Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2)(21)

“He had brown hair. Old-fashioned clothes.”

“What kind of old-fashioned?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “The kind with buttons.”

Lara makes a short, exasperated sound. “Well, next time, pay more attention. Every detail is a clue. What he looks like, when he started following you, what he said—”

“Wait,” says Jacob. “He did say something. Remember, Cass … ?” Jacob trails off, trying to sound out the words. “Un, du, twa, something about a ‘cat sank’ …” he fumbles, then adds, “The last word was definitely dees.”

“Well done, ghost,” says Lara grudgingly. “All right, that’s interesting.”

“Do you know what it means?” I ask.

“He was counting,” says Lara. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix. That’s one through ten in French.” She lowers her voice, talking to herself as much as us. “But why would he be counting up instead of down?”

“You speak French?” I cut in.

“Of course,” says Lara briskly. “And German. They make us take two foreign languages in school. I also know a little Punjabi, thanks to my dad. My parents say language is the most valuable currency. Don’t you know any other language?”

“I know how to ask for the bathroom in Spanish,” offers Jacob.

“Um.” I chew my lip. “I memorized all the incantations in Harry Potter.” I look at Jacob. “And I can speak to ghosts.”

“Obviously not,” says Lara, “or you wouldn’t need me to translate. Look, until we find out who this poltergeist is—was—you don’t stand a chance of winning.”

“Thanks for the confidence,” I mutter as the film crew reappears, Mom and Dad in the lead. Anton and Annette follow, cameras hoisted on their shoulders as my parents make their way down the aisle toward the stage. They’re shooting B-roll, the snippets of footage that will go behind a voiceover, help set the scene.

“I suggest,” Lara is saying, “you start by figuring out where he came from, how he died. Call me when you have a solid lead. And, Cassidy?”

“Yeah, I know. Be careful.”

We both hang up, and I stand, picking my way through the seats. I play Lara’s conversation again in my head.

“Hey, Jacob,” I say. “You remember, don’t you?”

His face darkens a little. “Remember what?”

I swallow. “Who you were, before. How you …” I don’t say the word, but I think it. Died. Jacob’s face shutters like a window, all the color and humor suddenly gone.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I’m not a poltergeist, Cassidy,” he snaps, the hair rising around his face.

I shiver, suddenly cold, and for a second, I think the chill is coming from him before something snaps onstage and a massive piece of the set begins to fall forward.

Straight toward my parents.





Look out!” I scream, already running.

“Cass, wait!” calls Jacob as I leap over a seat and into the aisle.

Mom and Dad turn toward me and then look up, their eyes wide as the wooden frame tips forward. Shouts go up across the stage, and I crash into my parents, hoping to force them out of the way, but at the last second, the massive set piece shudders to a halt. It stops a few feet above our heads, half a dozen ropes and cables pulled tight.

“Désolé!” calls a stagehand. Pauline shakes her head and answers in a flurry of French, sounding furious.

The tirade goes on for several long seconds before she shakes her head and turns back toward us. “Theater.”

Mom laughs, a breathy, relieved sound, and Dad pats my shoulder. I must be looking as shaken up as I feel because he soothes me, saying, “It’s okay, Cass. We’re all okay.”

“That’s why they have more than one rope,” adds Mom.

But my heart is still pounding in my chest as I follow my parents outside onto the street. They could have been hurt. They could have been killed.

I swallow. One thing is for sure: The poltergeist is after me, not my parents. If we split up, then at least they’ll be out of harm’s way.

“And we’ll be right in it,” says Jacob. “Besides,” he adds, waving a hand at my parents, “how exactly are we supposed to get away from the Inspecters here?”

Good question.

My mind races as I try to think. Then we round a corner, and I slow down at the sight of a movie theater.

I have an idea.

Most of the movies are in French, of course. The only ones showing in English are a horror film—no thank you—and a teen rom-com, one of those generic feel-good stories, the poster featuring a girl with a series of boys in thought bubbles over her head.

And there’s a showing in ten minutes.

I stop, admiring the poster. “I’ve been wanting to see this,” I say softly, as if to myself.

Mom wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Since when do you like rom-coms?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Lara told me about it.” She didn’t, of course, but as far as lies go, it’s pretty innocent. “It seems fun. Maybe I’m just feeling a little ghosted-out. This is my summer vacation, after all. And Paris is amazing, but I just— I’d really love to do something normal.” I point to the start time. “There’s even a showing now.” I look up at her. “Can I go? You can pick me up later.”