Page 35

I ’ve been so convinced that Claudia’s poltergeist is innocent that I set her free instead of forcing her into Hell like a normal poltergeist. I don’t want to make a mistake and send an innocent soul to hell, but I also I believe in her. She can tell us something that will help .

So when I go to take a shower that morning and there’s no one else in the blue-tiled shower room, I move from stall to stall, turning all the taps onto hot. Steaming hot water pools across the floor towards the drains .

It might not be a blessing with oils, but it’s still an invitation. Come talk to me. That makes me reluctant to peel off my t-shirt, but whatever; I have two birds to kill with one stone .

As soon as I’ve soaped up and shaved my legs, I hurry to towel off and then drag my jeans over still-damp skin. There’s just something about the added vulnerability of being naked around ghosts that I don’t need. We aren’t that close, spirits .

When I’ve slipped on a black bra and a black long-sleeved tee, I gather my sopping wet hair into a ponytail twisted over my shoulder with one hand and walk over to face the mirrors, which are fogged over. No one has taken the opportunity to write on the mirrors. I know that takes a lot of energy. Maybe our poltergeist is saving up hers .

I could be wrong about her. She could be a killer. She could be saving up her energy for the winter ball. But it doesn’t seem likely; her death in between the other girls’ deaths suggests that she’s hardly apt to be at fault. I just want to make sense of the poltergeist situation here, to be free of worrying over the fates of these girls .

I take a deep breath and rub my towel across the fogged-up mirror, knowing that in my world, that just might expose the monster hiding behind me .

In the mirror, I see myself: oval face, cheeks splotched red from washing my face in hot water, light blue eyes and lips with a distinct cupid’s bow and a bit too much pout in my lower lip. My hair looks so much better when it’s wet, looking closer to its normal chestnut brown. I reach down into my bag for my comb to run through my hair because unfortunately it can’t stay wet all day .

When I look back into the mirror, a new face gazes at me .

I take a startled step back, and whirl to look behind me. When I look back, the face is gone. But for a second, she was there: short blond curls, a square jaw, wide-set brown eyes like mine .

That wasn’t the face of Claudia Bell .

That’s the first girl who was murdered. Molly .

“How many of you are there?” I ask aloud, even though it’s not the most meaningful question. I can’t make sense of all these ghosts. “Who hurt you, Molly? What happened ?”

But no one answers me .