Eric almost, but not quite, does a spit-take. “Oh, terrific.”

“They’re useless then,” Alana says. “So who wanted us here? Who called us back?”

“It was Hailey Thomas. She sent the invites.”

Eric wipes beer from his mouth. “Miss Perfect Cheerleader. God, I hated her when we were kids.”

“She’s dead,” Carrie says. “And so is her nine-year-old daughter.”

There’s a moment of silence. Carrie sees that register on Alana’s face. Thinking of her own daughter, probably.

“Well, I guess I’m the asshole again,” Eric says. He picks up the pitcher, pours himself another, and drinks most of it.

“How’s that sobriety going, Eric?” Danny asks.

Eric glares. “I’m on vacation.”

Carrie takes another drink herself. She has a whole line of the dead who follow her to sleep most nights, all the people she couldn’t save, both here and in her grown-up life. Unlike the others, she can name and number every one. Now Hailey and her daughter have joined the crowd. She can almost hear Hailey’s voice, dripping with faux-sweetness: “Oh, don’t worry about it, Carrie. I’m sure you did your best. It just wasn’t good enough. What’s important is you tried. Is there a participation trophy for detective work?”

The others are waiting for her to offer details, she realizes. She puts the guilt aside. She’ll have plenty of time to wallow later.

“Someone wanted to make sure we couldn’t talk to Hailey,” she says. “And they used Shadowmen to do it. I found their claw marks on her patio door. She wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Eric looks thoughtful. “Makes sense,” he says. “If I’ve got magic back, and monsters are crawling around in the dark again, that means the door is opening. Which means the Followers could have limited use of the Shadowmen, too, or Colchester could — ”

“Colchester?” a voice says from above their table. “You mean that old fossil they used to wheel out every Fourth of July?”

Carrie looks up as someone sits with them without asking. He can’t imagine a table where he wouldn’t be welcome.

Buzz Bixby. The all-around, all-American boy of Middleton high. Quarterback, MVP of every team (a goddamn miracle at shortstop, even Carrie had to admit), student-body president, Homecoming King.

And, despite all that, not a dick. He never crammed weaker kids into lockers or gave them swirlies in the toilets. (Lonnie Decker and Mike Fuller had that covered.) He was affable and decent. He was the nucleus that all the other popular kids revolved around. He was always a nice guy.

Carrie never trusted him. He always smiled a little too readily at everyone. He got along. Sure, he wasn’t a bully like the other jocks, but he never stood in their way, either. The niceness was like a Teflon coating that enabled him to slide past any hard feelings or tough choices.