Willa?”

The touch on my arm tore me out of the vision. I realized I was on the floor in the hallway, and Reed was standing over me.

“What happened?” he asked, frowning. “I kept calling your name, but you look so dazed.”

“I fell,” I said, wincing as I stood up. Judging by my aching tailbone, it must have been a pretty hard landing.

Reed insisted on helping me to the kitchen and getting me a glass of water. I thanked him, but I was too distracted and upset to make conversation.

All I could think was the granite-hard truth: Jonathan is a murderer. My stepfather is the Hollywood Killer.

I had this horrible feeling that I was being watched and forced myself to turn around. When I looked out the window, I almost fell over.

The pool was filled with brilliant red liquid, swirling so dark and thick that you couldn’t see past the surface.

I balled up my fists, thinking, It’s not real. The pool isn’t full of blood.

It was Paige, sending another sign. Of course she’d be sending the warnings fast and furious, now that I knew her killer lived in the house with me.

“Willa? You sure you’re okay?”

The voice snapped me out of my reverie, and I turned to see Reed standing a few feet away, watching me with concern.

“I didn’t mean to come in the house without knocking….” He spoke carefully, self-consciously. “But you didn’t answer the door, and the alarm wasn’t set. It seems like something’s wrong.”

“No,” I said, though my voice sounded like it had been run through a cheese grater. “I’m … fine.”

I glanced back at the pool water. Now it was perfect, pale aqua. Reed spoke again, but I didn’t quite hear his words.

“What?” I said. “Sorry. I’m a little … out of it.”

“I said I won’t keep you, but now I’m wondering if I should stay for a little while. Do you think you might have a concussion?”

“I’m fine,” I said blankly.

“I’m sure you are.” He shot me a smile and took Jonathan’s laptop off the kitchen counter. “Any big plans for your parent-free weekend?”

I glanced at him without smiling. I didn’t feel like pretending to be normal or okay. “No,” I said. “Not really.”

“I’ll just go, then. Seems like you want to be alone.” Reed’s cheerful expression faltered and he headed for the door.

I started up the stairs, but as I approached the second floor, I became aware of a static quality in the light behind me.

When I glanced down, Reed was looking up at me from the doorway, biting his lip. “This is going to sound odd, but were you by any chance … looking at some of Jonathan’s files?”

“What?” I asked.

Balancing the laptop on his left forearm, Reed turned it toward me.

The Development Notes folder was still open.

“Oh, um, yeah,” I said. “I didn’t realize right away that it wasn’t my computer. I clicked on the files without really looking.”

He glanced at the screen. “Oh. Okay, then.”

I went back down to the foyer. “But … I found something kind of strange.”

“Strange?” His eyes cut sharply up to meet mine. “How do you mean?”

I had to tell him, even if he wouldn’t believe me. “Um … Brianna Logan,” I said. “She was the Hollywood Killer’s first victim. And the agency name the police found in her calendar was Scales. Do you remember reading that in the news?”

“Possibly.” He blinked. “I’m not sure. What are you trying to say?”

“Um,” I said. “Nothing, really. Just that I found this chart …”

He leaned back against the doorframe, looking up at me with concern in his eyes. “I do know that Jonathan has been working with his agent to try to get the film rights for the story. I mean, so is everyone else in town. But that’s what you found, I’m sure.”

I nodded.

Reed didn’t seem willing to let it go. “He wasn’t even here when the last girl disappeared. He was in Connecticut.”

Suddenly, he frowned.

“Although he came back for one day,” he said. “At the beginning of the week. But I’m sure there’s no connection.”

Except he didn’t sound sure. He sounded distinctly unsure. And he was acting really unhappy and flustered all of a sudden.

“Reed …” I said.

He shook his head. “Listen, it’s nothing. I’ll figure it out, okay? I mean, it has to be nothing.”

I nodded.

Looking at me, Reed visibly relaxed, even cracked a smile. “What are we even talking about? This is crazy. Jonathan couldn’t be a … I’d better get going. I’ll talk to you next week, okay?”

He shut the door, and I walked to the bottom step and sank down, my head in my hands.

Who just accuses their stepfather of murder, without even asking him about it?

A crazy person, that’s who.

I sat like that for probably fifteen minutes, utterly at a loss as to what I should do or even think. Forget the computer file. Forget the ghost. Did I really believe my mother had fallen in love with a serial killer? Some vague sense of dissatisfaction, of an unanswered question, lingered at the back of my mind.

Finally, I stood up and padded slowly to my bedroom. I was tempted to crawl back under my covers right then and there, even though it was the middle of the day. I was worn out from the morning — the week — the month — my life. I was so tired.

Then I heard a sound from downstairs.