The rest of her room looked normal enough, her closet door ajar, a big leopard-print beanbag in the corner, a vintage steamer trunk pushed up against the footboard of the sleigh bed.

Behind us the hammock squeaked and squeaked.

Patrick stepped away from the window, shotgun in hand. My own hands cramped around the baling hooks. A sprinkler leaked at our feet, turning the flower bed to mush.

We eased across to the next window. Sheriff Blanton’s bed was empty, the duvet thrown to one side.

Two ghostly faces peered at us from the far wall. I lurched backward, the realization hitting only a moment later—it was our own reflections thrown back at us from a mirror.

I needed a moment to catch my breath, but Patrick was already moving to check the other windows. The house appeared to be empty. We hit the tall fence at the edge of the house and circled back in the direction we’d come. Patrick walked briskly, his body tense. I had to pause in front of Alex’s window to tug my boot out of the mud caused by that leaky sprinkler.

Through the pane I heard a faint rattle.

With mounting dread I turned my head and looked through the window.

Nothing.

Then the lid of the steamer trunk jumped, the latch jangling.

I started. It banged again, even louder, the metal loop rattling against the hasp.

My mouth had gone dry. I looked up, but Patrick had already vanished around the corner.

The next bang nearly sent me airborne. Patrick reappeared at the edge of the house, staring back at me. I could barely make out his face in the gloom. He mouthed What? and I gestured furiously for him to get back over here.

A moment later we stood shoulder to shoulder at the window. The steamer trunk lid lifted, an inch of black showing at the seam. A hand flashed into view, four fingers curling over the lip, pale in the shadows. Then they pulled back into darkness, the lid banging shut again.

Patrick was breathing hard. “The hell was that?” he whispered hoarsely.

I shook my head.

The trunk made a noise like a heartbeat. Thump-thump.

We were frozen, our breath fogging the glass. Then Patrick said what I was dreading he might: “We have to go in.”

He set his palms flat against the pane and shoved gently upward. The sash window rose, squeaking in its tracks. He swung one leg over the sill, then eased himself through.

I gleaned that this was something he’d done before.

Gathering what courage I could, I followed.

Side by side in Alex’s room, we stared at the steamer trunk.

Thump-thump.

We drew near. Patrick readied the shotgun in one hand, seating the butt firmly against his shoulder. With his other hand, he reached for the latch. His fingers trembled. I’d never seen them tremble before, not even after Mom and Dad died.