Dad says, "Tell us about Courtney, Aimee. Her mom hinted that you thought something was going on, but she wasn't buying any of it."

"Are you going to believe me?" I ask him.

"I'll try," he says.

I pull the pink folder out of my backpack. "You can start with this. Mrs. Hessler gave it to me."

"Mrs. Hessler?" Dad's eyes get big. "Really?"

"If you read that, it'll help." I choose my words carefully, trying to make like I'm calm. "I think that something from the river is trying to possess Courtney. I think there's something really bad happening here."

Eventually they both go into their bedrooms. I hear my father check every door, every closet, every window until he's sure the house is secure.

It's too hard to try to sleep. My ears are on hyper-alert mode, listening for ghost footsteps. I get up and paint. I've barely begun when Alan texts me. YOU OKAY?

YEP. YOU? I text back. CALL ME?

I am so glad to hear his voice. We whisper into the phone about Courtney, the rock, the River Man, and what happened in the tree house, which is somehow easier to do on the phone than in person.

"He's just trying to scare us," I say, staring at the two sets of eyes in my painting. They are the same shape, but not the same inside. They are the same form, but not the same intent.

As I paint, Alan tells me the stuff he's learned about exorcisms. He's done most of his research on the Internet and he has one book that had a paragraph about it. He insists that if he's going to try to exorcise Courtney he has to do it alone, that it's part of the tradition and process. That freaks me out.

"I wish you didn't have to do this on your own."

"I can do it."

I fumble with a paintbrush. I try to wipe the paint off with some thinner, but it's ocher and it's stubborn. "I know." I drop the brush head-down into the bottle to let it soak.

Alan says, "What if he tries to hurt you when I'm not there?"

I turn away from my painting and go back to my laptop, where the images of Alan are still on the screen. He's the one I'm worried about. "He won't hurt me. He can't."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"Red ..."

"Look, it's not like he has a gun. What has he done? Possessed Courtney. Thrown something at you. Made a huge dirt storm thing. Maybe he leaves a rock in my room, but maybe that's something else, like Benji playing games or me sleepwalking or some other ghost. Give me a break. Either way, it's lame."

I shut the laptop. I flop over onto my bed and hug my giant tiger. It's a Princeton tiger. Gramps went to Princeton. The night is dark outside my window. You can't see Benji's tree house or the river or anything that could be lurking, but you know it might be there. I pull down the shade and touch the sill where the rock was. No matter how brave I can make myself, sometimes thinking about the darkness and the river and the night, thinking about my mom standing out there that one time ... it makes me not quite so brave.

"I wish you were here," I say.

"I wish I was there."

I think for a second. "Come over."

"What?"

"Come over. We can protect each other. You could climb up the tree. I could sneak you in."

"Your dad will go ballistic."

I don't answer.

"What if your grandfather catches me? He'll kill me."

I don't answer.

"Aimee?"

I wait. I wait. I think, Please be brave for me, Alan. I wait. I close my eyes but that's too dark, so I open them again and stare across the room at the painting I'm working on. I need to add more layers to it. I need to add more depth, but I can tell, now, at least, what it's supposed to be.

Two women.

The same.

But not the same.

You can tell this by looking in their eyes.

I say, "I'm scared."

I grab the paw of a teddy bear. He's old. He's seen a lot of stuff, this teddy. He's seen me.

Alan's voice is husky. "You are?"

I think about what Courtney said. I think about what I might have inherited. I think about the man from the river who haunts us. I feel so alone, and all I want is someone to wrap his arms around me. Okay, not just someone.

My voice is tiny. "I'm really scared and there's ... there's more I should tell you ..."

"Okay. I'm coming over."

My phone beeps to let me know I have a text message.

I'M HERE.

I am so glad the phone is working tonight. One minute later he's outside my window. I pop off the screen. He wedges himself through.

"Tell me Blake never did this," he whispers.

"Blake never did this."

Alan hugs me to him, kisses the top of my head. I try to mold myself into him, like we're two pieces of sculpting clay meant to return back together.

"Aim ..." My fingers stretch out across his back. He pushes away a little so that he can see my face. "Aim ... you want to tell me what's going on?"

