He’s serious now—I recognize his barely perceptible shift from teasing to pensive. “I’ve just been thinking. I mean . . . those times in the woods, when I saw him. You know. Standing. Watching me. Why didn’t he do anything?” He catches my look. “I mean, if Mr. Mac was taking his tool kit to girls and guys, why didn’t he kill me?” Kincaid’s silent a moment, looking down at his worn Converses, dragging one foot down to slow and walk with me. “Do you think it was because I was out there, hiding, like him?”

I stop, facing him. “Kincaid. You’re nothing like him.” I punch his shoulder lightly. “Right? That’s over.” Last week, I went with him to the little brown house on Lorimer, standing back a bit, just being there with him when his mom opened the door to find us on her front steps. By the time we were sitting at the kitchen table, she was crying. He’s spending nights at home again, the two of them trying to find their way together, trying to give each other their space, learn to coexist even with all their differences. He’s at school most days now; perfect attendance probably isn’t in the cards for Kincaid.

“I guess.” He looks at me, taking my hand, fingers finding the burn scars on my palm, finally not afraid to touch them anymore, as if his gentle pressure could be enough to bring back the memory of it all.

I look around at the bare trees. “You know what? I like November. No serial killings to plan around. All-you-can-eat turkey.”

“My birthday’s in November.”

“Wait. You’re sharing information with me?” I let go of his hand, start walking backward. “Does this mean I can throw away my secret Kincaid decoder ring?” He smiles, doesn’t answer.

They’re waiting on us now: Trace, Sage, Moon, and Bree. Maybe Hazel, if Faye decided she could let her out of her sight. Things have changed a little at their place. Hazel’s still having nightmares, and Bree told me that Hazel can’t sleep unless Faye’s with her. I know Bree seems a bit lighter, finally listening to me when I told her to stop hating herself for how it went that night. I look over at the trees, dark embroidery between the houses, thinking of moths and half-open closet doors. How the separation between reality and nightmares can be so thin. “Yeah. No more woods for me. Even though the Mumbler’s gone.”

“We’ll see what happens next Halloween.”

“Yes,” I say, “we will.” And keep on going, making him jog a little to catch up so he can hold my hand.

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PHOTO BY JACQUELINE HALL