She excused herself, slipped into her room and shut the door behind her before reading the text.

June: Happy birthday, Syd xoxo

She felt herself smile.

June: Get anything good?

Syd sent her a photo of the bomber jacket.

Syd: Doesn’t fit.

June: Good thing vintage never goes out of style ;) Sydney turned toward the closet mirror, studying her reflection.

Eighteen.

Officially an adult, even if she didn’t look it.

She considered the boots. The blue hair. The bomber jacket—it really was too big for her. How long before it fit? Ten years? Twenty?

Victor thought Sydney’s aging—the lack of it—had something to do

with the way she’d died, the icy water that froze her limbs and stopped her pulse. All this time, and her vitals were still slow, her skin still cold to the touch. Everyone else was changing—Victor getting leaner and harder by the year, the lines around Mitch’s eyes, Dol’s muzzle edging white.

Only Sydney seemed to stay the same.

And Eli, she thought, a chill running through her. But he was gone.

And she had to stop summoning him, stop inviting him into her head.

Syd sank onto the edge of the bed.

Syd: Where are you?

June: Just got to Merit.

Sydney’s pulse quickened.

Syd: Really? How long are you staying?

June: On a job. Just passing through.

Syd: I wish I could be there with you.

June: You could be ;)

But they both knew it wasn’t that simple.

Sydney wouldn’t leave Victor, and as far as Victor was concerned Merit—and all of its skeletons—belonged in the past.

XV

TWO YEARS AGO

SOUTH BROUGHTON

THE dead mouse lay on Sydney’s desk, curled atop a floral dish towel.

A cat had obviously gotten to it—there were bits and pieces missing, leaving the rodent more than half, but less than whole. It was late summer, and Syd had the window propped up to keep the smell from gathering.

Dol had his chin resting on the window frame, sniffing the air on the fire escape while she worked. More than once, she’d resurrected a small animal, only to have it race away from her fingers and out into the apartment, burying itself under a sofa or behind a cupboard. More than once, Mitch had been summoned to help extricate it. Victor had noticed her practicing, even encouraged it, but he had one rule: she couldn’t keep any of the animals she brought back. They were to be set free. Or disposed of. (Dol, of course, was the sole exception.) Down the hall, a door opened, closed, and the dog’s ears perked.

Victor was back.

Sydney held her breath and listened, hoping to glean good news from the tone of his voice, or Mitch’s reaction. But within seconds she could tell—another dead end.

Her chest tightened, and she turned her attention back to the dead mouse, cupping her palms over the tiny furred corpse. Her backpack sat on the bed beside the desk, the small red tin resting on top. Sydney’s gaze flicked toward it, the action almost superstitious—like throwing salt over your shoulder, or knocking on wood—and then she closed her eyes, and reached. Past the body, to the darkness, searching for the thread. With every passing second, the cold climbed her fingers, spread past her wrists and up toward her elbows.