He kisses my temple, my cheekbone, and we go together down the hallway to my bedroom. Erase the bad-dream memory of him with this reality, him in my bed, my safe place, and this time the room is full of sun and tree shadows.

Later, I rest my head against him, tucked between his arm and chest. This is the first time my bed has felt small to me, like something meant for a little kid. Still an hour and a half until Dad’s due home—plenty of time for us to stay here together. I watch the branch shadows play across the blinds as the wind kicks up. “When you say the Mumbler’s real, that you’ve seen him,” I say slowly, “do you mean it?”

“Somebody’s out there.” Shrugs slightly. “There are signs. And at night, sometimes . . . he’s there. It’s like with you, that night on the banks. I wake up, and I feel him, so close—and I don’t want to open my eyes.”

I glance up at him. “The person who tried to get me last night was real. Not some monster. I think that’s who you’ve been seeing.” I press my palm against his chest. “You’re lucky he hasn’t come after you.”

Kincaid’s gaze goes to the closet door. “Why do you think he hasn’t?” He waits. “If he wanted to get me, he could have. Anytime. What’s he waiting for?”

I don’t have an answer. “Do you think one person could’ve killed all of them? Going back to Ricky?”

He shifts onto his side and reaches for the origami jack-o’-lantern. “That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

I watch the folded hexagon play between his fingers. “When I went to the bridge yesterday, my jack-o’-lantern was gone. Just mine and Ivy’s.” I look at him. “What do you think it means?”

His gaze follows the folds pressed into the paper. “Maybe it means he’s watching you.”

It snows on Halloween morning. Fine powder covers everything. Seems like there’d be folk sayings about that, old wives’ tales, calling it a harbinger of bad luck. Feels like a sign to me, but then again, I tend to look too hard.

Candy corn coats the floor of the bus. Our anxiety turned to lethargy, Sage rests her head on Bree’s shoulder; Bree’s head lolls against the seat. Me, an ocean away on the other side of the aisle, keeping my distance like I know Bree wants me to, replaying memories of Tuesday afternoon: Kincaid’s hair on my pillow, rippling shadows on the wall, the feeling of his lips so at odds with the words he’s watching you.