Are you kidding?” Mom’s fork hit the side of her plate with a clatter. “A serial killer?”

“It’s not an imminent threat,” Jonathan said. “I mean, it’s not a threat at all.”

He’d come to the dinner table tense, the Los Angeles Times website pulled up on his iPad, and told us about a recent spate of murders that had been occurring in LA. The killer’s latest victim — a young woman — had been discovered earlier in the day. Pinpricks of fear and curiosity shot through me.

Mom was taking the news a little harder than I was. “But it seems like you’re warning Willa,” she protested, glancing at me with an expression approaching crazy-paranoid googly-eyes.

Jonathan shook his head, reaching for his water glass. “I wanted to tell you both,” he explained, “because it’s important to be aware. Not because there’s a chance that anything might happen.”

“Maybe not to us,” I said, shrugging. “But for some people there’s a chance.”

“A specific category of people. Actresses.” Jonathan looked over at me, a hint of sardonic amusement in his eyes. “You’re not an actress, are you?”

I was about to say no, but Mom interrupted. “She has done some acting.”

“Mom,” I said. “Seriously.”

I could have sworn I saw a wary flash come over Jonathan’s features. Like he was momentarily questioning whether my mother had schemed and married him to advance my acting career.

“She played a juror in Twelve Angry Men.”

“Two years ago,” I said, taking a bite of pad Thai. “Freshman year, before I knew better. And the general consensus was that I made a very poor angry man. Mom, it’s not about people who happen to have been in a school play.”

“How could you know that? Who knows what goes on inside the mind of a killer?”

Jonathan sighed. “I’m sure Willa will take care to avoid any circumstance where she could be mistaken for an actress.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Don’t tease,” Mom said.

Jonathan patted my mother’s hand reassuringly. “The last murder was five months ago. Well, until today. There have only been four, total. Even if Willa were an actress, the odds are astronomically small that anything would happen to her.”

“But it’s cool,” I said. “Because I’m not an actress. And I never will be one.”

“Promise?” she said, smiling a little.

I held up my right hand, like I was swearing an oath. “I hereby promise that I will never be an actress.”

“Very wise,” Jonathan said, nodding. “Acting is a hard life, even when you’re successful. Maybe especially when you’re successful.”

“Willa might be a writer,” Mom said.

Oh, come on. I stuffed another bite of noodles into my mouth and looked away.

“Really?” Jonathan said. “What do you write?”

“Nothing, actually,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

“She used to write a lot.”

“That’s in the past,” I said. “Writing is for people who have something to say.”

“Oh, honey,” Mom said, looking hurt. “You have so much to say. What’s inside you is so …”

Um, no. I turned to Jonathan, eager to change the subject to something less depressing than my mother’s useless hopes for my future. “Hey, let’s talk more about the murders.”

“Oh, honestly, Willa,” Mom said, seeing right through my plan.

Jonathan sat up straighter. “Well, they’re pretty interesting, actually. Macabre, but interesting. The killer recreates iconic scenes from classic movies. He posed his first victim to mimic the final attack scene from The Birds. Then there was the wheelchair falling down the stairs from Kiss of Death….”

I shivered, trying to picture it. I hadn’t seen either of those movies, but I felt a twinge of morbid curiosity. Maybe that was what made the murderer do such awful things — knowing that people would be so intrigued.

“What do they call the killer?” I asked. “They all have nicknames, right?”

Jonathan looked down at his iPad. “The media’s been using the name ‘the Hollywood Killer.’ ”

I stared down at my glass of water. “How about ‘the Screamwriter’?”

“That’s actually pretty good,” Jonathan said.

“A little over-the-top,” I said.

“Yeah, but it’s catchy,” he said.

“Catchy?” I said. “Or gimmicky?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two,” Mom said. “This is not proper dinnertime conversation.”

No, I suppose it wasn’t. But for the first time in a long time, I’d felt normal for a couple of minutes. Of course, what did it say about me that joking about murders made me feel normal?

After we carried our dinner dishes into the kitchen, Jonathan cleared his throat. “So, Willa. I got you something. A welcome-to-California present.”

He set a large, flat box on the kitchen counter. It was wrapped in pearl-white paper with a hot-pink bow.

“You shouldn’t have,” Mom said.

“Really,” I said.

“No, I wanted to.” He rested his hands on the granite countertop. “I know this isn’t an easy transition for you. And I know that I could never replace your father — and I’m not going to try. But I do hope we can be … friends.”

I was speechless, in a horrified sort of way. I’d assumed that everything that needed to be said between us would eventually make its way to the surface. But this grand declaration of friendship? Mentioning my dad? Giving me a present? It seemed like such a cheap, obvious move to buy my goodwill.

Anger flared up inside me, and it took all the self-control I had to stamp it out.

“Yes … friends,” I managed to say. I carefully unwrapped the box, aware that both my mother and Jonathan were watching my reaction with eagle eyes.

“Oh, wow,” I said. “Wow.”

“What is it?” Mom asked.

It was … a monstrosity.

It was a backpack, but instead of being made out of regular backpack material — I don’t know, canvas? — it was tan leather, printed with small interlocking G’s. It had a huge green-and-red-striped patch down the pocket, and a giant gold G logo.

“It’s Gucci,” Jonathan said, in the same self-satisfied tone of voice he’d used to brag about the door.

“Gucci,” I said. “Fancy.”

“It’s beautiful.” My mother reached out and touched it with the tips of her fingers, like it was a prize racehorse.

“There’s more.” Jonathan grinned at me and wrapped his arm around Mom’s waist. “Look inside.”

As I drew the zipper pull smoothly along its path (okay, the zipper was excellent quality, I’ll give him that), I was already cringing inwardly at the prospect of what I’d find inside. I pictured a hideous blinged-out watch or a designer fedora or something.

