Vera’s eyes shifted toward the sub-level gateway to Hell, only steps away, like it was a charming breakfast nook.

“I’ll be here,” Aunt Tilda replied. “And that prayer candle he brought last time…”

“I got my grades,” Vera cut in, since her parents didn’t bother to ask. “Straight As.”

“Oh, mija, wonderful,” said Dad.

“Really, that’s great. We’re so proud of you,” Mom cooed.

Vera’s lips turned up. It was hard to feel special in a family of people who could do things few others in the world could, like in all of human history. Her parents saved people’s souls. A talent that skipped a generation, which didn’t go unnoticed. Vera wasn’t like them. Sometimes at night when she was in bed trying to ward off impending nightmares, she let a dark thought slip in—if Vera didn’t fit with the parents who made her and she didn’t fit with kids at school, then it was possible she would never belong anywhere. Ever.

“God’s certainly blessed us,” Mom added.

Vera set her jaw. God didn’t take my finals. It was her accomplishment, though it was sacrilegious to even think that.

“Thanks, Mom,” Vera muttered, all sense of pride squeezed out. “So, tell me about you.”

She slumped in her chair. Only one school year left before Vera could put Roaring Creek, and everything that went with it, behind her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Max

Max returned home, creek sand still gritted between his toes. He kicked off his flip-flops and found Chloe perched in front of a flickering television.

“Where’s Mom?” he asked, patting his sister’s curly black hair, which looked somewhat brushed. He should be grateful for that, but instead it made his stomach turn.

Chloe had begun playing hide-and-seek with the comb, refusing to let Max brush her ringlets. Then last night, Max awoke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. He crept out, upright hairs on his neck making him wish he slept with a baseball bat, and he spied his mother gliding into Chloe’s bedroom. He watched Mom sit on the edge of his sister’s mattress, wearing that tacky yellow T-shirt from her latest self-help group. She lifted a wide-tooth comb and brushed her daughter’s tangled locks.

It was two in the morning.

When Max called her name, Mom didn’t turn. When he strode to her side, she didn’t react. Finally, he nudged his mom’s shoulder, and she lifted her chin to display fluttering lashes and eyes rolled into the back of her skull. There were no pupils, only white pools marked with bloodshot veins.

His hands quivering, he said nothing more as he helped his mother back to her room. She sleepwalked the whole way. Then he spent the night on the floor of his sister’s bedroom.

“Mom’s door is closed. She’s not answering,” Chloe told him.

It was five o’clock. His sister must’ve gotten off the bus over an hour ago, and she’d been by herself the entire time. He never should have gone to the creek.