Willa?” Wyatt was winded, his cheeks pink and a lock of sweaty golden-brown hair stuck to his forehead.

I pulled my French textbook from my locker and then shut the door, turning to face him. “Yes?”

He looked like he’d run all the way from the parking lot. “I have to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“No.” He glanced around at the almost deserted hall. “Not here.”

“Wyatt, I’m not going to run and hide in the library every time we have four words to speak to each other. First bell’s going to ring in like three minutes. If you need something, now’s your chance.”

He didn’t look happy about it, but he conceded. “About yesterday — about that woman —”

“Leyta Fitzgeorge,” I said.

“I just wanted to ask you not to call her.”

“Too late. I called her last night.” I almost said sorry, but I stopped myself. Because I wasn’t.

For a moment, Wyatt seemed too dismayed to speak. “What did you ask her?”

“If I could go see her today.”

He was so jittery that it almost made me nervous. “What? Why? What did she say?”

“She said yes,” I said.

“But that’s —” He stood up straight. “You need to cancel.”

I let out a surprised laugh. “Um, no. You weren’t willing to help me, so I’m helping myself. And now you don’t even want me doing that?”

“You’re not supposed to have that information.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I’m not supposed to have that information. If she complains to the police about you getting in touch …”

I waited for the second half of that “if,” thinking he might reveal something about his source. But he clammed up.

“Why would she go back to the police?” I asked. “According to you, they ignored her before.”

He huffed unhappily.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t tell her where I got her name. Although she’s a psychic, so …”

“You’ll be wasting your time.” There was a hint of presumptuous authority in his voice. “She’s a crook.”

I felt oddly protective of Leyta Fitzgeorge all of a sudden. “Why would you say that? You don’t even know her.”

“It’s obviously true,” he said. “Psychic abilities? More like made-up nonsense.”

I shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out for myself.”

“So … wait. You actually think she could be right about something? All that stuff about water and the roses and …”

“Henry?” I said.

“Right, Henry.” He rolled his eyes. “You know what she said? She said she got a ‘feeling’ about the name, but she couldn’t be sure if it was a first name or a last name or even a middle name. Hey! Maybe it’s the killer’s dog’s name! Ridiculous.”

“It’s a first name,” I said.

For a beat, Wyatt was surprised into silence, which I found extremely rewarding.

Then he squinted at me. “How would you possibly know?”

“I know because I’ve … seen it. And heard it.”

Wyatt adjusted his glasses. “What are you saying?”

“That Leyta Fitzgeorge might be right.”

He shook his head and laughed nervously. “So you believe in psychics?”

Be careful, Willa. Where you’re going, you can’t come back from. “Well … I don’t know, actually,” I said. “But I do believe in ghosts.”

He spluttered. Like, “Spluh!” Only he didn’t say the word aloud. You could just see it coming out of his brain.

I hadn’t quite meant to break it to him that way. On the other hand, it was a bit of a relief to have part of my secret out in the open. Even if I was telling it to someone who assumed everything I said was a lie.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“I said, I believe in ghosts,” I pressed on. It felt like riding a bicycle down a steep hill — I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, but there was something exhilarating about it. “Specifically, I believe in a ghost who’s living in my house and refuses to leave me alone.”

A blend of emotions swept across Wyatt’s face: disappointment, curiosity, and stubbornness. But his voice was utterly blank when he said, “A ghost … in your house.”

“A ghost,” I repeated. “In my house. Want me to say it again?”

“No. Thanks.” He started to turn away. “Good luck with that.”

“Wait,” I said, grabbing the strap of his backpack. “You’re seriously walking away from me right now?”

“Yeah, I’m seriously walking away.” He looked flustered and upset. “I have no idea what you’re doing. For all I know, this is all some bizarre prank that Marnie put you up to … And I’m not playing along anymore.”

“It’s not,” I said. “Marnie wouldn’t —”

“Oh,” he said, and he laughed, a single bleak ha. “Oh, I can assure you, Marnie would.”

“She didn’t!” I said. “Nobody put me up to this — unless you count the stupid ghost who’s giving me horrible visions about the murders and leaving me messages and trying to drown me —”

“A ghost tried to drown you?” he repeated, incredulous.

“In the pool,” I said. “The night I moved in. I went swimming and I couldn’t surface and —”

His eyes went mockingly wide. “Are you sure you actually know how to swim?”

I glared at him, and he shrank back a little. “I’m an excellent swimmer,” I said. “My dad and I used to swim every morning. I know the difference between not knowing how to swim and not being able to swim. Something held me under the water. And I saw —”

He was listening raptly, but I cut myself off. I wasn’t sharing any more with him until he stopped being a jerk, which basically meant never.

“What?” he asked, interested in spite of himself. “What did you see?”

“Never mind,” I said. “I was starting to think maybe you would listen to what I had to say without judging me. But I guess I was wrong.”

“I’m not judging you,” he said. “I just don’t believe you.”

“Fine.” I could feel nervous, angry sweat beading at my hairline.

“Look, I get it,” Wyatt said, startling me — he sounded almost understanding. “You move to a strange new city, into an old, drafty house with a lot of history. You’re feeling uncomfortable in your new family situation, and —”

“What are you doing?” I snapped.

He looked a little hurt. “Trying to talk to you.”

“You’re trying to talk me down from believing in ghosts?” I said.

He seemed vaguely confused about it himself. “I don’t know. I guess.”

“Tell me this — if the psychic is a fraud and I’m hallucinating, why do the things that are happening to me appear on her list?”

“What? Really?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Well … it must be a statistically improbable set of correlations. I can see why you’d find it curious, though — if you’re telling the truth.”

“If I’m telling the truth?” Flabbergasted, I tried to muster what remained of my dignity. “You know what? Forget it. This has been a total waste of energy.”

I was done being insulted and second-guessed. Just when I’d managed to convince myself I might not be insane, now Wyatt was actively trying to persuade me that I was. I wished I hadn’t told him anything.

“Wait,” he said, and the smirk disappeared from his face. Regret flashed through his brown eyes.

I held up my hand to stop him from saying more, and turned to head to class.

But then the world went white.