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pages had a tendency to crumble beneath my fingers as I turned them. It belonged in a museum, not a seventeen-year-old guy’s bedroom.
    But that was exactly where it had ended up, pulled— though I doubted Paul knew I was aware of it—from his grandfather’s collection. The Book of the Dead was what it was called.
    And the title wasn’t the only reminder that all things have an expiration date. It smelled as if a mouse or some other small creature had gotten slammed between the pages some time in the not-so-distant past, left to slowly decompose there.
    “‘If the 1924 translation is to be believed,’” I read aloud, glad my voice wasn’t shaking the way I knew my fingers were—the way my fingers always shook when Paul touched me—“ ‘the shifter’s abilities didn’t merely include communication with the dead and teleportation between their world and our own, but the ability to travel at will throughout the fourth dimension, as well.’ ”
    I will admit, I didn’t read with a lot of feeling. It wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, going to school all day, then having to go to mediation tutoring. Granted, it was only once a week, but that was more than enough, believe me. Paul’s house hadn’t lost any of its sterility in the months I’d been coming to it. If anything, the place was as creepy as ever…
    …and so was Paul’s grandfather, who continued to live what he’d described, in his own words, as a “half-life,” in a room down the hall from Paul’s. That half-life seemed to be made up of around-the-clock health attendants, hired to see to the old man’s many ailments, and incessant viewing of the Game Show Network. It isn’t any wonder, really, that Paul avoids Mr. Slater—or Dr. Slaski, as the good doctor himself had confided to me he was really named—like the plague. His grandfather isn’t exactly scintillating company, even when he isn’t pretending to be loopy due to his meds.
    Despite my less-than-inspired performance, however, Paul released my hand and leaned back once more, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Well?” Another raised eyebrow.
    “Well, what?” I flipped the page, and saw only a copy of the hieroglyph they were talking about.
    The half smile Paul had been wearing vanished. His face was as expressionless as the wall behind him.
    “So that’s how you’re going to play it,” he said.
    I had no idea what he was talking about. “Play what?” I asked.
    “I could do it, Suze,” he said. “It can’t be hard to figure out. And when I do… well, you won’t be able to accuse me of not having stuck by our agreement.”
    “What agreement?”
    Paul set his jaw.
    “Not to kill your boyfriend,” he said tonelessly.
    I just stared at him, genuinely taken aback. I had no idea where this was coming from. We’d been having a perfectly nice—well, okay, not nice, but ordinary—afternoon, and all of a sudden he was threatening to kill my boyfriend…or not to kill him, actually. What was going on?
    “Wh-what are you talking about?” I stammered. “What does this have to do with Jesse? Is this… is this because of the dance? Paul, if you’d asked, I’d have gone with you. I don’t know why you turned around and asked Kelly without even—”
    The half grin came back, but this time, all Paul did was lean forward and flip the book closed. Dust rose from the ancient pages, almost right up into my face, but I didn’t complain. Instead, I waited, my heart in my throat, for him to reply.
    I was destined for disappointment, however, since all he said was, “Don’t worry about it,” then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “You hungry?”
    “Paul.” I followed him, my Stuart Weitzmans clacking loudly on the bare tile floor. “What’s going on?”
    “What makes you think anything’s going on?” he asked as he made his way down the long, shiny hallway.
    “Oh, gee, I don’t know,” I said, fear making me sound waspish. “That crack