She collected the prints and took them to the bathroom. She closed the door and fished around in the towel closet until she found an old make-up mirror, the kind with the small light bulbs at each corner. She plugged it in, set it on the closed toilet lid and sat down on the floor in front of it. She put the stack of pictures in front of the mirror and tilted it forward so those small light bulbs shone directly into the pictures.

Here was the first one, catching Jack by surprise. The lights showed nothing else. She moved on to the next one.

In the second picture, the last one taken, Jack on the stairs, Liz aiming at the banister, she saw a faint streak of light over Jack's shoulder, but whether that was movement on her part, or the dead man Dengler, should couldn't say. And if she didn't know, it would never convince Jack.

In the third picture, she struck what she thought was solid gold proof.

Jack's back turned to the camera and his face reflected in the bathroom mirror. There, hovering right above Jack, Liz saw two tiny white points of light, like eyes. And in the mirror, more detail. Along with the eyes, she thought she saw the outline of a head.

She swiveled the light bulbs closer, leaned her head in, and strained to see into the picture, trying to make sense of the light before jumping to conclusions. She had to be sure before she took it to Jack. If he found any weak spot in her proof, he'd seize on it.

She set this picture aside to come back to, and moved on to the rest of the stack. But that one shot was the only one that revealed anything other than Jack. She set the rest on the floor and put that other one back on the toilet lid.

Then she pulled two more shots from the back pocket of her shorts. She'd taken these before Jack got home.

She looked down at the translucent image on Milo Dengler's dead body hanging from a phantom rope over the top rail. He looked just like he had earlier when he'd trapped her on the stairs, except this time he wasn't staring at her.

The second picture she'd taken outside. It showed Joey in the foreground with the house behind him. She'd taken this picture soon after they moved in. It was only today, though, that she'd taken another look at it--at first, just trying to find the changes in him, thinking that might be proof enough for Jack--and saw one of the children watching them from one of the third floor windows.

That was when the solution came to her. She had rummaged through the bedroom until she found the camera again, and was hopeful to see she still had almost the entire film cartridge left.

She ran upstairs, stood on the top landing, aimed at the railing Dengler had hung from, then snapped the photo. Then she hurried down, not wanting to stick around in case he decided to show up again. And standing in the kitchen, watching the grey film darken, then see shapes forming and color and light crystallize, she saw him, Milo Dengler, dead and transparent.

"There it is, Jack," she'd said out loud. "You can't deny this one."

And then she realized Jack could deny anything he didn't see for himself.

She set the camera aside and would take more when he got home, when he was there to see her snap them, to see them shoot from the bottom of the camera, to see them develop, and then he couldn't deny it anymore.

But they'd all come to nothing, except the vague implication of eyes above Jack's head. And looking at it again, now, Liz thought, I don't know. It's all just faint enough, he might be able to not see it.

"s.h.i.t."

She looked again at the picture of the figure in the window, then looked at Joey just below, standing mid-yard between Liz and the house. He stood with his head t.i.tled back, one arm raised high with the fingers spread wide. His mouth was pulled back in a wide smile. Spring was only then beginning to wind down and the constant apprehension of when the next shadow would pa.s.s the corner of her eye or the next dead voice come down the hall were still weeks away.

She wished she could go back to that time, just after moving in, when everything was still good and the future was still hopeful. Now what did she have to look forward to? Wondering if she was going to be able to sleep through the night, or if something was going to shock her awake with its frigid touch?

f.u.c.k that, she thought, I'd just go back to a month before we came here. Tell Jack to find some place else. Christ, I should have made him bring us up to look at it before we just moved right in.

But that wouldn't have helped, and she knew it. At the time, she just wanted someplace that was home again, someplace where she wasn't worrying every time she came home that the house would be empty, that Jack and Joey would be gone. Even now she found herself with that nibble of worry at the back of her mind, and she always had to stomp it and tell herself again that Alex was years ago and she was better off.

And now she had her family. And Jack wasn't going anywhere. And whether Joey called her Liz or mom didn't matter because she loved him like he was her own and she was pretty sure he felt the same way.

She looked up, wiped her eyes, and realized she hadn't even been aware of crying.

She blew her nose and gathered up the worthless pictures, stuck the other three back into her pocket, and put away the make-up mirror.

Jack was in the bedroom, lying down with his guitar draped over his stomach and his fingers strumming near-silent chords. She heard him and turned into the living room before he could stop her. She went outside and sat in a lawn chair against the house.

