to describe the guy who sliced him and his family up.” He gave her another of those flinty looks. “I don’t get my kicks upsetting kids, Doc. What happens if he freaks out?”

“Just do it, would you?” She glared at him. The supper she had barely eaten was behaving badly, and she didn’t know how long they (actually, she, since Bartoli et al had no idea that Garland or Trevor Mead still existed in any form, let alone were in the bedroom with her) would be left undisturbed. If Haney’s hostile attitude toward her presence in the boy’s room was anything to go by, not long. “And hurry up.”

Before Garland could reply, Trevor cast a scared glance toward where they were standing, which was in front of the door. Both Charlie and Garland went perfectly still. The boy was starting on the loop she had observed before, the one where he saw or heard something that scared him, cast the controller down, and bolted for the closet. In other words, he was getting ready to relive some of the final, terrible minutes of his life.

Only this time, he saw Garland. Charlie knew the moment it happened: the boy’s eyes focused and widened. Looking terrified, he dropped the controller and sprang to his feet.

“Hey, kid, it’s cool,” Garland said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Where is he? Is he here?” Trevor’s young, high-pitched voice trembled with fear. He was referring to the killer, Charlie knew. It was also obvious that he was aware Garland was not the man who had attacked him, which, to Charlie, meant he must have gotten at least a glimpse of his killer.

“No, man. Like I told you, it’s cool.” Casting a hard look at Charlie, Garland moved toward the boy, who seemed poised on the verge of fleeing. “I know something bad happened to you. Can you tell me about it?”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Michael.”

Trevor shivered and threw a frightened glance toward the closed bedroom door. “I think something bad happened to my mom,” he said in a hushed voice. “I heard her screaming. Is she okay?”

Garland glanced at Charlie.

“Tell him his mom is safe now. Ask him what happened after he heard her scream,” Charlie whispered.

Garland did.

Trevor wet his lips. “I hid in the closet. This guy …” The boy shook from head to toe, then wrapped his arms around himself; in his blue soccer ball–dotted pajamas, he looked so small and thin and vulnerable, he broke Charlie’s heart. “… he found me. He had a knife. I—I screamed and fought, but he dragged me out of the closet and threw me on the bed and … and …”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me the rest,” Garland said swiftly before Charlie could give him instructions. Weirdly enough, that’s almost exactly what she would have told him to say: no need to put the child through the trauma of reliving his own death.

“Ask him to describe the perpetrator,” Charlie told him.

“This guy—what did he look like? Can you remember?” Garland asked. His voice was surprisingly gentle.

Trevor’s lips quivered. “He was big, like a giant. And really strong. He just picked me up and threw me. He was, like, all dressed in black, like a goth warrior or something. It was like I was in this horror movie, only for real.” His voice broke. “It was real, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, kid. It was real. But it’s over now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Hair color. Eye color. Age,” Charlie hissed. “Was his face round or thin?”

“What about his hair?” Garland asked. “What color was it?”

Trevor shook his head. “He had on a hat—you know, one of those ski ones. It was black, I think. Or maybe dark blue. I never saw his hair.”

“Garland, hurry.” Charlie watched with alarm as Trevor seemed to grow fuzzy around the edges. The child’s voice had thinned as he uttered the last words, making them sound as if they were coming from farther away.

Garland’s eyes were on Trevor, too. “How old was he? You see his eyes?”

“I don’t know. Older than Bayley. About as old as my cousin Cory, maybe. His eyes—they were like dead black. Like zombie eyes. And, oh, yeah, there was like an eagle on his hat. It was white—or maybe yellow. Or maybe it was a hawk.”

“How was his face shaped? Was it fat or thin?”

“Kinda long and thin.”

“Did he say anything?” Charlie prompted urgently, because Trevor was becoming more translucent with every passing second. She wasn’t quite sure what was happening, but she did know that it didn’t bode well for any extended questioning. He wasn’t looking at Garland any longer. His attention was all on something to his right, in the far corner of the room, although there wasn’t anything there that Charlie could see.

Garland, though, seemed to see whatever it was. His big body taut with tension, he was staring hard at the same place.

“Garland,” Charlie hissed. “Ask him if the perp said anything.”

That seemed to rouse Garland. He shot her a quick, inscrutable glance.

“Trevor. Did the guy say anything to you?” he asked.

Trevor looked around at that. “ ‘Peekaboo. I see you,’ in this really scary voice, like he was playing a game when he opened the closet door and saw me all scrunched back in the corner. And he yelled ‘Shut up’ when I started to scream. And …” Trevor’s voice trailed off as his attention shifted from Garland to the same place he’d been looking before. “Dad? Is that you?”

Cautious hope was there in Trevor’s voice. Charlie felt her skin prickle. She could see no one and nothing that hadn’t been there before, but it was clear the boy could.

“Ask him if he remembers anything else.” Even as she shot the instruction at Garland, she watched Trevor’s face break into a joyous smile. Garland obviously saw whatever Trevor was looking at, too. He stared, narrow-eyed, at the same spot, as still as if he’d been turned to stone. If he heard Charlie, he didn’t reveal it by so much as a flick of an eyelash in her direction.

“Dad!” Beaming with delight, Trevor took off running with his arms outstretched. After two bounding strides, he vanished into thin air.

For a second or two, Garland’s expression was a study in bemusement as he continued to stare at the place where Trevor had vanished. Then, as if finally feeling Charlie’s gaze on him, he glanced at her.

“That sucked,” he said. His face went as hard as his voice as he turned his back on the place where Trevor had disappeared and walked toward her.