“The masks by the window,” I said. “They have been instructed to watch over you. And prevent any similar scenario like the one today.”

“You can’t keep me here forever,” she said, strength returning to her voice. “Deep down, you know that, too.”

“The hour is late, and your exhaustion is plain,” I replied as I turned to go. “I should leave you to your repose. Perhaps, though, when next I see you, you will feel recovered enough to revisit the ballad you already know.”

“Erik.”

“It should please you to learn I have finished the score.”

“It doesn’t please me. Erik, none of this pleases me.”

“I have also composed lyrics. They should prove easy enough to memorize.”

“I’m not going to sing for you!” she shouted. “Not ever!”

Silence boomed through the space between us, a raw scream of nothingness.

“ ‘Not ever,’ ” I repeated after a long pause. “ ‘Never.’ So be it, Stephanie Armand. But then let your answers stand for us both.”

With that, I brushed past her, leaving her to the care of her solitude—and the watch of her new guard dogs.

SIXTY

Lucas

Over tea, grape sodas, ginger muffins, and, in Patrick’s case, nearly half a bag of fun-sized chocolate bars, Rastin had told us what he’d claimed to be, quote, “everything.”

The medium had then asked us not to speak and requested that we instead “meditate” and reconvene with him the following night to discuss next steps. To me, though, the plan seemed clear enough. But for once, Charlotte had been the one to make the final call: we would do what Rastin asked and wait to talk.

Rastin had left shortly after, assuring us he was fine to drive himself back to his hotel. Before he went, he gave me his cell number.

Now, as I lay in bed staring up at the slowly rotating arms of my ceiling fan, I imagined how the Lucas Cheney of one year ago might have reacted if he’d known that, come November, he’d have Rastin Shirazi’s personal cell phone number saved in his contacts.

Probably, Past Lucas would not be quite as agog about the number as he would be to learn of the events leading up to the connection.

Hours ago, SPOoKy had agreed to meet the next evening. Then, per Rastin’s instructions, later that night in the lobby of his hotel to devise a plan with the medium, who we were going to need—no way around that, either.

Mom had arrived home shortly after everyone had left, and I’d tried to act normal over Chinese takeout and all the “Where’ve you been all day?” interrogations.

Oh, you know, I’d answered in my mind, just went to Stephanie’s cursed mansion to rescue a famous guy from an invisible bloodthirsty mummy—the usual.

After dinner, Mom and Dad had streamed a movie while I’d retreated to my room.

Now it was almost one in the morning, and both darkness and silence had set up camp in the Cheney household.