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“What’s Bluey’s real name?”

Webster’s hollow-eyed expression gave nothing away, and Tristan did his disappearing and reappearing act again.

“Bluey Lee,” Tristan said, his eyes blazing with triumph.

I heard the front door close, and I knew Dylan was home.

“Dylan!” I cried through the open bedroom door, and moments later, he came barreling into the room. Dylan took one look at Webster huddled against the wall and me standing beside the bed and the duvet on the floor.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he said, his face ashen as he scowled with incomprehension at Webster.

Tristan grimaced and stood back.

“Get me up, you wanker!” Webster shouted. “This woman is using some kind of voodoo shit on me and I can’t move!”

“Who are you?” Dylan demanded.

“I’m… I’m…” Webster floundered and was cut off as his head bounced off the wall once more. “Ah!” he screamed.

Dylan stood back and surveyed the room.

“What the hell is going on, Emily?”

“He’s the intruder,” I whispered.

Dylan’s head whipped around to me, and he cursed under this breath.

“He can’t move?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“The spook? He’s here? He’s keeping him on the floor there?”

I nodded.

Dylan frowned, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Are you okay?”

I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak.

“This was the guy who tried to break in?”

“Yes. Pete Webster.”

Dylan turned and faced Webster, who was still on the floor, and Tristan’s eyes flicked between Dylan and Webster.

“Don’t listen to the little slut!” Webster’s head bounced off the wall again, and Tristan glared at him, then me, his face taut with restrained fury.

“No!” Webster shouted. “I don’t know what the fuck is happening! I can’t move!”

Dylan faced me. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His eyes strayed down to the duvet on the floor once more, and they widened with horror. I bit my lip, fighting back tears. Dylan made a strangled sound that came out a roar, and he stalked over to where Webster was cowering on the floor.

Tristan stepped further back as he did.

Dylan bent down and grabbed Webster by the lapels of his denim jacket. “Did you touch her?” he snarled in Webster’s face and jerked the lapels toward him so Webster’s head bounced off the wall once more. “Did you? Did you, scum?”

“No, man. No,” Webster said, pleading, and he grabbed Dylan’s hands. “Please. I’ve had enough of this shit. Let me go. They’re gonna kill me.”

“Did you touch her?” Dylan growled.