By Monday, news of the corpse in the wall had reached basically everyone in town.

"It was all people could talk about in church," Jane had said when she'd returned from Sunday service, so Sarah hoped her spazzing out at the bonfire would be all, but forgotten. Testing her theory was easiest by going to school, which she actually didn't mind. The thought of socializing in a normal setting with others her own age was surprisingly appealing, even for someone who usually preferred her own company.

The possibility of seeing Caleb was also a big plus.

Rolling up to New Bedford at the end of the lunch period (seven am wake-up calls still weren't her thing), she went to her first English Lit class and slogged through a pedantic analysis of Faulkner's The Turn of the Screw. Feeling smug about how none of the other students made the connection between the importance of the author's violation of the concept of Victorian childhood innocence in deference to an overarching focus on the literal interpretation of the evil presented, Sarah went to sixth period on a high.

Drama class was in the auditorium with a raised stage on one end and tiered, built-in seats on the other, the two separated by an orchestra pit. When the bell rang with less than ten kids there, Sarah leaned to the one sitting closest and whispered. "Where is everybody?"

The girl with cute Bantu knots looked up from her phone and twisted her head around. "Oh, it's just the dumb jocks who aren't here. It's okay. Coach must have called an extra football practice," she said with a shrug.

Realizing that one of those dumb jocks missing was Caleb, Sarah glanced back at the door, hoping that she had enough time to sneak out before the teacher arrived. But as the house lights dropped and the stage was illuminated with a spotlight, she knew it was too late.

"With Halloween around the corner, I thought we'd take a pause from our dramatic monologues and practice something that you might actually find useful," said a youngish woman in an oversized, patchwork cardigan to a chorus of snickers as she walked across the stage. "All right, all right. I got the point. But if you don't want to waste any time, I suggest you all break into groups of two and grab one of the kits up here. When you're ready, I'll guide one of you through applying a prosthetic and stage makeup to the other in a similar way that a special effects artist would."

"You want to be my partner?" asked the girl, turning to Sarah.

With so few of them in the class and everyone quickly pairing up around them, there really wasn't a choice. "Sure?" she croaked with little enthusiasm, wondering what she'd gotten herself into. "But I have to warn you, I have no idea what's going on."

The other girl smiled. "No worries. I got this."

Forty minutes later, Sarah left the auditorium with an oozing, bloody gash over her left eyebrow and headed toward the football field.

If she felt out of her element during drama class, then watching a few dozen boys in tight pants and bulky pads running with an oblong ball was even more confusing. The whistle was blown way too many times for reasons she couldn't guess, the positions of the players seemed to change randomly during each try, and the brutality of the hits resonated in her soul even from afar. After sitting on the damp grass and pretending to fool around with her phone for what felt like hours, Sarah hopped to her feet as soon as the team was dismissed.

Without anyone else around, Caleb had little chance of not seeing her. Carrying his helmet, he broke off from the pack heading back toward the building and jogged over.

Under the sweat-soaked hair and rosy cheeks, his expression was neutral. After the abrupt way she'd left him the other night, it was a better reception than Sarah had expected. She'd actually opened her mouth to deliver a well-rehearsed apology, when he beat her to the chance.

"Ooh. What happened there? Are you okay?" he asked, leaning closer and studying her forehead. When he was just a few inches away, his eyes suddenly widened. "My god! You need to go and get that stitched up."

Sarah self-consciously touched her brow and felt the sticky goo of the fake blood. "It's nothing. Just from Drama," she said with a smile, amused that the make-up fooled Caleb. Poor guy was turning greener by the second and looked like he would almost puke.

"Did you fall off the stage or something?" he asked, holding back a burp.

"Oh, no, no, no!" Sarah exclaimed, waving her hands in front of her face as she realized that he still hadn't caught on. The last thing she wanted is to make him lose his lunch. "It's a prosthetic. We were practicing special effects in class."

He let out a relieved breath. "Right. Good. Whoever did yours deserves an A," he said before sheepishly looking down at his shoes.

This was her chance.

"Listen," Sarah said, touching his upper arm right below the shoulder pad so he could actually feel it. "I wanted to apologize for being so weird on Friday night. It's just that . . . well, you know the beer must have reacted badly with my anxiety meds."

By the time she'd finished, he'd looked up, probably to figure out whether she was being sincere or not. If he was any good at reading people, she was toast. Because what he'd gotten at and after the bonfire was the true Sarah Corwin. There was no "adverse medical reaction." She'd only ever taken anti-anxiety pills two years earlier, and even then it was just for a week. That was how long the free sample that the doctor gave lasted. There was no way her mom could have afforded a regular prescription.

"Yeah, I get that," Caleb finally said with a nod. Then he smiled. "No worries."

"Good," she said.

"Good," he repeated. After an awkward pause, he added. "Do you want a ride home? I mean, it looks like you wasted a lot of time out here waiting for me. I bet you're totally frozen through."

When he took her hand to check, she practically died from happiness. And while it would have probably been a great time to say something clever or witty, Sarah just grinned. "Uhm, yeah."

"Yeah to the ride? Awesome. Let me take a quick shower, and meet me in the parking lot on the other side of the building in fifteen minutes?"

* * *

The mental picture of what Caleb was doing during that quarter hour was enough to have Sarah easily pass the time until they met back up again. After he loaded her bike into his Jeep, they were once again driving down the familiar roads to her aunt's place. When they got to the corner lot with the black house, she consciously avoided looking in the tear-down's direction and tried to put all thoughts about it out of her head.

