Jane had just stepped out of the shower when the hammering started. By the time she’d managed to pull on a clean set of clothes and rubbed her hair vigorously with a towel, Matt, red‑faced and breathless, had almost broken down her door.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” she’d meant to say, but before she could get a single word out he’d grabbed her hand and practically dragged her around through the corridors and into his room. If anyone else had man-handled her like that, their teeth would have been all over the carpet, but in Matt’s case Jane just went along with it.

“Shut the door,” he’d rasped, as soon as they were inside. He doubled over, hands on his knees, panting, hair damp and half frozen with a mixture of sweat and snow. So Jane did, then sat, and listened, as Matt told her his story.

*****

“Unbelievable,” Jane muttered.

“I know,” Matt said breathlessly, his eyes wide. They both stared at the photographer’s memory card as it sat, tiny and innocuous, on the desk before them. It’d been several minutes but Matt was somehow still short of breath.

“No, I mean I literally don’t believe it,” Jane replied, “It can’t be true.”

“Jane, it happened.” Matt sounded pained.

“I’m not calling you a liar,” Jane promised, “But it’s too much of a coincidence.” She looked over at him, shaking her head. “Of all the places you could go, you just happen to go to this one particular piece of nowhere where you just happen to wander into this paparazzi. This paparazzi, who also happens to be chasing your ghost boy, through the exact same middle of nowhere.”

“That’s what he said,” whispered Matt.

Jane leant back in her chair, running her hands through her hair. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand. Who the hell is this kid? What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” murmured Matt.

“I mean I thought maybe when he said ‘death’ he was talking about the clairvoyants, but you think he was trying to warn you about-?”

“I don’t know,” Matt repeated, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”

They lapsed into silence, but after a few seconds Jane pressed on.

“So this kid is real,” she said, “And he appears and leads this paparazzi guy, possibly the only person on Earth with photos of Ed’s suicide, right to you, probably the only Acolyte who’d hear him out instead of kicking his ass. The suicide which you are the only one in the world investigating. Right when you’re thinking of giving up.”

“I’m not saying it’s not insane,” Matt muttered, shaking his head.

Jane threw up her hands. “It’s not insane,” she cried, “It’s impossible!”

“Improbable.”

“Whatever,” scowled Jane. She paused then shook her head. “Clairvoyants,” she muttered, “It’s gotta be clairvoyants, somewhere, somehow. It’s freaking Albania and the farm and the trap door all over again. It’s the only explanation. You’re being played.”

“Or being lead.”

“Lead to what?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said quietly. His eyes lingered over the memory card. He paused, then turned back to her. “But I’m still going to look at the photos.”

“Well of course we’re going to look at the photos,” Jane snapped, “Obviously, at the very least, we’re going to look at the goddamn photos. Destiny be damned.” She paused, flicking her hand at the computer stored beside his desk. “Do you have one of the- the thingy- card reader-?”

“Yeah,” replied Matt, “I think. I’ve never used it. But I think the computer Ed…” His voice trailed off and his eyes dropped.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Jane demanded; not from her own impatience, more to pull him out of his thoughts. “Put it in. Let’s have a look.” Matt nodded quietly and reached over, pulling the laptop up and opening it on his desk for them both to see. He typed in his password then slid the card in the side. They watched and waited.

“Just remember,” muttered Jane, as the circle scrolled, “This could be a trick. Someone could be trying to play you.”

“Thank you, oh master of psychological warfare.”

“Oh shut up.”

The card loaded and the usual window popped-up, asking what they wanted it to do. The pair exchanged glances – so far, so normal. Matt clicked to view files. Sure enough, it was photos – lines and lines of photos, hundreds, maybe thousands. All of Morningstar or the Acolytes or the grounds. Matt’s mouth twisted in a small grimace and he clicked on the first one, opening a slideshow.

