Back in our room, Mom and Dad make small talk about the day, and I retreat to my bed and busy my hands with my camera. Jacob sits down beside me.

“Was that … ” he asks, trailing off.

I let out a small, unsteady breath, and nod. I think so.

“What is that thing, Cass?”

“I don’t know!” I hiss. I shake my head, and think it again, softer. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t—

“Okay,” Jacob says. “But we both know someone who will.”

I reach for my cell, before remembering the time. It’s the middle of the night in Scotland. Lara’s asleep.

“I’m pretty sure this is one of those ‘in case of emergency, break glass’ situations,” says Jacob. “Call her. Wake her up.”

I shake my head and send her a text instead. I don’t write, I think there’s some kind of grim reaper stalking me. I don’t write, Apparently I stole something and it’s coming to take it. I don’t say, I’m scared. Though all of those things are true. But they don’t feel like the kind of thing you send over text, so instead, I just write:

Me:

SOS

I toss the phone aside and get off the bed, and I’m halfway to the bathroom when the cell rings with an incoming video call. I scoop it up, relief flooding me at the sight of Lara’s name on the screen.

I hit answer, and Lara Chowdhury appears, her black hair braided into a crown around her head.

“Did you know,” she says in that prim, proper way, “that some people think SOS stands for Save Our Ship, or Save Our Souls, but really it’s something called a bacronym. The abbreviation came first, and the phrase came next. Anyway, what’s wrong?”

But I’m still distracted by the fact she’s up. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“It’s only nine forty-five.”

I look at the clock on the bedside table. “But it’s nine forty-five here, too.”

“Yes,” she says dryly, “that is how time zones work.”

“Is that Lara?” calls Mom, brushing her teeth. “Hi, Lara!”

“Lara says hi,” I call back, before carrying the phone out into the hall, careful to shut the door behind me—the last thing I need is Grim getting loose.

“Where are you?” I ask softly, peering at the screen.

“I’m in Chicago,” answers Lara, gesturing to the pale marble steps behind her, as if that’s an indicator. “I did tell you I was getting on a plane. Mum and Dad gave a lecture tonight at a museum, and they invited me to come.” She lets out a soft, almost-inaudible sigh. Lara’s parents are archaeologists, but I’ve never seen them. It sounds like Lara doesn’t see much of them, either. “We were supposed to stay on for a few more days, see the sights together, but I guess they got an opportunity they couldn’t pass up. One that doesn’t involve their daughter. They’re leaving first thing tomorrow for Peru. And I guess I’ll be going back to Scotland.”