I gave an exaggerated shrug. "I can get the truth from you or I can get it from kids at school. Which would you rather?"

They looked at each other on the couch, weighing my ultimatum. I stayed standing, liking the feeling of being higher while they sifted through their uncomfortable feelings. It was gratifying after the last few hours of holding all my anger inside.

"Fine." Marie remained calm and clasped her hands on her lap. "A teenage girl died in the house before the end of the school year."

I gasped. "Just a few months ago?"

Marie nodded. "Her name was Kayla Sloane. She fell down the stairs, hit her head, and ..." she trailed off but I knew how that sentence ended.

Kayla Sloane. The name I'd heard among the whispers at school.

Marie's eyes traveled over my shoulder to the staircase behind me. The stairs I'd climbed up and down countless times in the past two weeks without knowing their true history. But Dad and Marie had known all along. That's why they added the carpet runner to the stairs. The only change they made to the house.

"To be completely truthful," my father began, despite an icy look from Marie, "the realtor told us that the police had never been able to determine if it was an accident or not."

A big dry lump formed in my throat. "So she might have been pushed," I croaked.

"There were rumors, but ..."

"They're only that," Marie said. "Rumors. No proof."

"How did you find out, Jade?" my father asked softly. I could tell he felt bad about keeping the truth from me.

I didn't want to tell him I'd snooped in his office. No matter how angry I was, I still never wanted him to be disappointed in me. Instead, I told a half-truth. "From someone at school. Everyone at school knows. I'm apparently the only one who didn't know. So thanks for making a fool out of me."

"That wasn't our intention," Dad said.

"We just wanted to protect you both," Marie added.

"I understand not telling Colby," I agreed. "But I'm seventeen. Not five. And did you really think I wouldn't find out?"

"We planned on telling you eventually ..."

"But just after we bought the house, right?" I said sarcastically. My anger was rising again, bubbling up like boiling water, threatening to spill over. "After we moved in. So if I was uncomfortable with the idea, it would be too late for my opinion to matter."

"You're leaving for college next fall -" Marie started.

"That's a whole year. I'm not staying here. In some ... house of the dead. It's creepy. How am I supposed to sleep at night?"

"If we'd bought an old house, chances are someone would have died there," Marie pointed out. "Heart attacks, accidents."

"But this is different," I insisted.

"You're the one who always wanted this, Jade." Marie stood now, clearly losing her patience. "You're the one who wanted the big house in the nicer town with more kids and more stuff to do."

"Not like this. I would never have wanted this." I turned to my dad. "And you know it."

I looked into his eyes, pleading for understanding. He knew how I always went out of my way to avoid a fight. So for me to stand my ground like this, I had to be really upset. He knew that. He'd side with me.

He pushed himself off the couch and slowly straightened to his full height. "I think Marie's right."

"What?" My voice cracked on the word.

"I know it's hard to learn about it, honey. But we thought this through carefully and decided it was an opportunity we couldn't pa.s.s up. We never would've been able to move here otherwise, and it's the perfect town for our family."

He reached out for me but I pulled my arm away. I found myself holding back tears. I was sad for the girl who'd died. I was upset that my dream house had this giant cloud over it now. And I was angry that Dad and Marie had kept the truth from me. It stung like a betrayal. Two against one. They were a team. Against me.

I ran upstairs, slammed the door to my bedroom, and threw myself across the bed. I cried it out for a while, but knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. The feeling in the air had changed. I felt like an intruder, a thief, an uninvited guest sleeping in someone else's home.

I pushed the tears off my cheeks with the palms of my hands and sat up. Morbid curiosity niggled at me. I had to know more. I had to read it for myself.

I sat in front of my computer and typed "Kayla Sloane, Woodbridge" into the search engine. I clicked on the first link - a news article.

Woodbridge, MA - A Woodbridge High School junior was fatally injured when she fell down the stairs in her home. Kayla Sloane, 16, died from trauma to the head and neck. Her mother, Katherine Sloane, found her daughter's body at the bottom of the stairs when she returned to the home. The teenager was unresponsive and p.r.o.nounced dead by paramedics.

