Possess

gone, but what had they been talking about? Slit his throat? Spill his blood? Bridget’s eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, but there had to be someone here, someone in danger. She stepped forward cautiously, arms reaching out in front of her in the blackness. She barely made it three steps before her silver heels slipped in something on the slick marble floor.
    A moonbeam streamed through the stained glass window, illuminating a figure on the ground just blow the tabernacle. Lying in a pool of dark, shiny liquid—his throat slit from ear to ear and a twisted look of horror on his face—was Peter Kim.
    The next hour was a blur. Bridget felt like she was swimming through a pool of Jell-O. Her limbs were heavy: Simply lifting an arm or putting one foot in front of the other took three times as much strength as usual.
    The world slowed down. There had been another scream, that she knew for sure. She was pretty sure the strangled cry came from her own throat, though honestly she couldn’t be sure. She remembered someone’s arm around her waist, pulling her away from the blood-soaked body of her friend. Matt’s arm, probably, though again she was only vaguely aware of it.
    Then there had been more people, more screams, more noise. She wasn’t sure how, but Bridget found herself outside in the damp, cold air. The fog had rolled in again, a dense, gooey bank of the stuff that muted the lights of the school, the murmur of voices, the dull thud of feet running to and fro, and the eventual wail of sirens. The fog was appropriate, somehow. The buildings came and went from view with the varying gusts and billows. People seemed to appear from nowhere, then disappear once more. Nothing felt solid, nothing real. Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe she’d never gone to the dance at all. Maybe.
    Arms. She remembered a pair of strong arms around her, keeping everyone at bay, the occasional sharp word to someone who wanted to ask her a question. Then soothing words. “It’s okay, Bridge. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
    Did she think it was her fault? Maybe. Those text messages on her phone. She should have answered him, told him to calm down, told him she wasn’t going on a date, lied to him. How had Peter ended up at the Church of St. Michael? Had he come to spy on her? To confront her and Matt? That anger and rage she’d seen recently—that wasn’t the Peter Kim she knew. What had come over him?
    “Shh. It’s not your fault, Bridge. It’s not.”
    “Yes, it is,” a voice sobbed. Her voice. “You don’t know. You don’t understand.”
    The police arrived, a whole army of them. They scurried through the courtyard, in and out of the church, the gym, and the school like ants on a feeding frenzy. Sergeant Quinn was there. He trembled when he hugged her.
    She wanted to sink down onto the ground, curl up in a ball, and cry, but there were detectives who wanted to ask her questions, and Bridget was the only one who could help. Answers to their questions, at least, were easy.
    “You found the body?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you know the victim?”
    “Yes.
    “His name?”
    “Peter Kim.”
    “Why did you go into the church?”
    “Heard a scream.”
    “Did you see anyone else?”
    “No.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.”
    Matt had been pulled away for questioning of his own. And Bridget felt naked without his arm around her waist. Still the questions came. Still her voice answered. But she was tired. So tired.
    Someone patted her shoulder, and then there was a hand on her arm. Not Matt this time, but it was comforting all the same. Someone had come to rescue her.
    “This way, Bridget,” Monsignor Renault said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Twenty-Two
    B RIDGET SHIVERED UNCONTROLLABLY . H ER TEETH chattered and her palms were damp. Beneath the thin, shimmery fabric of her dress, her skin was covered in goose pimples. Only she wasn’t cold. Quite the opposite. As she sat next to Father Santos in Monsignor Renault’s office, she felt as if she were running a fever.
    “This is a very serious situation,” Monsignor was saying. Bridget could barely hear him over the chattering of her own teeth. “Very serious.”
    Bridget nodded. Her brain couldn’t form a word to save her life.
    “The police will conduct a thorough investigation?” Father Santos said.
    “Quite,” Monsignor replied.
    “They’ll see the pattern, won’t they? This murder and that of Dr. Liu?”
    A shock went through