Page 59 of What Happens at Nightfall

All was calm, and if it felt like the calm on the water right before a giant shark surged up and swallowed the boat full of giggling teenagers, well, that was just his nerves talking. A lot of his work these days was more administrative than hands-on, but maybe he needed to go plunge his hands into the soil for a bit until he felt better. As soon as he’d set this historian up with the papers she needed and showed her how to work the coffee maker.

The doorbell blasted out the Bach Toccata. He really needed to make Melinda turn it back to a normal chime, although Adam had to admit he was tempted to leave it up for Halloween.

It was October already. How was it October already?

They were going to need to start picking pumpkins soon.

Adam wrenched the door open. A woman in a brightly patterned dress—one of those dresses he thought of as PTA mom dresses—stood in front of the door, the top of a computer case poking out of the top of her giant tote bag. A bandeau in the same paisley as her dress held back her curly black hair.

She thrust out a hand. “Hi. Kameka Olsen.”

“Adam Chervinsky.” He started to hold the door open for her, and that’s when he saw the woman behind her, half hidden by the sweep of her skirt. “Jess?”

The historian stepped aside and there she was, the woman who had been haunting his dreams, fully clothed and with no evil Cookie Monsters in sight.

The static in his head rose to roadwork level. In person, Jess looked—not evil. She gave him a slightly crooked smile. “Hi.”

Jess’s hair was in the usual ponytail; she wore jeans and a floaty shirt patterned with flowers. Part of Adam wanted to bound down the steps to her; he wanted to start babbling apologies and offer her coffee—lots of coffee. More than coffee.

It’s a trap, it’s a trap, howled a voice in his head.

Adam stepped outside, closing the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Jess’s smile faltered. She made an abortive gesture toward the woman standing a step above her. “I—this is my friend Kimmy. The one I told you about.”

Adam looked from one to the other, feeling like he was trapped in a kaleidoscope, fragmented images refusing to resolve into a whole. “But I thought—” He’d thought he was making an appointment with a historian. He’d thought Jess had just happened to show up at the same time. “Your Kimmy is Kameka Olsen? The historian?”

Don’t trust her, hissed someone in his ear. She’s lying. They’re both lying.

“That’s me,” said Kameka cheerfully. “You can check me against my author photo if you like.”

“Maybe I should.” He’d been ambushed, tricked. Was this even the real Kameka Olsen? Who could say. “Did you set this up?”

Jess drew back. “This wasn’t a ploy to see you, if that’s what you mean.”

Get rid of her! hissed the voice in his ear. She’s in league with the other one.

“Have you spoken to Ingrid?” he asked abruptly.

Jess cocked her head, confused. “No. Why? Is she okay?”

Adam folded his arms across his chest. “I thought you might know.”

Jess blinked at him. “Why would I?”

She’s trying to trick you. Look at her! Lies! Lies! “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Jess stared at him, like she was trying to see through his skin. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”

“No.” Adam felt like the words were being dictated to him, as if he were being compelled to read them off an invisible teleprompter. “You shouldn’t have.”

No, no, no, protested another part of him. He wanted to grab her close and breath in the soap and rose smell of her, to tell her his head ached and he didn’t know what he was saying and he was sorry about the kiss, but he felt like someone had poured quick-drying concrete over him, turning him into a statue of himself, like one of the monuments in the yard, but without the wings. She was going, and he was frozen, helpless to stop her.

And then her friend yelped, “Wait!” She jabbed a finger triumphantly at Adam. “I know you! You’re Spizzwink Adam!”

Jess stopped and turned back. “Spizz what?”

“Spizzwink.” Adam shaped the words tentatively; his own mouth felt strange to him. “My a cappella group.”