He heard the front door open, then Fox shouted, “Yo!” Fox came in carrying a bucket of chicken and a large white takeout bag. “Got tub-o-cluck, got fries. Want beer.”

After dumping the food on the table, Fox pulled out a beer. “Your summons was pretty abrupt, son. I might’ve had a hot date tonight.”

“You haven’t had a hot date in two months.”

“I’m storing it up.” After the first swig, Fox shrugged off his coat, tossed it over a chair. “What’s the deal?”

“Tell you while we eat.”

As he’d been too brainwashed by his mother to fall back on the single-man’s friend of paper plates, Cal set out two of stoneware in dull blue. They sat down to fried chicken and potatoes with Lump-as the only thing that lured the dog from food was more food-caging fries by leaning against Cal’s knee or Fox’s.

He told Fox everything, from the wall of fire, through Quinn’s dream, and up to the conversation she’d had with his great-grandmother.

“Seeing an awful lot of the fucker for February,” Fox mused. “That’s never happened before. Did you dream last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Me, too. Mine was a replay of the first time, the first summer. Only we didn’t get to the school in time, and it wasn’t just Miss Lister inside. It was everybody.” He scrubbed a hand over his face before taking a long pull of beer. “Everybody in town, my family, yours, all inside. Trapped, beating on the windows, screaming, their faces at the windows while the place burned.” He offered Lump another fry, and his eyes were as dark and soulful as the dog’s. “Didn’t happen that way, thank Christ. But it felt like it did. You know how that goes.”

“Yeah.” Cal let out a breath. “Yeah, I know how that goes. Mine was from that same summer, and we were all riding our bikes through town the way we did. Buildings were burned out, windows broken, cars wrecked and smoking. Bodies everywhere.”

“It didn’t happen that way,” Fox repeated. “We’re not ten anymore, and we’re not going to let it happen that way.”

“I’ve been asking myself how long we can do this, Fox. How long can we hold it back as much as we do? This time, the next. Three more times? How many more times are we going to watch people we know, people we see most every day turn? Go crazy, go mean. Hurt each other, hurt themselves?”

“As long as it takes.”

Cal shoved his plate aside. “Not good enough.”

“It’s all we’ve got, for now.”

“It’s like a virus, an infection, passing from one person to another. Where’s the goddamn antidote?”

“Not everyone’s affected,” Fox reminded him. “There has to be a reason for that.”

“We’ve never found it.”

“No, so maybe you were right. Maybe we do need fresh eyes, an outsider, objectivity we just don’t have. Are you still planning to take Quinn to the stone tomorrow?”

“If I don’t, she’ll go anyway. So yeah, it’s better I’m there.”

“You want me? I can cancel some stuff.”

“I can handle it.” Had to handle it.

QUINN STUDIED THE MENU IN THE HOTEL’S ALMOST empty dining room. She’d considered getting some takeout and eating in her room over her laptop, but she fell too easily into that habit, she knew. And to write about a town, she had to experience the town, and couldn’t do that closed up in her pretty room eating a cold-cut sub.

She wanted a glass of wine, something chilly with a subtle zip. The hotel’s cellar was more extensive than she’d expected, but she didn’t want a whole bottle. She was frowning over the selections offered by the glass when Miss Fabulous Red Bag stepped in.

She’d changed into black pants, Quinn noted, and a cashmere sweater in two tissue-thin layers of deep blue under pale. The hair was great, she decided, pin straight with those jagged ends just past chin length. What Quinn knew would look messy on her came off fresh and stylish on the brunette.

Quinn debated catching her eye, trying a wave. She could ask Red Purse to join her for dinner. After all, who didn’t hate to eat alone? Then she could pump her dinner companion for the really important details. Like where she got that bag.

Even as she charged up her smile, Quinn saw it.

It slithered across the glossy planks of the oak floor, leaving a hideous trail of bloody ooze behind it. At first she thought snake, then slug, then could barely think at all as she watched it slide up the legs of a table where an attractive young couple were enjoying cocktails by candlelight.

Its body, thick as a truck tire, mottled red over black, wound its way over the table, leaving that ugly smear on the snowy linen while the couple laughed and flirted.

A waitress walked briskly in, stepped in and through the sludge on the floor, to serve the couple their appetizers.

Quinn swore she could hear the table creak under its weight.

And its eyes when they met hers were the eyes of the boy, the red gleam in them bright and somehow amused. Then it began to wiggle wetly down the skirt of the tablecloth, and toward the brunette.

The woman stood frozen in place, her face bone white. Quinn pushed to her feet and, ignoring the surprised look from the waitress, leaped over the ugly path. She gripped the brunette’s arm, pulled her out of the dining room.

“You saw it, too,” Quinn said in a whisper. “You saw that thing. Let’s get out of here.”

“What? What?” The brunette cast shocked glances over her shoulder as she and Quinn stumbled for the door. “You saw it?”

“Sluggy, red-eyed, very nasty wake. Jesus. Jesus.” She gulped in the raw February air on the hotel’s porch. “They didn’t see it, but you did. I did. Why is that? Fuck if I know, but I have an idea who might. That’s my car right there. Let’s go. Let’s just go.”

The brunette didn’t say another word until they were in the car and Quinn was squealing away from the curb. “Who the hell are you?”

“Quinn. Quinn Black. I’m a writer, mostly on the spooky. Of which there is a surplus in this town. Who are you?”

“Layla Darnell. What is this place?”

“That’s what I want to find out. I don’t know if it’s nice to meet you or not, Layla, under the circumstances.”

“Same here. Where are we going?”

“To the source, or one of them.” Quinn glanced over, saw Layla was still pale, still shaky. Who could blame her? “What are you doing in Hawkins Hollow?”

“I’m damned if I know, but I think I’ve decided to cut my visit short.”

“Understandable. Nice bag, by the way.”

Layla worked up a wan smile. “Thanks.”

“Nearly there. Okay, you don’t know why you’re here, so where did you come from?”

“New York.”

“I knew it. It’s the polish. Do you love it?”

“Ah.” Layla combed her fingers through her hair as she swiveled to look back. “Most of the time. I manage a boutique in SoHo. Did. Do. I don’t know that anymore either.”

Nearly there, Quinn thought again. Let’s keep calm. “I bet you get great discounts.”

“Yeah, part of the perks. Have you seen anything like that before. Like that thing?”

“Yeah. Have you?”

“Not when I was awake. I’m not crazy,” Layla stated. “Or I am, and so are you.”

“We’re not crazy, which is what crazy people tend to say, so you’ll just have to take my word.” She swung onto Cal’s lane, and aimed the car over the little bridge toward the house where lights-thank God-glowed in the windows.

“Whose house is this?” Layla gripped the front edge of her seat. “Who lives here?”

“Caleb Hawkins. His ancestors founded the town. He’s okay. He knows about what we saw.”

“How?”

“It’s a long story, with a lot of holes in it. And now you’re thinking, what am I doing in this car with a complete stranger who’s telling me to go into this house pretty much in the middle of nowhere.”

Layla took firm hold on the short strap of her bag, as if she might use it as a weapon. “The thought’s crossed.”

“Your instinct put you in the car with me, Layla. Maybe you could follow along with that for the next step. Plus, it’s cold. We didn’t bring our coats.”