“He’s . . .” I sighed again. It was exhausting to try to explain to my cousin, who seemed to be growing less interested by the second. “Last year I told Colette a ghost story I’d made up about a guy named William. In the story, he was killed by his wife and his head was held on by a yellow scarf.”

“Gnarly,” Kennedy said before laughing.

“Colette kept telling me William went by Billy, and she said I should change his name to Billy the next time I told the story.” I was in a trance, ripping paper and remembering. “But I never told the story again to anyone else.”

“She’s the only one you told? You’re positive?” Kennedy asked.

“Yes,” I said confidently.

“But there could be other Billys in the world,” Kennedy said. “That message could be for anyone who lives around here and knows a Billy.” She thought for a second. “I wonder how many Billys or Williams live here, though. It’s a pretty small town. Then again, your Billy is just a made-up guy in a story. He’s not real.”

“Except . . .” My words trailed off.

Don’t say it.

“Except?” Kennedy stopped rocking again.

Don’t say it!

“What?” Kennedy asked.

Don’t.

“Except there’s this old man I saw in the park the second day we were here, and he did this really weird tapping thing when I went by him, and he wears a yellow scarf! In the middle of summer!”

“Okay, now that’s weird,” Kennedy said.

“And another thing,” I said.

My cousin leaned forward again. “What is it?”

“In this picture I took at Rendezvous? Of the crowd at the street fair?” I took a breath. “He was in the background.” I dropped the paper and put both hands to my mouth, whispering the last part through the holes between my fingers. “He was staring right at me.”

Kennedy stood up so abruptly it made me jump, sending the rest of the paper crumbs to the ground.

“I think there’s a logical explanation, and I’m going to help you find it,” she proclaimed. “I’m doing this partly because I’m so over you screaming every night but mostly because I don’t want all this for you.” She waved her hand in a gesture that moved from my head to the floorboards and back again. “Besides, you’ve been through enough.”

I looked away and sniffed, feeling a lump rise in my throat.

Kennedy grabbed my hands and yanked me up, too; my sketch pad dropped to the ground.

“There’s only one way to know if the man is scary, dead William-Billy or if he’s just some freezing old man who likes to wear scarves,” she said.

I guess I already knew what she was going to say next, but her words made my insides do somersaults anyway:

“We have to find him and ask.”

chapter 14