The fact that tonight was a maybe date created more dilemmas for Dan. Like, did he shave? Would that communicate a level of formality that would say too much? Should he keep it informal, so it didn’t seem like he was making assumptions? He really hoped it was a date, though. He thought about Abby’s eyes: big, consuming, like there was a whole world in there he’d only just glimpsed.

“Idiot,” he said. He’d been so lost in his thoughts, he was now probably running late. He threw on a light blue shirt that felt casual but not sloppy. He tucked and untucked it, and even attempted a half-tucked slouchy thing that only catalog models ever seemed to do right. He decided jeans instead of slacks, and definitely no tie—way too formal.

He looked at his clock.

Time seemed to function strangely here. What had felt like hours of wardrobe deliberation turned out to be no more than twenty minutes. He actually had time to kill. Dan sat down at his desk and cracked open his laptop to check his email. There was a long one from his parents that basically just said they hoped he was having a great time with his new friends. Some junk mail. A video from Jordan of a cat running full tilt into a tiny shoe box, and a link to a new band he thought Dan should check out. For a second, Dan wondered what Jordan would think about this dinner with Abby. Had Abby told him? Dan didn’t look forward to Jordan’s inevitable jokes once he found out.

Then, an unread message in his Sent folder caught Dan’s attention. That was . . . odd. How could you even have an unread message in your Sent folder? By virtue of composing and sending the message, didn’t that mean he had himself read it?

Dan clicked on the folder, catching a subject line that read “RE: Your inquiry regarding patient 361”—but then his in-box minimized and an error message popped up midscreen. The cursor changed to the spinny wheel of sadness.

“What? Hey!” Dan smacked the side of the laptop. “Yes!” he shouted. “Yes, I would like to restart the browser, you piece of—and thank you ever so much for choosing this exact second to crash!”

Finally, the internet closed and reopened a second later, but his Sent folder was minus one mysteriously unread message.

Dan felt his pulse begin to race. I’m sitting in an old mental hospital, hallucinating emails about patients. Yeah. No biggie. Ready for that date, slugger?

“I have to get out of here,” he said to the room.

Dan shoved up his sleeves and grabbed his keys and wallet. He turned off all the lights except his desk lamp. He never wanted to come back to a pitch-black room again, afraid he might find—well, whatever trick his imagination had played on him that first night. He went out the door, locking it behind him.

Dan hustled down the hall and around the corner, taking the steps to the lower level in long strides. That weird feeling of being watched was always worse in the halls. He chalked it up to the small windows letting in such anemic slats of light. But he couldn’t go five steps in here without the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Maybe it was knowing those photographs were downstairs, just sitting there in that office of horrors. He always seemed to forget about them when he was outside, away from Brookline, but when he was here, they crept back into his mind.

He reached the entrance hall, and there she was, Abby, wearing a low-cut top with spaghetti straps and a skirt. What a departure from her usual slouchy shirts and grandma vests. Shit, he was being such a guy, and she was going to notice and call the whole thing off. . . .

“You okay?” she asked as they started down the path to Camford, the little town that lay a mile away from campus. It was still relatively light out, summer prolonging the balmy twilight warmth. “You look kind of pale.”

Pale? Damn. Was it from that phantom email in his Sent folder, or from that shirt of hers? Hard to say. What he did know was that she looked great, and Paul had taught him that this was the sort of thing a guy ought to say to a girl.

“No, I’m fine,” he said. “You look neat.” Abby glanced up at him, an uncertain smile on her face. Somewhere, his father was having a seizure. “I mean good. You look good. Amazing. You look amazing.”

That stupid ghost email had rattled him harder than he thought.

He fidgeted with a button on his sleeve. A thin vapor of fog clung to the ground. Dan had heard Professor Reyes refer to it as “the Brookline soup,” this fog that showed up without fail at dusk. Allegedly, it could get almost opaque in the autumn months.

The walk down to Brewster’s was uneventful. Not boring, just . . . easy. He liked that about Abby—nothing was overly dramatic or even really mysterious. Game playing, lying, rules—none of that seemed to apply with her. She said what was on her mind—at the moment, an obsession with glow-in-the-dark cats they were engineering in Japan (she wanted one for the cute factor, but more so for the geek factor)—and then said even more about what was on her mind.

“I’m rambling,” she said.

“No,” he answered. “You make it interesting.” He hoped that didn’t sound too pathetic. But she just gave him a smile and his heart lifted.

While they waited at the restaurant counter to order, Dan breathed in the intoxicating mix of scents—coffee grounds, pesto, and the flowery loveliness coming from Abby. She must have put on some perfume. She leaned into the counter, rocking from her heels up to her tiptoes as she tried to decide what to eat. Some guy only a year or two older than them took Dan’s order, scribbling all of it down without looking once at the paper because he was staring at Abby. If Dan’s sandwich came out anywhere near correct, he would be shocked.

They grabbed a corner booth and settled in with their drinks.

Abby sipped her Diet Coke and stared out into the street. The lamps had just come on, making the damp sidewalks glisten. Interestingly, the town proper seemed to be immune to the fog that plagued the campus.

Say something, Crawford. Anything.

“Do you know much about computers?” Dan blurted out. He hadn’t planned to talk about the email, but maybe he needed someone else to affirm that he wasn’t overreacting, that it was normal to be a little freaked out by what had happened.

