Adele whips around, and I watch, half-amused, half-concerned, as Jacob fogs the window and draws his finger through the mist. A smiley face.

Adele beams. “So cool.”

“Anyway,” I say, pulling the photos from my camera bag. “I wanted to bring these back. I’m sorry they got a little dirty.”

That’s an understatement.

One has a dusty shoe print. Another is torn almost in two.

Adele takes the photos, pressing them to her chest.

“Thank you,” she says, before digging the pouch of sage and salt from her pocket. “I should give this back,” she says, holding it out.

“Keep it,” I say.

“Yeah,” adds Jacob, sniffling.

Adele smiles and puts the pouch away.

“I guess this is goodbye,” I say.

“No,” says Adele. “À bientôt.”

“What does that mean?”

“See you soon.”

She smiles, and I have the strange feeling she’s right.

I find Mom and Dad across the street, sitting at an outdoor café, drinking coffee and eating croissants. Jacob trails a step behind me. He’s been quiet all morning.

Though the truth is, he’s been quiet since the Catacombs last night. Since even before that. I know he can hear me wondering, worrying about his silence, but he doesn’t offer an answer, and I force myself not to ask. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready. I hope.

I sink into the chair across from Mom and Dad, and reach for the last bite of croissant on Mom’s plate. She snatches it before I can get there and pops the bite into her mouth with a wicked smile. Then she hands me a paper bag with an entire pain au chocolat inside.

I grin. “Merci,” I say around a mouthful of pastry.

Dad checks the time on his phone. “We have one more place to go.”

I’m confused. “But the film crew is gone. I thought we were done.”

“This isn’t for the show,” says Mom. “No Inspecters today. We can just be a normal family.”

At that, Jacob’s mouth finally crooks into a faint smile as he whispers:

“Paranormal.”

You can’t go to Paris without seeing the Louvre,” says Mom as we cross the palace courtyard. “It’s simply not allowed.”

That’s where we’re going: the Louvre, that big museum marked by the glass pyramid at the end of the Tuileries.

This place is massive. There are whole wings dedicated to different countries, different periods of time. There are statues and paintings, tapestries and tiles, sculptures and antiques. Fragments of the past. It would take weeks, maybe even years to see everything, but we only have a couple of hours, so we jump from one exhibit to the next with all the other tourists. In one room, a large crowd gathers around a tiny painting, and when we get close enough, I see that it’s the Mona Lisa. I always thought it would be bigger.

Jacob walks next to me, not really looking at the art but past it, through it, somewhere else. For the hundredth time, I wish I could read his mind the way he reads mine.

As we head downstairs, I can feel the tap-tap-tap of ghosts. The Veil ripples around me, but it’s not until we reach the Egypt wing that I learn why.

“Do you see those marks?” asks Mom, gesturing to the inside of a sarcophagus. “Those are from a person’s nails.” She waggles her fingers. “It means they were entombed before they were dead.”

“Nope,” says Jacob, and I have to agree with him, grateful when we move on to a hall of marble statues.

“It’s important to take care of the past,” muses Dad as we walk between exhibits. “To revisit it, to study and learn. Understanding the past helps us move through the present and discover the future.”

And remembering the past helps us move on, I think. Helps us let go.

Jacob begins to fall behind, first one step, then two. Until I look over my shoulder and see that he’s not there. My parents, arm in arm, stop to examine a statue, and I drift away from them, promising I’ll be right back. For once, they let me go.

I find Jacob, sitting on a bench on the other side of the room. He’s staring at piece of stone inside a case, the carvings on its face worn away to almost nothing.

“Hey,” I say, coming to stand beside him.

“Hey,” he echoes, keeping his gaze ahead.

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he lets out a shuddering breath.

“Cass,” he says slowly. “I’m ready to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“What happened to me.”

I stiffen. I’ve always wanted to know, but I also accepted the fact that Jacob didn’t want to share. I couldn’t blame him for that, not really—who wants to think about the way they died, what they lost?

“Are you sure?”

His voice, when he answers, is so low I barely hear. “Yeah.”

He looks down at his hands on his knees, and we both see it—the way his fingers rest on his jeans. He’s not as transparent as he used to be.

“Jacob,” I say. “If you’re not ready, you don’t have to—”

But he cuts me off. “I still remember. But I also know the only difference between me and Thomas is the fact I haven’t forgotten yet.”

“But that’s not the only difference,” I remind him. “You also have me.”

“Exactly,” says Jacob. “That’s why I’m telling you. So that if I ever start to forget, you can help me remember.”

I exhale shakily. “Okay,” I say. “I’m listening.”

He runs both hands through his hair, links them behind his head. It’s a pose I’ve seen him strike a hundred times, but his face has never looked like this. Serious and sad.

I can’t help but think of the boy I saw in the shards of mirror, the other version of Jacob, lost and gray and floating. But this Jacob is different. He’s right here beside me, his eyes closed, his brow creased, his whole body tensed against the truth, even as he says it.

“Ellis Hale.”

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“Me.” His eyes drift open. “I mean, that’s my name, the rest of it. Jacob Ellis Hale.”

Jacob Ellis Hale.

It’s so weird, but those two extra names, they make him seem … real. Which is insane, because Jacob’s always seemed real to me. But I’ve also only ever known him as he is now, with his messy blond hair and his superhero shirt and his jeans, constant, unchanging—

“Dead,” he finishes for me.

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him use that word, and he scrunches his face up a little as he says it, as if it tastes bad.

“I was born in Strathclyde—that’s in upstate New York—but we moved to Landing when I was eight.”

Landing—that’s the town right next to mine, the one on the other side of the river.

“Eight hundred and fifty-seven days. That’s how long ago it happened, if you keep track. Which I do.”

I don’t have to tell him that I keep track, too, that I count every day from the one I (almost) drowned. For me, that number is 392. I’m not even sure I try to keep track; I just wake up every day knowing.