right,” says his dad, shutting the door behind him. “Dinner’s in an hour.”
By the time Mom gets back, the silence in Matt’s room has lasted so long it’s not even awkward anymore. If Jess was here, she’d be bored stiff. She gets bored in about five seconds. But I don’t mind being on my own, just listening and thinking.
I still can’t believe Mrs. Culpepper knows Grandma. It sounds as if she really likes her too. Grandma helped her out when she was in trouble.
I don’t think murderers usually help people.
But why would Grandma say she’s killed before if it isn’t true?
I haven’t had a chance to look at the diary recently. If Nancy Wake the White Mouse spy got this lazy, she’deasily have been caught by the Germans. There’s got to be something in there. I’m not going to find any proof if I don’t look.
“How was it?” Mom asks as we pull away and the lights from the house disappear behind the trees.
It was horrible. The words are there on my lips, but she’s been crying again, I can see it. Her eyes are dark, and her cheeks are red where she’s rubbed them, and even though there are no black makeup-trickles down them, I can see smudges where she’s tried to wipe them away.
“It was okay.”
“Good,” she says. Her lips twitch like she’s trying to smile, then quiver and drop back into place. “Maybe you’ll be able to go around again soon.”
“Cool . . .” The word is automatic. But my attempt at a smile is just as bad as Mom’s.
21
That night I take out the diary again.
I flip through, looking for any clues, but there’s nothing. It’s all regular stuff. She talks about her first boyfriend. She talks about finding flowers to put in her hair at the school ball. She talks about playing the piano and watching racing and going for walks along the beach. But I can’t find anything to prove she’s a killer.
Then I see something that makes me stop.
January 2, 1941
The scream carried all the way across the graveyard.
That’s the only reason I knew they were there. I ducked into the trees and crept closer, trying to keep out of sight.
Claire and her friends were outside the door. I couldn’t see what poor girl they took in this time, but whoever it was, they didn’t last long.
She screamed, banging and banging on the door.
I don’t understand what’s so scary about the church. It’s not like there are actually any ghosts. Maybe it’s different when they shut you in there.
Maybe it’s different when they lock the door.
It’s that name again. Claire. The girl who stole Grandma’s math homework. Could all this have something to do with her?
Over the page there’s another entry.
January 3, 1941
It was Sarah Potts that they took inside the church.
The news shot around school today.
I really feel sorry for her, because all anyone talked about was how loud she screamed. I thought the whole point of the ritual was to see how long you could last without getting scared, but now it seems as though the only point is to laugh at you.
That’s all I could hear when I went to bed last night.
Not Sarah screaming, even though it was loud, but Claire’s laugh. It rang from the walls and carried all the way across the graveyard.
Locking someone inside a dark church just to scare them? Here I was, thinking Matt’s horrible. He’s shoved dirt inmy mouth and chased me and threatened me, but he’s never done anything like that.
It doesn’t sound like a ritual. It sounds more like torture.
Even so, Claire was just a girl. A schoolkid. Could Grandma really have killed her? It doesn’t seem very likely. But a real spy wouldn’t give up on a lead so easily. It’s not like I’ve got any other ideas to investigate.
I slide the diary back under the bed and grab my phone.
Then I google Claire Swanbury to see what comes up. There’s something about a baking competition and something about the army and something about a charity run, but there’s nothing about a
By the time Mom gets back, the silence in Matt’s room has lasted so long it’s not even awkward anymore. If Jess was here, she’d be bored stiff. She gets bored in about five seconds. But I don’t mind being on my own, just listening and thinking.
I still can’t believe Mrs. Culpepper knows Grandma. It sounds as if she really likes her too. Grandma helped her out when she was in trouble.
I don’t think murderers usually help people.
But why would Grandma say she’s killed before if it isn’t true?
I haven’t had a chance to look at the diary recently. If Nancy Wake the White Mouse spy got this lazy, she’deasily have been caught by the Germans. There’s got to be something in there. I’m not going to find any proof if I don’t look.
“How was it?” Mom asks as we pull away and the lights from the house disappear behind the trees.
It was horrible. The words are there on my lips, but she’s been crying again, I can see it. Her eyes are dark, and her cheeks are red where she’s rubbed them, and even though there are no black makeup-trickles down them, I can see smudges where she’s tried to wipe them away.
“It was okay.”
“Good,” she says. Her lips twitch like she’s trying to smile, then quiver and drop back into place. “Maybe you’ll be able to go around again soon.”
“Cool . . .” The word is automatic. But my attempt at a smile is just as bad as Mom’s.
21
That night I take out the diary again.
I flip through, looking for any clues, but there’s nothing. It’s all regular stuff. She talks about her first boyfriend. She talks about finding flowers to put in her hair at the school ball. She talks about playing the piano and watching racing and going for walks along the beach. But I can’t find anything to prove she’s a killer.
Then I see something that makes me stop.
January 2, 1941
The scream carried all the way across the graveyard.
That’s the only reason I knew they were there. I ducked into the trees and crept closer, trying to keep out of sight.
Claire and her friends were outside the door. I couldn’t see what poor girl they took in this time, but whoever it was, they didn’t last long.
She screamed, banging and banging on the door.
I don’t understand what’s so scary about the church. It’s not like there are actually any ghosts. Maybe it’s different when they shut you in there.
Maybe it’s different when they lock the door.
It’s that name again. Claire. The girl who stole Grandma’s math homework. Could all this have something to do with her?
Over the page there’s another entry.
January 3, 1941
It was Sarah Potts that they took inside the church.
The news shot around school today.
I really feel sorry for her, because all anyone talked about was how loud she screamed. I thought the whole point of the ritual was to see how long you could last without getting scared, but now it seems as though the only point is to laugh at you.
That’s all I could hear when I went to bed last night.
Not Sarah screaming, even though it was loud, but Claire’s laugh. It rang from the walls and carried all the way across the graveyard.
Locking someone inside a dark church just to scare them? Here I was, thinking Matt’s horrible. He’s shoved dirt inmy mouth and chased me and threatened me, but he’s never done anything like that.
It doesn’t sound like a ritual. It sounds more like torture.
Even so, Claire was just a girl. A schoolkid. Could Grandma really have killed her? It doesn’t seem very likely. But a real spy wouldn’t give up on a lead so easily. It’s not like I’ve got any other ideas to investigate.
I slide the diary back under the bed and grab my phone.
Then I google Claire Swanbury to see what comes up. There’s something about a baking competition and something about the army and something about a charity run, but there’s nothing about a
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