“I’m not my parents,” Vera insisted. “They have skills, talents, that I don’t have. Trust me. I’m useless when it comes to this stuff. The way I can help you is to tell you to bring your mom here. Let her be seen by a doctor. Let them run some tests.”

“Oh, come on!” Max pushed to his feet. “They have a test to figure out why she smells like rotting flowers? Why her laugh isn’t right? I can’t believe you won’t help me!”

“I am helping. If my parents were here, if you were speaking with them right now, they’d tell you the same thing—given your mom’s history, she’d have to be seen by a doctor before they’d even consider talking to her. They’d have to rule out drugs, brain tumors, dissociative identity disorder, schizophrenia…”

“Oh my God! Are you kidding me?” He’d swallowed his pride and told this girl things he hadn’t told anyone. Now she was blowing him off. It was her parents who fought demons. Shouldn’t she be the one who believed in this stuff?

Forget her. He turned toward the parking lot.

“Maxwell, I want to help!” she called after him.

Sure you do. He spun back her way. “If that’s true, then try listening to me. The doctors in there”—he pointed to the concrete building with gleaming blue glass—“they won’t listen to the story of what I saw in my sister’s room or on my back porch. Her raspy voice, her blank look, her strange grin, and her dark laugh—it wasn’t her. She made my skin crawl. Through all the drinking and the grief, I was never afraid of my mother. But I have been these past couple weeks. I’m afraid to touch her or wake her up. I don’t know how she’ll react, because I don’t know this person. And the worst part is, you know what I’m saying is possible. You might be the only person in this town who knows that, and you’re sending me away.”

Vera’s mouth popped open, then closed. She blinked, shifting her weight, seemingly warring with what to say.

Okay, finally, I got through to her.

“When my parents get back, I’ll tell them everything. I’ll have them meet with you,” she offered, chewing her lip.

His chest sank. Something told him he didn’t have that kind of time. “You do that.” He turned his back. “Thanks for the help.”

CHAPTER NINE

Vera

After Maxwell stormed off, Vera headed back to work, grabbing her cart and pushing it to the next patient’s room. Maxwell Oliver, who already lost his dad, was now begging for spiritual assistance for his mother.

Vera rolled her cart through the hospital halls, trays of food and silverware rattling while the back-left wheel squeaked with every rotation.

Step, step, squeal. Step, step, squeal.

Her shoulders pressed toward her ears as she turned a corner, the metallic squeak intensifying. Roaring Creek General was the perfect hospital diorama—pocked drop ceiling with too-bright greenish lights, upper walls crisp and ivory above a khaki bottom, with a mint-green chair rail cutting through it. Rectangular ceiling lights reflected on the shiny tan floor tiles, creating a band of white light.