I can feel the anger coming off Jay in waves. His arms are pulled tightly against his body as though he’s suppressing the urge to fight. Nia sees and rests her head on his shoulder and, slowly, his shaking stops.

He’s a good man. Even now, knowing what he does about Aaron’s disappearance, the part of him that won Mum over is winning again.

I think of Amy frantically digging up the dirt where we thought her brother was buried and say, “Jane will come here. We’ve made sure of it.”

“How can you be certain?” Jay says.

“What’s the one thing even the cleverest monsters can’t control?” I ask.

Mum looks concerned, then her face changes, and I see a thought sparkle and settle behind her eyes. “Anger,” she says.

91

I can’t sleep or eat or think about anything except the pretend grave that Amy spoiled just enough to make it obvious. What happened there wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t caused by an animal or a stormy night. It was done by someone wanting to send a message.

Whenever the doorbell rings, I picture Jane on the other side. Every night, when I do finally dream, I see Aaron locked in a room like this one. He screams, but no one hears him. And then Jane whispers, “I warned you,” and I wake up, sweating and breathless.

I always wanted to be brave. But the Pearces aren’t something to escape. They are something to catch, and that’s a lot harder.

I don’t know how often Jane visits the shrine, but, the next time she does, I’m expecting a knock on the door. I’m desperate for it, because this won’t work if she doesn’t explode.

Jay wants revenge for what happened to Aaron. “What are we waiting for?” he asks.

And Mum says, “Trust me. We need to be patient.”

It’s what she said to me, over and over again, while she planned her escape from Martin and then Gary. I didn’t believe her, then, but I do now because I’ve seen it.

I wonder if Amy is scared or if she knows her mum well enough to sit back and wait for it to happen. I’m worried about her, but it’s too risky for us to message each other. She hasn’t come back to school, and I miss her. My feelings are still there, wrapped in so many others, but bright enough to shine through the gloom.

I miss the way she smiled when she meant it and how she looked when I wasn’t searching for her secret. I didn’t see it then, and I hate myself because Amy was happiest when we were talking about other things—like how my mum met my dad or the squirrel park—and when she danced at Sensorium.