After that they must have parted, because two sets of footsteps went in opposite directions—heavier ones headed down the stairs, and lighter ones farther down the hall.

Left to himself, the young man started to whistle—no particular tune, just a succession of notes.

Trying to regain my composure, I realized with dismay that I was still clutching Agatha’s notebook. As I went to set it back down, my fingers fumbled, and it fell to the floor with a fluttering of pages like the sound of a bird’s wings.

The whistling paused.

I didn’t breathe—I couldn’t.

Finally, after a few seconds, the whistling started back up and grew quieter, then muffled, and then there was the click of a door. The last door on the left—Barrett’s room. Laura had pointed it out to me half a dozen times.

I bent down to pick up the notebook, glancing at the page it had fallen open to. Just one sentence was written at the top:

I am Too WeaK to Fight anymore.

It was the last thing she’d written in the entire notebook.

My heart contracted with horror. Her writing had regressed even further, so it looked clumsy and awkward, like the work of a child.

But the idea itself was the worst part. To go from the brilliantly beautiful person Agatha had obviously been to the hollow shell she was now, that was bad enough—but worse was that she’d been aware of her slipping away, and at some point, exhausted from the effort, she had felt she had no choice but to give up.

I sighed, deeply, from the core of my soul.

I knew that feeling.

I set the journal back down and switched off the light, then shut the door and crossed the hall.

As I was opening the nursery door, a sudden noise made me jump.

It was the sound of someone clearing their throat.

And then he spoke. “Excuse me.” His voice was cold, firm, demanding. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

CHAPTER

12

I TURNED AND saw that, yes, this was Barrett, the boy from the crystal-framed photograph. His attractiveness, while undeniable, was nowhere near as intimidating as Agatha’s faultless perfection. He looked less like a doll and more like an ad from a catalog that sells clothes to people who talk about yachts in their spare time. His jawline was sharp, and his chin had a slight cleft. His eyebrows were dark brown and full, pressed low over his eyes as he glared at me. His hair was short but shaggy, like he hadn’t had it cut in a month or two. His skin glowed toasted gold, a tan he must have picked up while traveling around Europe hitting on politicians’ daughters.

I moved my mouth to answer, but could only open and shut it helplessly.

“This house is private property,” he said. “You’re trespassing.”