Joey was kicking a ball against a tree by the alley, then trying to catch it when it ricocheted.

Liz pulled the picture of Joey from her pocket and held it up. He was taller, and his hair was darker now. She tried to think back, but couldn't remember getting his hair cut since they moved to Angel Hill, but it looked, if anything, a little shorter than it did in the picture. Comparing the picture-Joey to the one in front of her now, she thought if not for the wrinkled pad of pink flesh at the top of his neck, she might not recognize him at first.

So just take Joey and go back to Houston.

And go to jail for kidnapping. Even if I took him to Allen's, he's not my son. I can't take him, and I won't go without him.

Then you'd better find some proof.

No s.h.i.t.

She looked at the other two pictures, Dengler hanging from the rail, and the lights above Jack's head. Would he believe they were eyes? Would he see the outline of the head in the mirror, or would it be something else for him? Glare from the flash? Sunlight from outside bouncing off the mirror?

While Joey chased the ball across the yard, she went over the possibilities if she showed Jack the two she took earlier.

Best case scenario, he saw the pictures and it would all click in his mind. He'd see them for what they were and they'd all get the h.e.l.l out of here.

Worst case, he'd think she was trying to pull something on him and get p.i.s.sed. And right now wasn't the best time for them to go without talking to each other. She could tell he was still bothered by this afternoon at the hospital, even if he wasn't coming out and saying anything about it.

In the middle there were other possibilities. He could see the pictures and it would click for him and they'd try to figure out a way to deal with it. Not great, but better than nothing. Or he could see the pictures and at the very least notice the change in Joey. That might be enough to make him realize something was going on, even if he wouldn't accept what it was.

Joey's laughter broke her concentration. She looked up and saw him standing at the back of the yard, pointing and laughing. She followed his finger. He was pointing at the window across the alley. Was the naked woman standing there again?

Jeez, she thought, get a nightgown, or something.

"Joey," she called, "don't point. And don't laugh."

She glanced over and saw the old woman's eyes peeking out from behind the curtain.

"Liz?"

She jumped a little, then looked over her shoulder. Jack was at the screen door.

"Yeah?" She tucked the pictures under her thigh.

"Come here for a second?"

She got up, shoving the pictures into the back pocket of her shorts. "Stay in the yard, Joey," she called before going inside.

Inside, she waited for Jack to speak, wondering what he was going to say. A tingle at the back of her skull said, He's going to leave you. Just like Alex. You can't hold anything together, can you?

Shut up, she answered. He's not Alex.

And Alex wasn't your parents. Remember telling yourself that when you first got married? You spent the first month wondering when he was going to leave you, just like your father left your mother. And then he finally did, didn't he? Your father, then Alex, and now Jack. And not only Jack, but he'll take Joey, too, and that'll be four men you've lost.

SHUT UP! she yelled inside her head. He's not going to leave me.

We'll see.

"I want to talk to you about this afternoon," he said.

She came back from herself and looked at him, certain he was going to say she was a horrible step-mother, and if she couldn't be a step-mother, there was no way she could be a mother.

"Okay," she said. Her heart pounded and her stomach fell three feet inside her. "What about it?"

"I want to know, right now, and with no bulls.h.i.t, why you left Joey alone all night."

What was she supposed to say? She'd already told him why. Did he want her to lie? She couldn't, because that wouldn't solve anything. She'd have to tell him again and hope it got through.

"I left him alone because I was afraid."

"Of what?" he asked. His voice had a tone to it, an unasked question: Don't you know there's nothing to be afraid of? It's obvious. How stupid can you be?

"I'm not sure," she said, careful not to jump into anything she'd regret later. "He was taking a shower and then I was drying him off and I looked at him and he was totally different. I mean, it wasn't just the hair color or his eyes, but it was like I wasn't even looking at the same kid anymore, like he'd been replaced by a very bad duplicate."

"Aside from being ridiculous, that makes you leave him alone all night in a strange place?"

"I told you," she said, "I was scared. It freaked me out. I mean it wasn't just that, it was a lot of stuff, that was just one."

"So what else was it?" He turned to look out the back door and watch Joey. Liz heard Joey's high squealing laughter and wondered what he was doing now.

