For just a moment, I wondered if this was all just a joke and if Roger really did do it. Was it possible that he was the one who called me the first two times, even though he said he didn’t? Was it his hand that scratched the words into the back door? As soon as I asked myself those questions, I shook my head. Even though he loves weird stuff to death, Roger is my friend and wouldn’t try to really freak me out. He isn’t a mean practical joker. He was probably smiling because he thought I’d set this up to show him that the supernatural was still alive and well in Rogue Island.

And there is no way that he could have gotten around front to knock on the door only a heartbeat after I heard the scratching stop. The back gate was still closed and locked from the inside. The high fence was around my backyard. It was meant to keep in Bootsie, who like all year-old Irish setters would have been running her fool head off halfway across town, following her goofy nose, without that barrier.

Where was Bootsie? Why hadn’t she barked when the doorbell rang? She always barked like crazy whenever she heard or saw anyone. And if something scared her—like the crack of thunder or the sudden ground-shaking rumble from the blasting going on a couple of blocks away from us—as soon as anyone opened the door she was in the house like a shot, woofing and whining and trying to crawl under my bed. Why wasn’t she making a sound now, and where the heck was she? The only reason a hyperactive dog like Bootsie would be quiet would be because she was asleep or . . .

“Bootsie,” I called, looking wildly around the yard. “Bootsie? BOOTSIE!”

6

BLOOD

ROGER AND I searched the backyard. We checked the back gate. It was still locked. There was no way Bootsie could have gotten out. Maybe a really athletic person—or something that had the kind of claws that allowed it to climb chain link—could have gotten over it, but not a dog like Boots. The kind of fence Aunt Lyssa had put in was meant to be dog-proof. It was even buried two feet deep so Bootsie couldn’t dig under it.

We both started whistling and calling her name.

“Boots, here, girl. Come on, Bootsie.”

But she didn’t come. The sick feeling in my stomach got worse and worse.

“Mad,” Roger said in an urgent voice. I turned. He was on his knees, looking under the shed. “There’s something here. Got a torch?”