“He is not,” Rose butted in. “If people would just accept him the way he is, let him live his life his way, he’d be perfectly fine.”

Her mother patted her arm. They agreed that Wallace was misunderstood. The Romolas were one of the richest families in town. They owned a winery and lived in a mansion on Swan Drive. When Wallace was sixteen, they gave him a Lamborghini sports car for his birthday. He totaled it the next day. He dropped out of high school and got a job pumping gas, and the Romolas realized he’d never be able to take over the family business. Now he hung out on the common, wearing rags and begging for money. People who didn’t know he was a millionaire felt sorry for him and gave him small change. Rose had seen him laugh, slyly and secretly, when he thought no one was watching. Wallace was probably a lot smarter than he let on, but that didn’t mean he’d murder anybody.

“Bus!” Mom announced. Jerram groaned and drank the rest of his cereal from the bowl. Rose grabbed her knapsack and parka, and they ran out the door just as the bus came rolling toward the driveway.

Her best friend Grace had saved her a seat. She wanted to talk about Nancy. They’d talked about it on the phone all weekend, but Grace was still bursting with theories. She rattled on until she realized Rose wasn’t paying attention.

“Okay,” she said, “so you think I’m being ghoulish.”

“Maybe a little.”

“But you’re the most ghoulish person I know.” “I’m not.”

“You are. You love it,” Grace said with conviction.

“I don’t. I detest horror movies.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean all your stuff, you know, astral planes and psychic awareness.” “There’s nothing ghoulish about that.”

She made a face. “It’s ghoulish to read people’s minds. I, personally, for one, would not like someone reading my mind.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Jerram said from the seat behind. “A ghoul is a person who robs graves.”

“So?” Grace challenged, turning around. “Isn’t that just the right word? If you read a person’s mind, it’s like robbery.”

“It’d have to be a dead mind to qualify,” Jerram said. “But that’s not hard.” He gestured around the bus. “Take your pick.”

Of course the whole school was talking about Nancy. At midmorning, there was a PA announcement that counselors would be available in the gym during lunch and after school if anyone wanted to talk things out.

“That means she’s dead,” Grace whispered. “They only have counselors when someone dies.” It began to bother Rose then, remembering the strange encounter last winter. Nancy had