“A bit,” Abby said as their sandwiches arrived, along with a double espresso for Abby (on the house) that the waiter had just accidentally (yeah, right) made for a mixed-up order (read: Abby). Dan’s side of mustard, of course, was nowhere to be found. “What’d you want to know?”

“It’s going to sound moronic,” he said.

“I promise not to laugh at you,” Abby replied. “Not much, anyway.”

“How sweet of you.” Dan ruffled the back of his hair, which he always did when he was choosing his words carefully. “Is it possible to like . . . I don’t know, have someone’s email show up randomly in your account?”

Abby blinked across the table at him. “Um . . . isn’t that . . . the entire point of email?”

“Oh! No. Shit, see? This is why I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Dan shook his head. “What I mean is, could the signals get crossed or something? A message someone else sent wind up looking like you sent it?”

He was botching this spectacularly.

Abby dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin and tilted her head to the side, considering. One loop of hair came free from her headband, brushing her cheek. Dan fought the urge to tuck it behind her ear. “I don’t think so,” she replied finally. “Not unless someone hacked your account or stole your password. Why? Do you think a ghost is using your email without permission?” She lifted her fingertips and danced them across the air, making an exaggerated booOOOOoooo noise.

“Uh-oh, Dan, haunted dormitory, spooky, scary . . .”

Dan smacked her hand lightly. But she did have a point. He sounded ridiculous. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“No, no. What was the message?” Abby picked up her sandwich again. A sliver of tomato escaped, plopping onto the plate. It looked unappetizingly like a bit of flesh.

“That’s the thing, I only caught a glimpse of the subject line. Then my browser borked and when I opened up my Sent folder, nothing was there. It had just disappeared. It’s like I imagined it.”

“Disappeared?” But for a moment, she looked a little uneasy. At least she wasn’t laughing at him anymore.

The waiter interrupted them, this time with an “accidental” cookie.

“Could you not?” snapped Dan, shooting the guy a black look. “We’re trying to have a conversation here.”

“Whatever, man. It’s cool.”

Abby covered her mouth to hide a smile and watched the guy slink back to the cash register. “Aww, he’s just being nice.” She poked the cookie around on its little plate.

“If you say so.” Dan crossed his arms and leaned back in the booth. He didn’t want to pursue the email conversation anymore; he knew he shouldn’t have brought it up.

But Abby wasn’t done. “We were talking about your ghostwriter,” she said, encouragingly. “Was it a love note?”

“No.” It came out a little hot, a little testy. “It was . . .”

It was burned in his mind: “RE: Your inquiry regarding patient 361.”

“Go on, I’m ready this time. I won’t tease. Scout’s honor.”

Dan went back and forth, trying to decide how much to reveal. If he told her about the Sculptor, then she’d really stop laughing. But he was regretting having said so much already. “It was medical. About a doctor’s report or something,” he finally said. He pulled out his cell phone to look at his Sent folder, just in case the email had miraculously reappeared. It hadn’t.

When he looked back at Abby, he saw that fleeting look of fear on her face again.

“Dan . . .” Her lower lip quavered, something he would’ve found insanely hot under any other circumstances. “What if . . . what if . . .” Abby lowered her voice to a whisper, her eyes wide. He felt his pulse speed up. Did she sense it, too? That this really was no accident, no hallucination, but part of something much more sinister?

“What if . . .” He almost couldn’t hear her, as a tremor of fear worked its way into her voice. She was leaning in closer and Dan felt himself doing it too, unconsciously drawn toward her. Abby’s voice came out in one rush.

“What if you’re in a Scooby-Doo mystery?”

“Oh, screw you.” Dan rolled his eyes, leaning back hard against the cushioned booth. He should have followed his first instinct—not to talk about it at all. He was actually really hurt by Abby’s reaction, especially after she had promised not to tease him, but he didn’t want to show it. So he joined her laughter and asked about her studio classes.

And as talk turned from classes to favorite movies to what life was like as a teenager in New York, Dan felt less and less concerned about the email and the visions and the photos in the basement. This is why he’d come to NHCP. This moment, right here.

Then his phone vibrated on the table. He’d forgotten he’d even left it there. He picked it up, meaning to turn it off, but noticed that it was buzzing with an unread email in his in-box. A nervous tingle shot up his back. He pressed his thumb over the new mail icon. The white background flashed up at him, and a subject line reading “RE: Patient 361—question about Thursday’s session” popped up for a second before it was suddenly replaced by the buzzing of a text message.

Dan jumped in his seat, nearly dropping his cell.

But it was just a text from Felix.

Hello, Dan. Hope evening with Abby is going well. I have plans in town and will be out late if you wish to use our room. Should return around ten.

Damn his timing. When Dan went back to his in-box, the email had vanished, just like the other one. Even before he checked the Trash folder, he knew it wouldn’t be there. He was right.

“Hello? Dan? Earth to Daniel?” Abby waved her hand in front of his face. “Is it from Jordan?”

“Hey, hi, yes, sorry.” He put the phone away. “I mean no, not Jordan. Just Felix.” Dan tried to shrug it off, but it felt like his skin was on too tight. Any second now he would sweat through his shirt. But he couldn’t tell Abby. She looked so happy; this sort-of-date was actually going well. He didn’t want to spoil the mood. More to the point, he didn’t want her to laugh at him again.

“So,” he said, drumming up a smile. “Care to share that ill-gotten cookie of yours?”