But Scott zoomed through the next yellow light, and I got stuck behind a pizza delivery car. By the time we got to Scott’s house, his car was slanted across the driveway, the driver’s side door still open, and he was nowhere in sight. I turned off the engine, shoved the keys into my pocket, and raced up the driveway after Nash, fully expecting the front door to be locked.

It was open. Nash led the way into the house, which had recovered nicely from the previous weekend’s party. Thanks, no doubt, to the unseen and likely unthanked Carlita.

“Scott?” Nash clomped through the foyer onto the spotless white carpet in the formal living room. There was no answer. We peeked into the den, kitchen, dining room, laundry room, and two guest bedrooms before coming to Mr. Carter’s office at the end of the hall—a space I remembered fondly.

The room was dark, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to what little light fell from the cracks in the wooden blinds drawn shut over both windows.

“Close the door!” Scott shouted, and I jumped as he lifted one hand to block the light from the hallway. Nash nudged me farther into the room and pushed the door closed softly, cutting off so much light that I had to wait for my eyes to adjust again.

Scott cowered on the far end of the brown leather couch, and as Nash approached him, Scott began to mumble-chant under his breath.

“No light, no shadow. No light, no shadow…”

Chill bumps popped up all over my arms, in spite of the warm air flowing from the vent overhead.

“What’s wrong, Carter?” Nash squatted on the floor in front of his friend, one hand on the arm of the couch for balance. “Does the light hurt your eyes? Does your head hurt?”

Scott didn’t answer. He just kept mumbling, eyes squeezed shut.

“I think he’s afraid of the shadows,” I whispered, remembering Scott’s horror when he’d eyed our silhouettes in the cafeteria and his own shadow in the hall the afternoon before.

“Is that right?” Nash asked without looking at me, his profile tense with fear and concern. “Is something wrong with your shadow?”

“Not mine anymore,” Scott whispered, his voice high and reedy, like a scared child’s. He punched the sides of his head with both fists at once, as if he could beat down whatever he was seeing and hearing. “Not my shadow.”

“Whose shadow is it?” I whispered, fascinated in spite of the cold fingers of terror inching up my back, leaving chills in their wake.

“His. He stole it.”

My chest seemed to contract around my heart as a jolt of fear shot through it.

Nash shifted, trying to get comfortable in his squat. “Who stole it?”

“Like Peter Pan. Make Wendy sew my shadow back on…”

I glanced at Nash, and Scottfroze with his eyes closed and his head cocked to one side, like a dog listening for a whistle humans can’t hear. Then he opened his eyes and looked straight at Nash, from less than a foot away. “Can you get me a soda, Hudson? I don’t think I ate lunch.” The sudden normalcy of his voice scared me almost as badly as the childlike quality had, and I glanced at Nash in surprise. But he only nodded and stood.

“Just watch him,” he whispered, squeezing my hand on his way out the door, which he left ajar a couple of inches.

Uncomfortable staring at Scott in his current state, I glanced around the room, admiring the built-in shelves behind a massive antique desk with scrolled feet and a tall, commanding chair.

“You can go look,” Scott said, and I jumped, in spite of my best effort to remain calm.

“What?”

“You like to read, right?” He cocked his head to one side, as if he heard a reply I hadn’t made. “Some of them are really old. Several first editions.”

I hesitated, but he looked so hopeful, so encouraging, that I rounded the corner of the desk farthest from him, drawn by the spine of an old copy of Tess of the d’Urbervilles. It was on the second shelf from the top, and I had to stand on my toes to reach it. To brush my fingers over the gold print on the spine.

The soft click of a door closing shot through the room, as loud as a peal of thunder in my head. I dropped to my heels and whirled to see Scott standing in front of the now-closed door, mumbling something like soft, inarticulate chanting.

My heart thudded in my chest, my own pulse roaring in my ears. “Scott? What’s wrong?”

His head snapped up, his fevered gaze focusing on me briefly. Then his mumbling rose in volume, and he seemed to be arguing now, but I couldn’t make out the words. He shook his head fiercely, like he had in his car. “Can you hear him?”

I stepped slowly toward the desk between us. “Hear who, Scott? What do you hear?”

“He says you can’t hear him,” Scott continued, his gaze momentarily holding mine again. Then, “No, no, no, no…”

I tried to sound calm as I inched toward him. “Who do you hear?”

“Him. Can’t see him in the dark, but I hear him. In. My. Head!” He punctuated each word with a blow to his own temple. “Stole my shadow. But I still hear him…”

Shivers traveled the length of my arms and legs, and my hands shook at my sides. Was Scott actually seeing someone the rest of us couldn’t? Hearing something meant only for his ears? Thanks to Tod, I knew better than most how very possible that was….

But this didn’t feel like the work of a reaper. Reapers couldn’t steal someone’s shadow. Could they?