"Oh, please, Bridge."

"What?"

Hector brought his fists to his eyes and wiggled them back and forth like a crying baby. "Wah, wah, wah. I'm Bridget and I have to go to Winter Formal with the hottest guy in town. Poor me."

"He's not the hottest guy in town," Bridget said, turning her back on him. "And even if he was, he still bugs me."

"Sure he does."

She whirled on him. "He does!"

Hector planted his hand on his chubby waist. "What you say: 'I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.' What I hear: 'I want to stick my tongue down his throat.'"

Bridget wrinkled her nose. "I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit."

"Sure you did," Hector said, returning to the clothes rack.

She moved to the last rack, praying she found something decent for this stupid dance. Winter Formal. Blech. Was she supposed to get him a flower thingie for his jacket? Or was that only for prom? Was he going to show up with a corsage she'd have to wear, flapping around on her wrist all night? Would there be, like, official photos at the dance? Bridget's hands went cold. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus! Why was this so complicated? Why couldn't they just go for coffee for a first date or something?

Bridget froze.

First date. Try as she might to pretend otherwise, the truth of it was she and Matt were going on a date. But did he think of it that way? Or was Matt just doing what he thought he was supposed to: keeping an eye on her. Bridget shook her head. That had to be it. The only way a guy like Matt Quinn would invite himself to her Winter Formal was because his dad and her mom had told him to keep an eye on her.

Bridget sighed. Stop thinking it's something it's not, Bridge. Matt wouldn't want to date a spaz like you. He's not your boyfriend, he's your babysitter.

Somehow that was even more pathetic.

Bridget pulled a plum-colored dress off the rack and held it up in front of her before the mirror. It was simple-just an empire bodice with spaghetti straps and a flow-y skirt to the knee-but the shimmery, purple fabric made her normally blue eyes look a deep shade of aquamarine that was kind of cool.

"That's it," Hector said, coming up behind her. "That's the one."

"You think?"

"Look at your eyes," Hector said, rolling his. "They're, like, all magical."

She gave him a light elbow to the gut. "Don't be stupid."

"Whatever. Just try the damn thing on so we can get the hell out of here, okay? Girl departments make me feel . . ."

"Jealous?" Bridget smirked.

Hector narrowed his eyes. "Nauseous."

Bridget headed for the dressing room while Hector wandered around, checking out the accessories wall in the teen department. She stood before the mirror in her little changing cubicle and stared. That pinched look about her temples was still there, making her narrow Asian eyes droop at the corners. She didn't used to have it. It made her look sad and old.

Bridget lowered herself onto the little bench seat and sank her head in her hands. What was she going to do? Fallen angels, warring demons-this wasn't her life. It was like a comic book. If she hadn't heard the voices in the walls, experienced the old lady's possession, witnessed the dolls in the shop, she wouldn't have believed it herself.

Bad enough she was a freak, but having no one other than two priests to talk to about it was really starting to grate on her nerves. She thought of Hector digging through teen-girl belts outside the dressing room. She'd known him since they were in the seventh grade, when Mr. and Mrs. Gutierrez had yanked their only son out of public school. It had royally sucked for Hector, since he knew even then that (a) he was gay and (b) his parents wouldn't be accepting.

But he'd dealt with it, hadn't he? Not having anyone to talk to about what was going on? He'd opened up to Bridget. They'd bonded over a love of old nineties mod music like the Smiths and the Cure, and eventually he felt comfortable enough to tell her he had a crush on a boy in their class. He'd trusted Bridget with his secret. Maybe she could do the same?

"Bridget!" Hector whined from the dressing room doorway. "Hurry up. I'm hungry."

Bridget rolled her eyes. He was always hungry. "Coming!"

She left her jeans on and just pulled the dress up. Fit her hips? Check. Zippered up past her boobs? Check. Under fifty bucks? It looked like she had found her Winter Formal dress.

She hurried back into her Union Jack T-shirt and bomber jacket, paid for the dress, and collected Hector.

"Panda?" she asked as they exited the department store into the mall.

"You're the only Asian person I know who likes crappy Chinese food."

"It's the Irish half that craves it," she said, linking her arm through his. "Come on. My treat."

As much as Hector might bitch about it, Bridget knew he fostered a secret, eternal longing for Panda's orange chicken, which he proceeded to order two servings of before they found a quiet table near the back window of the food court.

"I want to talk to-" they said at the same time.

"Heh." Bridget laughed. It was so like them to have the same thoughts at the same time. "You first."

Hector laid his chopsticks on his napkin. "Is everything okay?"

Bridget dropped her eyes to her spring rolls. "Yeah, you know. Yeah."

"You seem a little . . ."

Bridget stole a glance at him. Hector shrugged and stabbed at a random piece of chicken.

"What?" she asked.

"I don't know. Off."

"Off like different than how I've been off for the last year?"

Hector traced a cascading water droplet down the side of his soda cup with his finger. "Well, yeah."

Bridget bit her lip. This was what she wanted, right? To confide in someone about all the weirdness that had started happening in her life? Here was her opportunity, wrapped up with a pretty little bow and delivered into her lap. All she had to do was say the words and make Hector believe them. Just say it. Just tell him.

Buzzzzz.

Hector and Bridget reached for their cell phones at the same time.

"Mine," Bridget said. She flipped open her phone and groaned out loud. "From Peter."

"Uh-oh."

Bridget read Peter's text. "'Where are you? Who are you with?'" She closed her eyes and shook her head. Bizarro Peter was back.

