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would spell out her answer on Kara’s hand.
    That night Kara touched Quinn’s hand to her head. This meant What are you thinking?
    Quinn put her finger to Kara’s palm and wrote one letter—E.
    Kara squeezed Quinn’s hand. She held it until she fell asleep.
    Quinn twisted and turned beneath the covers for the longest time. Finally, she drifted off. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep when something dragged her from her dreams.
    She opened her eyes but there was little difference—the room was spider-black. She never used to be afraid of the dark, but now she slept with the hall light on and her bedroom door wide open. Occasionally her mother would forget and turn out the light while Quinn was asleep. If she awoke in darkness, beads of cold sweat would skitter over her body. She’d lie frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe, until gray morning light pressed its way in through the blinds.
    Here, with Kara beside her, the darkness was bearable. Quinn searched for the time but then remembered there was no clock in the room. A hollow shuddering blew past the window. She sat up and listened. It came back again and again.
    Quinn slunk out of bed and walked to the window. She pulled back the heavy drapes. Darkness stretched like a gloved hand over the landscape. Only the tiniest sliver of moon lit a jagged horizon that seemed a million miles away. She breathed deeply. Bluebells. She could swear she smelled bluebells. She twisted a lock of hair between her fingers.
    As Quinn rested her cheek on the cool glass, the wind swooped in and pressed against the pane. Beyond the whoosh and hiss, she heard something else. Not a hum this time, but a low, distant wail.
    Quinn listened sharply. There was something familiar about the pitch—the alternating sobs and silence. Was it possible? Could it be? Questions circled themselves, knotting inside Quinn’s mind. She listened again, but then suddenly the crying stopped.
    Quinn took a deep breath. She was doing it again. She was imagining things. It was just a coyote. Or a bobcat.
    Quinn shut the drapes and slipped back beneath the covers. She closed her eyes and lay there for the longest time until her thoughts began to melt and drift away.
    The next morning, she awoke to the shrill buzzing of the telephone. It rang three times and then stopped. Their wake-up call. Mrs. Cawston had forgotten to cancel it.
    The room swam in soupy darkness. Quinn sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. She yawned and stretched. Kara was still sound asleep.
    The bed beside them was empty. Kara’s mother was gone. The covers lay flopped over the pillow in a tangled mess. Quinn nearly looked away, but then a tiny dark speck caught her attention. It was the size of a pinhead, but it seemed to be growing.
    She swung her legs around the side of the bed and stood. She was sore and wobbly, like she was using her legs for the first time in decades.
    She moved toward the opposite bed. The spot on the duvet had already grown to the size of a quarter and it was getting larger and darker by the second.
    Slowly, carefully, Quinn reached out a trembling hand. She grasped the corner of the pink duvet and peeled back the covers. She gasped.
    On the pillow, where Kara’s mother had been lying, was a pool of blood.

 
    8
    Q UINN SPRANG BACK. Her heart pulsed in her throat. Blood drummed in her ears. She dove for Kara.
    Kara made a soft sound, like a cooing dove. She rolled over and continued to doze. Quinn shook her hard. “Wake up, Kara. Wake up!”
    Kara raised her head. She looked at Quinn through puckered eyes and yawned like she’d been asleep for centuries. “Huh? Whaa?”
    â€œThere!” Quinn yelled. “Look!”
    Kara sat up drowsily. She looked around. “Where? What?”
    Quinn pointed a frantic finger at the other bed, but when she turned to look at it, the blood was gone.
    She leaped toward the bed and pulled back the covers. She