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“Never mind. Tell me later.” Once we’re headed home. As fast as my gas-guzzling 1988 Volvo station wagon will take us.
    I steer her toward the door.
    A new thought occurs to Shannon. She pulls her arm out of my grasp. “Oh my god, though, what if it maybe wasn’t Troy? What if she was abducted and, like, held hostage by some creepy man? Like those stories you hear about girls who are stolen and then kept in some guy’s backyard shed for decades before they escape? But maybe he got mad at her because she tried to escape and he killed her by accident?”
    Shannon’s voice is rising. I want to tell her to calm down, but I’m afraid it might make things even worse. Sometimes that happens with girls.
    I also really want to know what the hell she’s talking about. But not now. Right now, we’ve got only one job to do—and that’s to get our asses out of here.
    â€œBut no, that can’t be,” Shannon’s saying now. “She couldn’t have been abducted and held hostage all summer, because she said she died in June.”
    I grab hold of her arm again. “I want to hear all your ideas. But once we’re in the car, okay?” I pull. “We’re leaving now.”
    â€œOkay. Right. Let’s go.” She nods, then looks at me. “But if she’s dead, then what happened to her body?”
    â€œShannon.”
    â€œOkay, okay, I’m coming,” she says. “But who’s going to believe us about all this?”
    God, the girl’s brain is like a butterfly on Red Bull. I can’t keep up.
    We leave the board under the shelf—let someone else find it and wonder—and go to grab our bags. I sling mine over my shoulder and push open the door. I turn and hold it for Shannon.
    â€œHang on,” she says.
    â€œCome on, woman.”
    â€œAnd, but—wait,” Shannon says. She cocks her head. “Why is she here, in the boathouse of all places?”
    Now that we’re leaving, her fear has taken a backseat to the excitement of solving a mystery. She’s got a headful of theories.
    And I’m sure she’s going to fill mine with them on the way home.
    Not an entirely bad way to pass the time, I think.
    She bends to gather the lip gloss and books back into her bag.
    That’s when the door slams on my hand.

Chapter Twelve
    The world combusts in a blistering explosion of agony.
    I scream.
    All this screaming. It’s like we’re part of some sort of psychotic carnival attraction. Come one, come all! Come hear what it sounds like when two dumb teenagers set an angry spirit free with a Ouija board!
    My fingers are a rage of pain, and I’m pulling on them, yanking on them, but they’re clamped tight between the frame and the door.
    In my mind, I see those weekend warrior guys who go into the wilderness and get trapped between rocks and shit and end up having to saw their own limbs off.
    No. I can’t think about that right now.
    Shannon turns to see what all the hollering’s about. I see, rather than hear, her gasp.
    â€œOh my god, Elliot!”
    She takes a step toward me, letting her bag drop. A pen bounces out. The books clatter back to the wooden floor. The yearbook falls open. Sunny faces smile up at me.
    Suddenly the door loosens. I snatch my fingers back and stumble away from it. I grab my fingers with my other hand. The pain is indescribable. I fold myself forward, holding both hands between my knees.
    Dimly, I can hear yelling.
    I’m pretty sure it’s me.
    I run out of breath. Right in that tiny pause where I’m deciding whether to scream again or just moan a little or maybe even sit right down and have a good old-fashioned cry, something in the boathouse changes.
    The air. The pressure. It’s like we’ve been shot up into the jet stream. All the way up to 30,000 feet, instant plane ride, with no time to adjust. My eardrums bow under the pressure.
    Shannon