Strangely, the faint smell of smoke—probably still lingering on Caleb's letterman jacket—evoked memories of a long abandoned hearth with an even longer abandoned woman.

Thankfully, Caleb didn't mention the weekend's creepy discovery. Either he was the one person in New Bedford who hadn't heard of it, or he simply didn't care. When they pulled to a stop in front of Jane's cottage, his interest was still solely on Sarah.

"Do you want to hang out sometime? Just the two of us?" he asked, leaning into the passenger seat and playing with a lock of her hair.

She bit her lip and then—realizing what she was doing—self-consciously puckered. "Of course. Any time. I . . .."

Sarah trailed off as the boy leaned closer.

Oh god oh god oh god. He was going to kiss her!

She closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for the soft touch of his lips on hers. But it didn't come.

"I'm sorry, but that gunk on your head is really freaking me out," Caleb said with nervous laughter as Sarah peeked through her lashes at what was taking him so long.

She touched her brow, feeling the stickiness of the fake blood that had dripped onto it. "Ugh, yeah. I should probably wash this off," she said, regretting having volunteered to be the model for the project. Hoping to save the moment, she decided to shoot her shot. "Come inside with me. It'll only take a sec for me to clean up and then . . .."

Sarah trailed off and smiled, letting Caleb's imagination fill in the rest. A mischievous grin also appeared on his face, but he quickly turned serious again.

"Wouldn't Ms. Pulaski mind, though?" he asked as his eyes darted toward the house.

"Aunt Jane?" Sarah asked, momentarily having forgotten that she had a responsible adult that she now had to answer to. Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the driveway. Empty. "She isn't home yet, and she knows you. It's cool."

Caleb didn't need any more convincing. He followed Sarah inside as she led him upstairs, ushering him into her room. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a minute with this," she said, pointing toward the stage makeup on her face.

When she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, she nearly died of embarrassment. The quick phone pic the drama class girl (she'd said her name, but Sarah forgot it almost immediately) had shown her didn't even come close to showing how realistic the prosthetic and various paints looked. No wonder Caleb nearly threw up trying to kiss her!

"Hey, Sarah!" The boy who seemed to always be on her mind lately called to her from the other side of the door.

"Yeah?"

"Mind if I turn the heat up? It's freezing in here," he said as her bedsprings creaked and footsteps sounded across the wood floor.

She shrugged. If he could find the thermostat and figure out how to work it, he could do whatever he wanted. "Sure," she yelled back before getting to work.

The fleshy foam that sculpted the stage wound came off relatively easily. The adhesive underneath and the rest of the gory goo was another matter. Regular make-up remover pads didn't even make a dent in the mess, and Sarah searched the vanity drawers for anything stronger. She ended up using acetone soaked cotton balls to scrub her forehead, which got most of it clean, but left her smelling like a cheap nail salon.

Knowing that she couldn't leave Caleb waiting any longer—she didn't want to be that girl—Sarah took one last look in the mirror, fluffed her hair, and sighed. "Let's do this."

Across the hall, her bedroom door was now closed. Sarah didn't think much of it; Caleb had been cold, after all. But the way the handle resisted her initial try was odd. It had never done that before. In all honesty, the door to her room was usually difficult to keep closed, not the other way around.

It gave away on the second try though, so that was probably just a fluke.

"Sorry I . . .," Sarah began, but stopped when she saw it was no use. Caleb wouldn't hear her apology since he was lying on top of her bedspread, fast asleep. He had one leg on the mattress, the other draped over the edge and his hands folded neatly across his stomach like a gender-bent Sleeping Beauty. With her taking so long and the temperature clearly warmer than before, it was no wonder.

With the clicking of a lock, the front door creaked open. "I'm home!" Jane announced as if she were a sitcom character from the '50s.

Knowing the boy wasn't going anywhere, Sarah snuck downstairs to meet her. "Hey, how was work?" she asked, bouncing toward the kitchen. There was a tin of spiced cookies somewhere and she could make some hot chocolate before waking Caleb.

"It was fine," Jane said, unwinding the knitted scarf from around her neck. "Do you have a guest over?"

Sarah peeked out from the pantry. "Oh, yeah. Caleb gave me a ride home. I hope that's okay."

Jane entered the kitchen. "Oh, sure. I thought I recognized the car. Are you making a snack?"

Pulling the cookie container off a high shelf, Sarah smiled in victory. "Yup. I've got some time, since he kind of fell asleep."

Jane snorted. "What? Asleep?"

Sarah shrugged. "Uh-huh. He just had a marathon football practice so I guess he was wiped out."

Her aunt nodded. "That'll do it," she said, reaching for a cookie after Sarah removed the lid.

"Oh, he was kind of cold, too," Sarah added, putting the tin down and moving to the fridge for the milk. "I hope you don't mind that I let him play with the thermostat. It made my room nice and toasty, though."

Jane nearly choked on the cookie. When she'd stilled her cough, her eyes were wide with fear. "What?? The heating in this house is ancient. It takes hours for any of the upstairs rooms to get warmer," she frantically babbled as she ran toward the stairs.

Taken by surprise at her reaction, Sarah only got to the parlor—with milk bottle still in hand—when Jane yelled down. "Call 911. Now!"