But it was a computer. A beautiful, brushed-metal, razor-thin laptop.

“I thought you could use it for school,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll be really useful.” There was no point acting like this was the greatest gift anyone could have ever given me, because I knew enough about my new stepfather to know that spending fifteen hundred dollars on a computer was no big deal to him.

“Jonathan, you shouldn’t have,” Mom said. “Willa has a laptop.”

“That rickety old one she was using on the plane? The screen’s practically falling off.”

But my dad gave it to me, I didn’t say. My dad, who knew I was desperate for a computer of my own. My dad, who brought his old work laptop home for me when they were upgrading him to a new one. The night he gave it to me there had been joyous squealing and hugs and jumping up and down.

That was nothing like this night.

Jonathan was buying me nice things to keep the peace and make himself feel better about uprooting me. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly kind gesture, but make no mistake — this wasn’t about what I wanted.

Which was fine, because I didn’t want anything.

Nothing money could buy, anyway.

I woke with a start in the middle of the night.

The clock read 3:23, and I had a headache that felt like two sharp electrified sticks were trying to meet in the center of my head. Under my multiple layers of blankets, I was drenched in sweat.

I sat up and pushed off the covers. The room was too bright. I’d forgotten to close my curtains before falling asleep, and the ceiling was awash with rippling moonlight reflected off the surface of the pool outside. But that wasn’t it. There was another source of light….

The candle, flickering away on my nightstand.

Don’t be ridiculous. The candle can’t be lit.

But the candle was totally lit.

I searched for an explanation. Maybe Mom had come in and lit it…. You know, the way every safety-obsessed mother lights candles around the house in the middle of the night. Maybe it was one of those novelty candles that relights itself. Except it was the third one from a three-pack, and neither of the others had ever done anything like this….

Or there had been a trace of a spark burning on it all evening, and then it had gradually reignited itself.

That had to be it. Because any other explanation would be crazy.

And I was so not going to go crazy right now.

But I was unnerved, and a little wired. I wandered to the window, my head suddenly full of the Hollywood Killer and my lame new backpack and the earthquake and everything strange about my life now. The strangest thing, by far, being that I was here, in California. Everything I’d ever known was carrying on without me, three thousand miles away, on a completely different part of the continent.

I realized I was staring longingly down at the pool.

I love to swim. Even after what happened with Dad, I still love it. I feel more like myself in the water. It holds you together in a way that air doesn’t.

I found my swimsuit in a box marked SUMMER CLOTHES and grabbed a fluffy towel from the bathroom. I twisted my long hair up into a bun and secured it with two bobby pins.

There was no way Mom and Jonathan would hear me from across the massive house, so I didn’t bother to be particularly quiet as I found my way outside through the doors off the living room.

The temperature was about forty-five degrees, and my skin was instantly blanketed with goose bumps. Under my feet, the patio tiles were so cold they practically burned.

The backyard was amazing, truly befitting a Hollywood legend. Tucked throughout were pristine white loungers and comfy-looking chairs surrounding squat clay chimneys. To my right was a charming little cottage — a guesthouse? — with a miniature front porch and a pair of small windows like curious, watchful eyes. The landscape was shady and rambling and lovely.

But I only had eyes for the pool. It was huge and gorgeous, with gentle curving edges and a rock waterfall, and it glowed an otherworldly pale aqua in the moonlight.

A breeze ruffled the leaves in the trees and sent me hurrying for the water. I figured someone like Jonathan — who was so pool-proud he’d given us a mind-numbing tour of the entire chlorine-free filtration system — had to keep his pool heated, even in March. And I was right — instantly, luxuriant warmth shrouded my body. It drew me down the steps like a siren’s call.

I ducked under, the water covering me in a second skin. For a few minutes, I floated on my back and stared up into the inky night sky, the cold air on my face and the sound of my own breathing echoing in my ears. Then I flipped over and swam as far across the pool as I could without coming up for air. I felt clarified and cleansed, like the tension had been wrung out of me.

I bobbed up at the deep end, taking a big breath. I prepared to plunge under again and swim back to the shallow end. I could almost imagine that I was Diana Del Mar, a movie star, and this house was all mine — no stepfathers or headaches or new school to worry about — just me, beautiful and adored, gliding like a water nymph through my fabulous swimming pool.

Then something brushed my ankle.

I yelped in surprise and spun around, treading water as I searched for whatever had touched me.

Nothing — there was nothing.

It must have been bubbles, a random current — maybe a sunken palm frond.

But then I felt it again.

This time it took hold and pulled me under.

Fear and adrenaline burst through me in a massive, soul-shaking pulse. My heart slammed around in my chest like it was trying to break out of my rib cage.

Then something grabbed my other foot.

For a moment, I didn’t even process it as something that was really happening. Because it couldn’t be happening — it wasn’t happening —

Only it was.

I tried to kick free, but my legs were held fast.

I managed to flail above the surface of the water and gasp in an enormous breath before being yanked back down toward the blue-tiled bottom of the pool.

My brain was on red alert, acting on pure animal instinct.

THIS IS NOT OKAY.

I thrashed and groped at my ankles in an attempt to pry off whatever had wrapped around them. But I couldn’t free myself. In fact, as far as I could see, there was nothing to free myself from — not another person. Not a rope or piece of plastic. Not even a nightmarish monster.

Only the sharp outline of my own body as I flipped and struggled.

I was rapidly running out of air. Panicked, I looked up toward the sky — and saw another person in the water.

For the briefest second I thought it was someone else swimming, and I wondered wildly why they wouldn’t help me.

But then it hit me with ironclad certainty — this person wasn’t swimming.

They were floating.

And it wasn’t a person….

It was a corpse.