"It was just stuff, I told you." You're losing him, she thought. If you don't give him specifics, he's going to blow it off again. Tell him, dammit. "It was . . . I don't know. The house, and the heat, and I haven't slept for s.h.i.t lately and--." Then she had an idea. Let him find out on his own.

"Let me show you this picture," she said. She pulled one from her back pocket, hoping it was the right one. She handed it to him, a silent prayer on her breath, and he looked down.

"Picture of Joey, so what."

She breathed easier at having grabbed the right picture.

"Well," she said, "just look at him. I found this yesterday," she lied. "I took it about a week or two after we moved in. Look at him, then look outside and tell me you don't see a huge difference. I don't know what to do, I don't know if there's something wrong with him or if maybe I'm the one going crazy, or what."

She stopped, urging him with her mind to look further into the picture, to see the girl in the window, to ask what it was so she could act surprised herself.

"You're not going crazy," he said. This time his tone was more Don't be a silly goose. She was glad. "He's just getting older. Kids go through growth spurts, you know?"

He stared at the picture and Liz looked outside. Joey stood at the back of the yard still, but now he was looking at the house, toward the top windows. Liz wondered what he was seeing and whether she should go to him, take Jack outside, leave it and keep hoping Jack saw the picture, or what.

He was taking his sweet time seeing her and Liz had to fight the urge to point it out to him. He had to see it himself, otherwise he'd rationalize it away.

She looked over again and saw Joey was walking around now, kicking his ball in front of him, then following it at a slow pace. Whatever he'd seen in the window was gone, but he was bothered by it. Would he come inside? Would he say something to them about it? No. She knew he was seeing things, too, but he hadn't said a word about it yet. And he wouldn't, she figured.

Why not?

Hard telling.

What's happening to him?

Don't know.

Look at the f.u.c.king picture, Jack. What doesn't belong there? In the corner. In the upstairs window, you dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

"Speaking of pictures," he said, "you wanna tell me what was so important upstairs I had to go up there as soon as I was in the door? Because, really, I didn't see much point. If you wanted pictures, you could have done that without me."

She was blank now, because she hadn't thought to come up with an excuse for her behavior on the off chance nothing came of the pictures. She'd been so sure something would appear.

"I just," she stammered, "I didn't want to go up there myself."

Change the subject, she told herself. If you start blathering idiotic c.r.a.p, you're better off not talking at all.

"Let me guess," he said, "because of the ghosts?"

She shrugged, glanced out the door, then turned around to the refrigerator.

"We're having pork chops for supper. What else do you want with them?"

"What I want is for you to quit playing stupid and tell me what's wrong with you? You don't leave a six-year-old boy alone in the hospital all night because you think he looks a little different. I'm not going to drop this until you tell me. This isn't some kid off the street, Liz, he's--"

"Your son?" she finished for him. "And let me guess, he's not mine, right? Is that where you were going?"

He stopped, looked down, but tried to shake his head no.

"Let me tell you something, I may not have given birth to that boy but I would die before I let something happen to him. I'm here with him every day and I see things changing, because I don't have my head up the Fett Tech a.s.s or out playing with myself at someone else's house every weekend. So don't you dare give me that He's my son c.r.a.p."

"I wasn't," Jack said. "I just meant--"

"What else do you want with your pork chops? I have to get it started."

He looked at her and her face was disgust.

You stupid a.s.shole, she was thinking. I tried to come to you with this and you had to be a p.r.i.c.k, didn't you?

"I don't care," he said. "Whatever we've got."

"Fine, I'll make mashed potatoes."

She turned around and started supper.

Jack recognized his cue and left.

I can't believe that came to nothing, she thought. I was so sure this would be it. And he'd see the girl in the window and ask me what it was and then he'd see it all and we could do something about it together. Christ! She got the pork chops from the fridge and tossed them on the counter. She kicked the refrigerator door closed. She banged a skillet. So sure.

Jack went into the bedroom, tossed the picture on the bed, and lay down next to it. He turned toward the wall, away from the door, and stared at Lily on her stand. She never yelled at him, nor misunderstood. She never jumped to conclusions. And she didn't insist the house be haunted.

He wasn't trying to draw lines between parent and step. He was just going to say Joey was his son--okay their son, was she happy now?--and she should have known better, should have been more responsible, than to just up and leave him alone because she was freaked out over something so stupid as Joey looks a little different than he did when they moved here.

It's called growing. Everyone's doing it.

He reached out a hand and gave the strings a light strum.