Police aren't commenting on the nature of the death, only saying the injuries sustained are consistent with that of an accidental fall down the stairs. However, a source close to the tragedy says the police are also following up a lead that Kayla may not have been alone at the time of the fall, spurring rumors that her death was, in fact, a homicide.

I gripped my abdomen as nausea roiled in my stomach. I shouldn't have looked it up. The details only made me feel worse. My eyes drifted down to the picture of Kayla they'd included with the story. It looked like a yearbook photo. I was immediately struck by how beautiful she was. Flawless skin. A Hollywood smile. Electric green eyes that gave her an exotic look. And long black hair, parted down the middle, that fell in waves over her shoulders.

Long black hair.

I stifled a gasp.

Colby had said his glimmering girl had black hair.

No, I told myself. Just no.

Finding out the history of my house was traumatic enough. I didn't need to go there. Colby was making up stories. That's what five-year-olds did. His girl was imaginary.

Not real.

I went to school early so I could avoid Dad and Marie. I walked down the main hall, searching for somewhere to be alone. Fluorescent lighting leaked out of a large room on the left, the door wide open, so I went through and, finding it empty, sighed in relief. One half was full of easels, the other, desks. I sat down at the closest desk, unzipped my bag, and took out the Calculus a.s.signment that I should have done the day before. Now that I was out of the house, it was easier to clear my mind, and I ticked off the problems quickly. I was on the last one when I heard a sharp intake of air.

I looked up and found Donovan staring at me from the doorway. He had a bowl in his hand, with a few paintbrushes sticking out of it. I remembered Alexa mentioning he was in the art room often.

"Sorry," I said, breaking the silence. "Were you working in here?"

"Yeah." He set the bowl down and pushed the hair out of his eyes.

Those eyes again. My body tensed. I gripped the pencil harder in my fingers and forced myself to look down at the paper.

"But you don't have to leave or anything," he added.

"I just had some homework to finish," I explained.

He motioned with a brush. "Keep on keeping on, then. I won't bother you." He flashed a tiny smile, releasing a flood of warmth through my body in response. Particularly my neck, which was probably neon red. Then he turned his attention to whatever he was working on at the easel.

My attention was gone, though. I tried to focus on my last problem, but I kept wondering if Donovan was looking at me. So I'd sneak a glance, see him working away, then end up disappointed.

Why did I even want him to be looking at me?

He'd acted so strangely back in the office. But then I remembered what had brought on his att.i.tude change - my address. And now I knew why. Still, he could have just told me I was living in a famous death house rather than run away and leave me hanging.

"So which one are you wearing today?"

Donovan's voice snapped me out of my rambling thoughts. I looked up at him. He looked less like the emotionally frozen guy who'd sat silently in the cafeteria and more like he had that day in the office. After he'd met me, but before he'd found out my address. A bit of life had entered him again. He stood straighter, had an inquisitive smile.

And I totally forgot his question.

"Huh?" I said.

He pointed at my chest. I looked down and realized I'd been absentmindedly fiddling with my pendant.

"Every day, you wear a different one," he said.

He'd noticed that. I licked my lips, suddenly nervous. "This is, um, a clear quartz."

He stepped closer and squinted at it. "The black one you wore on your second day ... was that onyx?"

My eyebrows rose in surprise. Not only did he notice me, but he noticed I wore pendants and not the same one each day. And now he even knew the name of one. I was impressed. "Yeah," I said. "How'd you know? Staying up too late watching the home shopping channels?"

I smirked at my little joke, but he didn't laugh. The light in his eyes went out and that closed-off look fell over him again. He crossed the room and faced the window, staring out at the kids pouring out of a bus. "I bought a ring for someone once, with that stone in it."

He added, almost too softly for me to hear, "She loved it."

The bell for homeroom rang, but he didn't move from the window. I wordlessly picked up my books and left the room. What had started out awkward had turned promising and then just plain strange.

All morning I wanted to talk to Alexa about the house, but didn't get the chance until we sat down at lunch. My appet.i.te had returned somewhat, and I stabbed my penne with a fork as I told her the news.