“Snow,” he muttered, clicking quickly through, “Snow, snow, mainly snow. There’s James Conrad… Dr Lum… Bianca…”

“He got one of me,” Jane commented, peering at the bright orange figure captured mid-motion on the screen, “Over on the north end. Except I’m on fire, he mustn’t have realised who it was.”

“Otherwise he would’ve gone home and got paid,” murmured Matt, keeping on scrolling through.

“Exactly.” She shook her head. “How the hell did he get so close?”

“I don’t think he got close,” Matt muttered, “I think he just had a really good lens.”

“Should’ve taken that too. Might’ve been worth something.”

“Too late now.” They flicked through the photos in silence, as the colours darkened and the New Year’s festivities came into focus.

“I don’t remember half of this,” mumbled Matt.

“You need to drink less,” prodded Jane.

“I’ll never drink again,” he said quietly, and she could hear real sadness in his words.

“Hey,” Jane said. She grabbed the sides of his head and turned it so she was looking Matt squarely in the eyes. “No matter how this turns out, it’ll never be your fault, ok?” She paused, staring intently at him. “Ok? Hear me? This. Is. Not. Your. Fault.”

“Thanks,” he murmured – although Jane knew he was just saying it to appease her. Reluctantly, she let him go, resisting the urge to subtly electrocute his stupid guilty brain. They went back to the pictures, Jane still discretely watching Matt’s miserable expression out of the corner of her eye.

They sat in silence as one by one pictures of the party clicked across the screen.

“Oh that’s cool,” Jane said, pointing in spite of herself at a picture of Giselle dancing.

“Yeah it was – how’d you miss that?” Matt asked.

“Too far away,” Jane replied, pulling a face. She bent in a little closer. “I mean look at her, she’s ridiculous, you can really see why Ed-” she suddenly caught herself before she could blurt out any more, shooting Matt a guilty glance. “Why Ed, um, thought she was going to break land-speed.”

“Nice save,” he muttered dryly.

“Shut up.”

They kept flicking through. The pictures grew bright – people cheering, longer shots, fireworks over the manor. Then, as if they were fast-forwarding through a movie, frame by frame the crowds started to disperse. The fires went out. Acolytes left, wandering together in couples and droves. One by one, the lights flickered and died, first inside Morningstar, then out.

And then it happened. Matt clicked past a picture – and suddenly, there was Ed. Small and distant, a spec on the top of the photograph. Beside her, Jane felt Matt stiffen, heard his breathing become shorter and faster. The next shot zoomed closer, the photographer obviously zeroing in on the movement, the outline of Ed’s body more visible now as he walked across the rooftop. Closer still – they could see his hands and hair. His shirt fluttering in the breeze. Closer now, just as he reached the edge, the shadows on his face, his eyes. His wide, terrified eyes. Jane suddenly felt sick. Matt was right – something was wrong. Why did they look like that, what was wrong with his eyes?

And then Matt moved forward again, and the picture changed, and Ed’s tiny frame was falling, the camera zooming out, trying to catch him as he plummeted. It took three frames for him to hit the ground. And then there were only pictures neither of them needed to see.

“Close it,” muttered Jane – but Matt wasn’t listening. Instead, he clicked backwards, through the stills of Ed’s descent, one by one – until the raven-haired genius was back standing on the ledge, perched precariously over the drop below. Matt paused and leant in, his brow furrowed. Jane followed his eyes, and this time she saw it.

“Is that blood?” she whispered. She bent in too, so close her face almost brushed the screen.

“His nose,” pointed Matt, “He’s bleeding from his nose.” Jane followed his gaze. He was right. If you weren’t looking for it, if you didn’t squint, you’d never see it – but even in the darkness, even from this distance, the crimson tracks running down over his lips were unmistakable. Edward Rakwoski had been bleeding profusely from his nose.

Right before he threw himself to his death.

Jane’s eyes widened. She turned to Matt.

“You don’t think,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Matt whispered, pale as a ghost, “He’s possessed.”