The thunder outside won't let up. It sounds like the crashing in my chest. The roar in my head. From the sound of the incessant thumps on the roof, the rain has morphed into hail, and the usual chill in the old house carries a bitter bite.

I don't let Alex out of my sight, except to grab my Pumas and a few dishrags from under the bathroom sink. Ducking my head in Mom's room, I sigh when the sound of her heavy snore greets me.

I'll have to figure this all out by myself.

I drag the wing-backed chair from the foyer and position it across from Alex. He sits on the couch, one leg lopped over the other, pinching the bridge of his nose. After taking a seat in the chair, I hand him a blue-striped dish towel.

But I'm no fool. The clock sits at my feet in case I need to bop him on the head with it.

"Start from the beginning." I wedge my heel into my black tennis shoe.

"What beginning?" He pulls the cloth away from his face, checks it. "Pachuck is a fucked up place. Always has been. Why do you think girls disappear? You think Colby's Pork is doing so well because of their signature applewood-smoked bacon? No. Those psychos sacrifice a girl every two years like clockwork. In turn, The Dust makes them rich."

"The Dust?" I scoff. "What the hell is that?"

"The monster that eats the girls."

"You do realize this all sounds like a bad Supernatural episode, right?" I ask, tying my laces.

"I know it sounds crazy. But this shit is real."

I study his face in case I need to remember it for a police report later. Strong brow jutting over sleepy eyes. The prickle of stubble on his jawline and chin. Angular cheekbones that could book him as a lead on any CW show. He's almost too cute to be a killer.

But that's what I thought about Ethan Morales, too.

"The trap door in your step?" Alex wiggles in his seat and gestures towards the staircase. "That's to help girls get away in secret. Ms. Shannon and Mr. Thatcher took girls they thought were in danger and helped them get the hell out of here. Ms. Shannon was the original founder of The Shields."

"My great-aunt was a kidnapper?" I balk at the thought.

"No." He gives a wry chuckle. "Well, yes and no. She only took the ones the Colbys had their sights on. Your aunt helped those girls. She'd do a little whisperin' to keep The Dust away, and that would keep the girls safe until she could find them a place outside of Pachuck."

"Ok, you're like a jigsaw puzzle right now." I shake my head. "I need you to put the pieces together."

Alex scowls and blots his nose. "How come you don't know any of this?"

"How am I supposed to? I didn't even know Shannon Dawson existed until six months ago."

"That doesn't make any sense. She knew all about you, even when your sister died. Went into mourning and everything. She wouldn't let me come over for our weekly game of backgammon."

My stomach drops to my toes. Fragments of things Sheila and Colt told me about Aunt Shannon whip around my head.

Some people thought she was a witch.

She was real nice, although a little weird.

Wind chimes...

"You said she would do a little whispering," I say, leaning forward on my knees. "What does that mean?"

Alex shrugs. Checks the bloody dishrag. Scowls again. "Your aunt could talk to the dead and make them...do things."

A trickle of sweat forms in each of my pits. It's getting hot, like I've cranked the oven in the kitchen. My skin tingles. I want to yank my sweatshirt off. "What kind of things are we talking about here? Is that what the wind chimes were for?"

Alex swallows, glancing upwards. "Yeah. That's how she got them to protect her and this house. Read the future. Sometimes she could even get those chimes to raise the dead."

"Raise them? Like zombies?" I bolt from my chair which startles Alex. Good. He should be as freaked out as I feel.

Margaret Cheng's disappearance, Bella's bullying, Colt's sweet-talking. I know it's all connected. But this ridiculous story about my great-aunt conjuring the dead isn't linking any of it together.

"Sometimes all of that messing with the dead worked for her. Until it didn't." Alex's gaze bounces around the living room, taking in the pink, floral-pattered wall paper and vintage furniture. He sighs.

"Let's consider I believe a word you're saying. How did the Colbys get the girls if Aunt Shannon was so busy saving them all?"

"Not every girl would listen." Alex shrugs, folding the bloody dishrag into a square. "I mean, look at you. I came to warn you but you broke my nose."

"Because you grabbed me in the dark like a freak!"

"What did you expect me to do? Show up on your front door and tell you that you're about to become The Dust's next meal? Mr. Thatcher said that once they took your mama away, we needed to come tell you what was going on."

My blood boils, makes me hotter than I already feel. "Thatcher is the one that called the cops on my mom! You guys already scared me with those notes. You know, you really need to reconsider your creepy ass approach. No wonder Colt acted skittish when I mentioned The Shields."

Alex's eyes widen in horror. He throws the towel at his feet. A series of short beeps sound from Alex's jeans. After extricating a phone, he reads a text and types something back furiously.

Standing from the couch, he says, quickly, "These Colbys will do anything for The Dust. Come with me to Mr. Thatcher's. He can tell you more and," he frowns at me, "reset my nose."

But something doesn't feel right.

He's too calm. Too self-assured. Like he knows how this story ends. He's too much like Colt.

Too much like Ethan.

But, why would he come up with such a fantastical story? To scare me into running away with him? Is he working with Colt? Why was Colt so concerned with me getting that step fixed?

I stomp back to the winged-back chair, bending at the waist to pick up the clock. "I'm not going anywhere with you," I announce.

His eyes dart towards the front door. Then back at me. "I gotta get you out of here. If you told Colt about us, then he definitely told his douche-head dad."

He takes a step closer to me and reaches for the clock. "C'mon Moriah. Do you want to end up like your sister?"

Maybe it's the mention of my sister. That, or the thunder outside has awakened something inside of me. I won't leave with this crazy dude.

I ram the clock against his face, once, twice, three times.

He yowls, clutching his jaw.

Holding the clock close to my small chest, I race for the foyer, and snatch the keys off of the foundry table. My heart pounds in my ears.

What now?

"Moriah!" Alex calls, stumbling out of the living room with outstretched hands. Blood leaks from his temple.

Mom is practically comatose. I can't leave him alone with her. But I won't sit here and wait for him to choke me out either.

Mercy, what should I do?

My hands have minds of their own, the way they unlatch the deadbolt, twist the ice-cold knob, and pull the heavy door open.

"Moriah, you don't understand." Alex's fingers graze my arm, but I shake them off, bashing the clock against his hand.

No, Alex, you don't understand.

But instead of an empty porch, a stark, white face greets me at the screen door. Flinging the screen open, a lanky man with a scraggly, white beard takes me by the shoulders. His black cowboy hat drips wet. He reeks of mildew, like folded, damp laundry.

I try to shimmy out of his grip, but his fingers are as tight as a vice.

"Thank God you're here, Mr. Thatcher." Alex slumps to the floor behind me, cradling his face with bruised hands. "She's not like you expected. Take her if you think she's worth it. But I'm not sure she's what you're looking for."