He’s in the same ripped jeans as yesterday, this time paired with a distressed stripy sweater that somehow manages to hang down past his fingers despite how long his arms are. He might as well have PUNK skywritten in neon above his head. He’s only missing a Mohawk.

I breathe, focusing on the house banners dangling from the walls as I attempt to make sense of the jumble in my brain. House Fajro, Natalie’s house. My hand slips into my pocket and clutches the phone.

“I saw something this morning.” My voice comes out thin and whispery. “I think something’s happened. Something bad.”

I’m worried he’ll laugh at me—that any moment now his earnestness will dissolve like nail polish in acetone, revealing his pretense at friendship as part of some elaborate joke.

Instead, he leans forward. “What did you see?”

“You’ll think I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t say that. Like, for real, Tai. I would never think like that and you shouldn’t either.” His forehead is puckered, face pensive. “You can tell me, but only if you want to.”

I do. I need to tell someone, someone who’ll believe me. So I start speaking, stammering at first until the whole story tumbles out of my mouth. Almost the whole story—I leave out the bit about recognizing the voice as Natalie’s. I’m not ready to admit that and make it real. At the end, I pull out the phone like an exclamation point.

“Whoa, but what is a liekkiö exactly?” He struggles with the Finnish word.

“Sort of like a ghost. The spirit of a person who’s been”—now it’s my turn to struggle with words—“a person who’s been murdered.”

He’s quiet for a bit, a muscle in his jaw clenching and relaxing while he taps a finger with chipped polish on the back of the chair. “And you’re sure that’s what you saw?” he asks, kindly though, and not like he doesn’t believe me.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I retreat farther into the sagging cushions of the couch. “I want to be wrong, I do, but I don’t think it could’ve been anything else.”

“Guess you won’t be needing the interview with me anymore then.”

“Oh—”

“I’m joking,” he says quickly, and drags a hand through his hair. “A crappy joke. Sorry, I do that when I’m nervous.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just—thank you for believing me.”

“Toivo should’ve too.”

I shrug. I really don’t want to get into a discussion on family dynamics.

“You want to go to the police?” Morgan asks, words frosted thick with skepticism.