"So you live in Kayla Sloane's house," Alexa said, shaking her head. "Creepy. No wonder everyone was talking."

I held my hands out wide. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She blew her bangs out of her eyes. "I didn't know where you live, and I'd certainly never been to Kayla's house before. And I'm not on Faye Bettencourt's gossip grapevine."

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I just hate that everyone knew something I didn't."

"I can't believe your parents didn't tell you."

"No kidding," I agreed. I paused as I chewed through a mouthful of ziti. "So would Kayla have been a senior this year?"

"Yep."

Part of me wanted to forget Kayla ever existed, but another, more-insistent part of me wanted to know everything I could about her. "What kind of girl was she?" I asked with forced nonchalance.

Alexa snorted. "She was the girl who had everything."

"What do you mean?"

"She was smart and athletic. She got the grades and made all-state in soccer."

I sensed a jealous tone in Alexa's voice. I remembered her freak-out over college applications, how she had the best grades but no extracurriculars. Kayla, it seemed, had both. Plus, I'd seen Kayla's photo, so I knew she was beautiful. But Alexa didn't mention that. Looks apparently weren't something Alexa envied.

"Was she popular?" I asked.

Alexa rolled her eyes. "That's an understatement. More like worshipped."

Wow. "Everyone must have been so sad when she died."

Alexa had a faraway look in her eyes as she spoke. "You would think so."

"There were rumors that she was ..."

"Pushed?"

I nodded.

"I don't believe it for a second. Donovan's one of the only kids in this school who's nice to freaks like me. He's not capable of murder."

My fork clanged loudly as it hit my plate. "Wait, Donovan O'Mara?"

"Yeah, what other Donovan would there be?"

Something in my heart twisted. Donovan was the suspect mentioned in the article? "Why did they think he killed her?"

"He was her boyfriend."

A tiny spark of jealousy twinged inside me.

Alexa continued, "And he was the last one to see her alive. A witness saw him go into the house with her and come out alone. Then her mother came home and found her body in a heap at the bottom of the stairs." Alexa paused. "Donovan swore she was alive when he left. The police couldn't prove it one way or the other. All of Kayla's friends turned on him, but the rest of the school knows he would never do something like that."

I glanced at his usual table, but he wasn't there. This explained everything about Donovan. The girl he loved had died and then he was shunned at school. Suspected. Labeled a social pariah.

I felt guilty for my snap judgment earlier about his behavior in the office. He wasn't a jerk. He was just ... broken.

Alexa and I finished our lunch in silence but my mind was in overdrive. I thought about my quick conversation with Donovan in the art room. He had mentioned buying onyx jewelry for someone. Obviously, that someone had been Kayla. And the day I'd had trouble choosing a pendant, the onyx had been laid out on the bed for me. A chill went through me.

Coincidence, I told myself. I was a rational person. I was not going to jump to insane conclusions. The easiest answer was the most likely one. Colby had taken the necklace and put it on my bed, not a ghost. And it was only by chance that it was onyx, the same stone Donovan had given Kayla.

Because if it wasn't a coincidence, the other option was that my house was haunted and a ghost chose the onyx to send a message to her ex-boyfriend.

And that was 100 percent pure, unfiltered crazy.

But, while I tried to convince myself of that, my mind also thought about what the message might be. What I'd want to tell my boyfriend, if it was me drifting out there, all alone, still haunting the house I'd lived and died in. If it was me, I'd want him to know - I'm still here.

That night, I lay in bed but sleep wouldn't come. I couldn't shut my mind off, couldn't stop thinking about Kayla. She'd lived in this house and done the same things I did. Ate in the kitchen. Showered. Did her homework. Slept. And now here I was. Living in her house. Going to her school. Meeting her friends. Finding myself drawn to her boyfriend.

I tossed and turned, then got up, thinking that a breeze from the window might help. I slid up the sash and crawled back into bed, but the night sounds of crickets were distracting, not lulling. The September air was a bit too chilly. And the breeze kept making my sheer white curtains dance. Even with my eyes closed, I sensed their movement.