The fight. The stupid freaking fight. The smell of French toast suddenly makes my mouth fill with bile.

After another minute Mom comes back to the table.

“Well, they’re worried,” she says. “Of course. But they’re still thinking that maybe she went to a friend’s who they haven’t thought of yet, and that she just fell asleep or forgot to call.” Mom leans over and puts her hand on top of mine. Which is so much more than I deserve, it almost makes me scream. “I’m sure that’s all it is, Anders.”

None of us eat any more.

After another minute I get up and clear my plate.

Back in my room I sit down on the end of the bed. Still no Goblin creeping out from underneath. Maybe he’s avoiding me, too.

Or maybe something’s wrong.

I think back. I last saw him on Thursday night—the night Frankie climbed through my bedroom window. So, all day Friday, and all day Saturday, while I’ve been obsessing over that stupid meeting and the blowup with my band and whatever’s going on with Frankie, my bony old cat has been missing.

. . . That’s what you stand to lose, Anders. All the things you love. One by one, says the music executive, her dark eyes on me. Oh, Anders. You are going to be so, so sorry. . . .

Last Things. Goblin. Frankie.

For a second I can barely breathe.

I jerk to my feet.

I could search the house and the yard, even though I already have the sick, certain feeling that I won’t find anything. Then I could head out there, into the woods. I could search for Goblin. I could go farther, all the way back to the Crow’s Nest, and look for any sign of Frankie. I could look and look and never find anything. Or I could find something that I don’t want to find.

I glance out the window, into the darkness of the trees. And then I see it.

It’s drawn on the glass.

It’s just faint enough that I might have missed it if I hadn’t looked at it head-on.

An X. It crosses my window from edge to edge. It’s drawn in something red brown and flaking. Something that looks a lot like blood.

My heart pounds harder. My head starts to swim.

Oh, Anders. You are going to be so, so sorry.

Thea

I move through the trees.

Pine needles and dead leaves whirl under my feet.

There is nothing here that can scare me.

Delay me. Yes. But only if I fall behind.

And I’m fast.

I’m faster.

I’m lighter.

I barely touch the ground.

I skim through the shadows. It’s not morning yet, but the darkness in the sky is starting to weaken, rinsed at the edges like a stain in cold water.

Light will come. Inevitably.

But now they’re here. They’re everywhere. Seeping out of the roots, hiding in nooks and hollows. Teeth and claws and too-long arms. Silent, black-furred feet. They’d like to snap my neck. They’d like to tear me into pieces.