AT 7:50, I WAS HELPING Rae empty the dishwasher. From the hall, I heard Simon ask if he could go out back and shoot hoops while Derek showered. Mrs. Talbot warned that it was getting dark, and he couldn't stay out for long, but she turned off the alarm and let him go. Once the dishwasher was empty, I told Rae I'd catch up with her later, then slipped out after him.

As Mrs. Talbot warned, dusk was already falling. Huge shade trees bordered the deep yard, casting even more shadow. The basketball net was on a patch of concrete beyond the reach of the porch light, and I could see only the white flash of Simon's shirt and hear the thump-thump-thump of the dribbled ball. I circled the perimeter.

He didn't see me, just kept dribbling, gaze fixed on the ball, face solemn.

Keeping to the shadows, I moved closer and waited for him to see me. When he did, he jumped, as if startled, then waved me to an even darker spot on the other side of the net.

"Everything okay?" I asked. "You looked . . . busy."

"Just thinking." His gaze swept the fence line. "Can't wait to get out of here. Just like everyone else I guess, but . . ."

"Rae said you've been here awhile."

"You could say that."

A shadow passed behind his eyes, like he was scanning his future, seeing no sign of release. At least I had someplace to go. They'd been in child services. Where would they go from here?

He bounced the ball hard and managed a smile. "Wasting our time, aren't I? I've got about ten minutes before Derek tracks me down. First off, I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Why? You didn't do anything."

"For Derek."

"He's your brother, not your responsibility. You can't help what he does." I nodded toward the house. "Why didn't you want him seeing us talking? Will he get mad?"

"He won't be happy, but —" He caught my expression and let out a sharp laugh. "You mean, Am I afraid he'll beat the crap out of me? No way. Derek isn't like that at all. If he gets mad, he just treats me the same way he treats everyone else—ignores me. Hardly fatal but, no, I don't want to piss him off if I can help it. It's just . . ." He bounced the ball, gaze fixed on it. After a moment, he stopped and flipped it into his hands. "He's already mad that I defended him —he hates that—and now if I'm talking to you, trying to explain things, when he doesn't want them explained . . ."

He twirled the ball on his fingertip. "See, Derek's not really a people person."

I tried not to look shocked.

"When he decided you might really be seeing ghosts, I should have said, Sure, bro, let me talk to her. I'd have handled it.. . well, different. Derek doesn't know when to back off. To him, it's as simple as adding two plus two. If you can't figure it out yourself and you don't listen when he tells you the answer, he'll keep slamming you until you wake up."

"Running away screaming doesn't help."

He laughed. "Hey, if Derek kept coming at me, I'd be screaming, too. And you didn't run anywhere today. You stood up to him, which, believe me, he's not used to." A grin. "Good on ya. That's all you have to do. Don't take his crap."

He took another shot. This one dropped gracefully through the hoop.

"So Derek thinks I'm a . . . necromancer?"

"You're seeing ghosts, right? A dead guy who talked to you, chased you, asked for your help?"

"How did you —?" I stopped myself. My heart thumped, breath coming hard and fast. I'd just convinced Dr. Gill that I'd accepted my diagnosis. As much as I longed to trust Simon, I didn't dare.

"How did I know? Because that's what ghosts do to necromancers. You're the only person who can hear them, and they all have something to say. That's why they're hanging out here, in limbo or whatever." He shrugged as he tossed the ball. "I'm not real clear on the specifics. Never actually met a necromancer. I just know what I've been told."

I inhaled and exhaled before saying, as casually as I could, "I guess that makes sense. That's what you'd expect ghosts would do to people who think they can talk to the dead. Mediums, spiritualists, psychics, whatever."

He shook his head. "Yes, mediums, spiritualists, and psychics are people who think they can talk to the dead. But necromancers can. It's hereditary." He smiled. "Like blond hair. You can cover it up with red streaks, but underneath, it's still blond. And you can ignore the ghosts, but they'll still come. They know you can see them."

"I don't understand."

He flipped the ball and caught it on his open palm. Then he murmured something. I was about to say I couldn't hear him when the ball rose. Levitating.

I stared.

"Yeah, I know, it's about as useless as that patch of fog," he said, gaze fixed on the levitating ball, as if concentrating. "Now, if I could lift it more than a couple of inches, maybe to the top of that hoop, and slam-dunk it every time, that'd be a trick. But I'm not Harry Potter and real magic doesn't work that way."

"That's . . . magic?" I said.

The ball dropped into his hand. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"No, I —"

He cut me off with a laugh. "You think it's some kind of trick or a special effect. Well, movie girl, get your butt over here and test me."

"I—-"

"Get over here." He pointed at the spot beside him. "See if you can find the strings."

I slid closer. He said some words, louder now, so I could hear them. It wasn't English.

When the ball didn't move, he cursed. "Did I mention I'm not Harry Potter? Let's try that again."

He repeated the words, slower, his gaze glued to the ball. It rose two inches.

"Now check for strings or wires or whatever you think is holding it up."

I hesitated, but he prodded and teased me until I moved closer and poked a finger between the ball and his hand. When I didn't hit anything, I slid all my fingers through, then waggled them. Simon's fist closed, grabbing my hand and 1 yelped as the ball bounced off across the concrete pad.

"Sorry," he said, grinning, his fingers still holding mine. "I couldn't resist."

"Yes —I'm skittish, as your brother has probably pointed out. So how did you . . ." I looked at the ball, coming to rest on the grass. "Wow."

His grin grew. "You believe me now?"

As I stared at the ball, I struggled for other explanations. None came.

"Can you teach me how to do that?" I said finally.

"Nah. No more than you can teach me how to see ghosts. Either you have it or you —"

"Playing basketball in the dark, Simon?" asked a voice across the yard. "You should have called me. You know I'm always up for a little —"

Tori stopped short, seeing me now. Her gaze moved to my hand, still in his.

" —one-on-one," she finished.

I yanked my fingers away. She kept staring.

"Hey, Tori," Simon said as he retrieved the ball. "What's up?"

"I saw you playing and thought maybe you could use a partner." Her gaze swung my way, expression unreadable. "I guess not."

"I should get inside," I said. "Thanks for the pointers, Simon."

"No, hold up." He took a step after me, then glanced at Tori. "Uh, right. You're welcome. And it is getting dark, isn't it? It must be snack time by now

He hurried into the house.

I lay in bed, unable to sleep again. This time, though, it wasn't bad dreams that kept me awake but thoughts pinging through my head, so shrill and insistent that by midnight, I was seriously considering a real kitchen raid —to grab the travel tube of Tylenol I'd seen there.

I was a necromancer.

Having a label should have come as a relief, but I wasn't sure this one was any better than schizophrenic. At least schizophrenia was a known and accepted condition. I could talk to people about it, get help coping with it, take my meds, and make the symptoms go away.