I pull away from him. Even though it's hard, I pull away, and go sit on my bed. He comes across the room, trying not to make noise as he steps. He sits next to me, holds my hand. The bed sinks down with his weight, but it's good.

He points to the painting. "That you and your mom?"

I nod. I try to breathe.

"Aim?"

He makes my name a question and I know I have to answer. I know he deserves an answer after driving here in the middle of the night. I try to give him one. "I'm afraid of him, but that's not what I'm most afraid of."

"What are you afraid of then?"

I point to the painting.

He pulls in his breath. His fingers tighten around my fingers. "That you're like your mother?"

The word comes out all by itself.

The word comes out even though I don't want it to.

The word comes out and it is "Yes."

"Aimee." He soothes quiet words into my hair, rocks me back and forth, back and forth like a baby while I cry. "Aimee, it's going to be okay. You're okay. You're okay."

"I know." I hiccup. "I know."

I wipe at my face with my hands. I try to breathe normally, but what is normal? I try to breathe. Gramps's snores hammer through the walls. Once in a while, a mouse scampers over the roof, scratching, searching for food to eat, places to hide.

"Courtney thinks I'm crazy or something. She implied it in AP English the other day."

"That wasn't her, that was him. You know that. It's just him working at your fears."

"I don't want to be crazy," I say. My dad implied it, too.

"You aren't crazy." Alan's lips tighten together. Then he opens them again. " 'Crazy' is a stupid word."

"I know. Actually, 'stupid' is a stupid word."

"You're okay, Aim."

I make my fingers relax, trying to understand. I glance at the painting across the room; me and my mom. It's too much. I hide my face in his shirt. He smells like toothpaste and clean.

"I don't think I'm crazy," I say.

"Okay."

I push away from him. He is not mad. His eyes hold my eyes. "Whatever happens, we will deal with it, Red."

The story everyone knows is that my mother killed herself. She had an ax. She walked into a river. She had a mental illness called bipolar disorder. Sometimes she was regular. Sometimes she wasn't. But that might not be the truth, not the whole of it, at least. But either way-either way, one thing is sure.

"She left me," I say. "My mother left me."

"I know," Alan says. "But she didn't have a choice. You have a choice, Aimee. You can choose. We can manage this."

I half laugh. " 'Manage this.' You sound like a lawyer."

He wiggles his eyebrows. He is trying so hard. "I know."

I swallow. I swallow five times at least. He just tucks me against him. He presses his lips against my hair, and it's like he's pressing promises there. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For finally trusting me."

"Alan, that is so sappy."

He shrugs. He pulls me back into him. "It's true."

I play punch him, but my heart's not really in it. "Are you going to freak out about all this?"

He sniffs in. "Not till tomorrow, probably, when I'm home and you don't need me. Cool?"

I snuggle in closer. "Cool."

"I'll stay until you fall asleep," he whispers. "Then I'm going to sneak out."

We flatten ourselves down against the mattress. He puts one arm beneath my shoulder, curls into my side, and pulls his other arm across my lower rib cage, holding on.

"It'll be okay." He is sleepy voiced.

"Are you sure?"

I dream all night. I dream of an upturned kayak, hands ripping me apart, water, Alan crumpled on a floor. I dream and dream and dream, and the River Man's voice echoes through it all, telling me that we will all be his.

In the morning it's Alan's gasp that wakes me up. Sunlight fills the room.

"c.r.a.p!" he mutters. "c.r.a.p. c.r.a.p. c.r.a.p."

I sit up straight, trying to figure everything out. He's throwing open the window, about to slide outside, but something across the room catches his eye.

"Aim ..." His voice is a warning sign.

I don't want to look. But I look and my heart stops, really. It stops. Then starts again, hard, painful, pounding. He grabs my arm and pulls me into him, but I've already seen.

Someone-something?-has thrown paint all over the picture of my mother and me. The red of it oozes across our faces, dripping like horror-movie blood. But worse than that is the message printed in scratchy style over the whole thing.

HE SHOULD NOT BE HERE.

* 16 *