"Whoa." Hector pulled her hand over so he could see the text. "That's pretty desperate sounding. Even for Peter."

"Yeah." She remembered his face in the hallway, the haunted, obsessed look in his eyes.

Buzzzzz.

This time it was Hector's phone. "Oh, look, it's Peter," he said drily. "'Where are you? Are you with Bridge?' Wow, you've really turned that boy into a grade-A stalker."

"I have that effect on people."

"It's your kind and sweet nature."

Bridget snorted. "Thanks."

They fell silent. Bridget didn't know what to say about Peter's recent, disturbing behavior, and Hector seemed lost in thought. Maybe he'd comment on Peter and then she could transition the conversation to what she really wanted to talk about? That would seem totally natural. Maybe Hector would even believe her this time.

Hector lifted a piece of orange chicken to his mouth and chewed really slowly, like he was buying time, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to say something. Bridget held her breath.

"I think you'll look freaking fantastic in that dress," he said at last.

Bridget felt deflated. "Thanks." The moment was gone. Did she really regret it? Telling someone about what had been going on with her would have been such a relief, but was Hector really the person who could handle it?

She wasn't sure. The only thing she knew was that, once again, she was on her own.

Nineteen.

RULE NUMBER FIVE: THEY LIE.

It was about the millionth time she'd reminded herself in the past week. Still, the message delivered by Penemuel haunted her, creeping up at odd moments of the day. She tried to fight it back, to remind herself that you couldn't trust the demons, but it didn't matter. Again and again she heard Penemuel's words in her mind: Me-yer. Un-der. Un-der. Me-yer.

Again and again, over and over until she thought she would lose it. And every time her mind would drift to a mental hospital in Sonoma County, where an insane killer was locked away for the murder of Dr. David Liu.

With a heavy sigh, she leaned closer to the bathroom mirror and ran a wand of liquid eyeliner over her lid, ending with a tiny swoop at the corner. The freckles on her nose and cheeks still peeped through the layers of foundation, powder, and blush, but there wasn't much she could do about them. She was already wearing more makeup than she'd applied since her mom let her quit Irish step dancing, and short of spackle, those annoying freckles would just have to stay. This was definitely the most effort she'd put into her appearance since before her dad died.

Bridget squeezed her eyes shut, so tight she thought her eyeballs might pop out the back of her head. She'd done a relatively good job of forcing the memories of the trial from her mind, but in the last few days they'd come rushing back with renewed force. Undermeyer at the defense table, twitchy and erratic. The insanity plea and the parade of mental health professionals who attested to a level of paranoid schizophrenia heretofore unseen in a patient. And, of course, Sergeant Quinn's testimony. How he'd brought Milton Undermeyer to see Dr. Liu for a series of psychiatric evaluations after his arrest. How two men had gone into Dr. Liu's office that day. How an hour later Undermeyer was found in the office alone, the body of Dr. Liu lying in a massive pool of his own blood, his throat sliced from ear to ear.

She'd never seen the crime scene photos of her dad's murder, but she didn't need to. The image of her dad's mangled body was burned into her brain forever. Her imagination was way worse than reality. Panic swept over her. Her heart raced and her chest broke out in a damp sweat. She gripped the St. Benedict's medal on her bracelet and held her breath.

She forced her eyes open and stared at herself in the mirror. "Breathe, Bridge," she said out loud. "Breathe."

She locked eyes with herself and practically willed her body into submission. Calm. Calm. Her breaths came slower; her heart rate receded to normal, nonfrantic levels.

Nothing made sense anymore. If Penemuel was lying to her, trying to lead her astray, why tell her to go talk to her dad's killer? It wasn't logical.

With a sigh, Bridget picked up a creased piece of white paper and reread Father Santos's Xeroxed notes.

Spins truth tottered.

Thunder totters spit.

Potent dither trusts.

Nonsense. The only thing she'd been able to figure out was that each line had the exact same letters, which she'd scribbled below.

D E E H I N O P R R S S T T T T T U.

Anagrams. She was crappy at them. She even put the letters into an online anagram generator but only got more of the same weird gibberish. She laid the page back on the counter and grabbed her lip gloss. Maybe it didn't mean anything, just crazy demon talk? Why was Father Santos so convinced it was important?

A sharp knock at the bathroom door jarred Bridget just as she was about to apply a layer of gloss.

"What?"

"Bridge," Sammy whined. "I need to use the bathroom."

"Use Mom's."

"Nooooo," he whined.

"Why not?"

"I don't like it."

"Okay, okay. Hold on." Bridget took one last look in the mirror. Her curly brown hair was piled up on her head, her makeup was as good as she could possibly make it, and surprise surprise, she didn't look nearly as heinous in the dress as she thought she would. This was as good as it got.

Woo. Hoo.

"All yours, Sammy," she said, opening the door.

Her mom hustled down the hallway, camera in hand. "You look beautiful."

Bridget translated: You look so nice when you make an effort and don't wear that damn jacket and those boy boots. "Thanks, Mom." Better to let her have this moment, this fantasy of a normal daughter going to a dance with a normal boy. No harm in it.

"Your dad . . ." Her mom's voice quavered. "He would have been so proud."

Heavy tears overflowed from her mom's eyes and cascaded down her ruddy cheeks. There had been such a gap between them the last few months, with Bridget's new drama and her mom's friendships with Sergeant Quinn and Mr. Darlington. But suddenly none of it mattered.

Bridget threw her arms around her mom's neck and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I love you, Mom."

She felt her mom's chest heave, but neither of them said another word.

"Ew," Sammy said, pushing past them. "Lame."