“SPOoKy is doing lunch in the gym tomorrow,” he said. “To make up for tonight’s missed rehearsal. Sooo. You should stop by and I could show you a step or two . . . if you want.”

Whoa. Talk about mixed signals. He was inviting me to hang out with him and his friends again, but during a time when he and Charlotte would presumably be dancing?

“Maybe,” I offered. Because I didn’t want to spoil the moment by asking about her. I was enjoying his company too much. Along with the growing hunch that he might be into me as much as I was into him.

A long patch of silence passed between us then while his stereo serenaded us.

“Thanks, by the way,” I told him finally. “For coming out and assessing our zombie infestation.”

He gave a soft laugh. “I’m really not sure how much I helped. Actually, I think I might have tripled your dad’s normal stress level.”

“You helped,” I assured him. “At least I know to keep a closer eye on Charlie for the time being. I also know where I can report anything strange.”

“Speaking of,” he said, reaching past me to the glove box, “I know we have to tiptoe around your dad about it, but if something else weird does happen, or you need anything . . .”

He offered me a small white slip of paper.

“What’s this?”

“It’s . . . my card,” he explained. “Or our card. As in SPOoKy’s.”

“Your card?” I asked. Because who in high school had a card? “Whose number is this?”

“Er. Well. That . . . would be mine.”

“You’re giving me your number?” I asked, because I couldn’t seem to help myself. But maybe to get a little more flirting, I first had to give some.

“N-no,” he said. “I mean, yeah. But . . . not because I want you to call me.”

“So, you don’t want me to call you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Okay,” I said, flashing him a smile, one that made the worry creasing his brow lessen. “Then . . . maybe I will.”

With that, I let myself out of the car and jogged back up to the porch, where I offered one final wave before returning to the house that, whether it was truly haunted or not, was, for the first time, a house I was glad we’d moved into.

SIXTEEN

Zedok

Irate, I paced in the hallway between the girls’ rooms, pausing long enough with every pass to peer toward the banister overlooking the foyer, anticipating Stephanie’s return.

Already, ten minutes had elapsed since she’d exited alone with him. And that was four times longer than propriety would have ever permitted any young woman of my time to be left in the sole care of such a man.

And Mr. Armand. Where was he while his eldest daughter fraternized with some pompous and self-serving . . . mucksnipe.