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tilted his head to the side and pinned me with a hard glare.  It was weird to be given such a dirty look by someone who had eyes the color of butterscotch candy.  It was somehow threatening and benign, and delicious, mmm butterscotch, at the same time.
    â€œIt isn’t my imagination, Talia.  There are voices, and they aren’t in my head.  They’re in my bedroom.  Like someone is there with me.  Talking to me.” 
    Slashes of red darkened his cheeks. 
    â€œOkay.  Assuming they’re real, where do you think they come from?”
    He shook his head slowly.  “I don’t know.  I wish I did.  If I understood where it came from, I could stop it.”
    He sounded pretty sure about that.  Clearly, he was used to be in control.  I knew where almost all of my problems came from, but that didn’t help me get rid of them.  “What do they say, then?”
    â€œMostly just random words.  Rage, wrath, fury.  Sometimes a sentence here or there telling me to give into the rage.”
    â€œHave you ever done it?”  I asked curiously.  He didn’t strike me as a ‘give into the rage’ kind of guy.   
    He seemed surprised by the question.  “Of course not.”
    â€œOf course not,” I repeated dryly.  “Look, here’s what we need to do.  I need to listen to your room at night.”
    That really did seem to amuse him.  The eye crinkles were back.  “I don’t think My Sharona would go for that.  She’s fierce.”
    I smiled, too, because it was an amusing picture, though My Sharona frightened me, even on the phone.  “Do you have something like walkie-talkies or something?”
    â€œNo.  Not since Boy Scouts.”  His nose crinkled, like his eyes did.  Maybe it was a thinking trait.  “Wait.  Dad’s company cell phones, he’s got like twelve, they have a push to talk feature so he can talk to people on the set.  Do you think they’d work across the street?”
    â€œOnly one way to find out.” 
    He pulled a twenty and tossed it on the table, waving me off when I started digging into my purse.  I guess I inherited a few things from my parents, anyway, because there was no way I was turning down free food.  I let him pay. 
    Back on the street between our homes, I waited while Harrison went and got two of his dad’s yellow cell phones with rubbery-looking casings and gave me one.  Neither of us actually went upstairs to our places—I stood in Mr. Wong’s and Harrison in his lobby—but, even over the roar of washing machines and dryers, we could still hear each other perfectly.  
    With a plan in place, we parted ways, and I spent the rest of the day fielding Mom’s clients, not one of whom left crying, thank goodness, and waiting impatiently for bedtime. 
    It was the first time I could ever recall having a twitchy desire for sleepy time.  Even as a kid my parents had failed to give me a bedtime, and I’d stay up until midnight, if not later, in the first or second grade.  Sleep wasn’t the biggest priority for me. 
    But of course I wasn’t waiting for actual rest.  I was waiting to put this demon business down so I could go back to acting like Harrison was some dude in science class who liked his Goonies T-shirt and had a famous dad. 
    I took a walk down to the bank and then to Mr. Pete’s, paying him the money my mother owed.  He was absurdly happy not to have the cops involved, and I was absurdly happy not to have one more problem hanging over my head.  I went home, made dinner, and watched TV for half an hour before going to my room to work on the big project I had due soon in history class.  I had to recreate the entire Battle of Hastings, which I decided to do using castoff Star Wars characters I’d found at the thrift store.  William,