As for Jacob, I do the math in my head, or at least I try—I’ve never been all that good at math—and I’m still trying to carry the one when he says, “Two and a half years.”

Two and a half years.

That means, if he were still alive, he’d be almost fifteen. I knew he was older than me—he had to be. After all, we’re the same age, but he died before I drowned.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I don’t feel any older. Maybe it’s the whole ghost thing.”

“Maybe boys just mature slower,” I tease.

He smiles weakly.

“Sorry,” I say. “Go on.”

He takes a slow, steadying breath. “Anyway, me and my brothers—”

Brothers. Family. My mind goes to Thomas and Richard, to the strange weight that’s been hanging in the air around Jacob ever since we learned the truth of Thomas’s story.

“You have brothers?”

“Yeah.” A new light comes into his eyes then. His smile is sad and sweet at the same time. “Two of them. Matthew, he was sixteen, though I guess he’s older now. Probably off in college. And Kit, well, Kit drove me crazy. He was only seven when …”

Jacob lets out a low breath, then inhales deeply, as if he’s about to dive into deep water.

“Kit had this action figure he loved, Skull from Skull and Bones. I gave it to him for his seventh birthday, and he took it everywhere. To school. To bed. Even in the shower.” He laughs softly. “So we were at the river, and of course Kit had the action figure there, too. I told him not to take it into the water. I told him he’d lose it. But little brothers …” He shakes his head. “They don’t always listen. All it took was one good wave, and Kit lost that stupid toy.

“I was swimming when it happened. I came up for air and saw him sitting on the bank, sobbing. I got out, thought he must be hurt or something. He was so upset. Threw a wicked tantrum. So I did what I had to do. I dove back in.”

I close my eyes as he talks, and it’s weird, but I swear I can see it—the river, quick-flowing in summer. Jacob’s little brother, his knees drawn up on the bank. I don’t know if it’s just my imagination, or because we’re connected, but if it’s the second, this is the first time our mental link has gone both ways.

The first time I’ve seen into Jacob’s head.

The first time he’s let me.

“The action figure was heavy,” he explains. “It had these weights in it, so you could make it walk along the bottom of a bathtub, that kind of thing. So I knew it was probably somewhere on the bottom of the river. It took three or four dives before I saw it, but when I dove down to get it, it was wedged under a stick or something. Took me a few seconds to get it free, and I almost had it when …” He clears his throat. “I don’t know, Cass. To this day, I really don’t. The current must have picked up. It did that sometimes. Churned up rocks and logs, sent them sailing low along the river floor. All I know is something hit me, something hard, and the world just … stopped.”

Jacob swallows hard. “And that was that.”

Four small words.

The difference between life and death. My head spins, reeling. I don’t know what to say, but I have to say something, and I know better than to say something like sorry.

I’ve only ever known Jacob the Ghost. What that really means is that I’ve only known Jacob from the point when he entered my story. I didn’t think so much about the fact that he had a story of his own. A whole life, short as it was, before we got tangled up, before he became my best friend.

Now it’s like he’s filling out in front of me, becoming solid. Alive.

“Did you ever try to go back to them?” I whisper.

“You’re asking me if I haunted my family?” Jacob grits his teeth. “No. I … couldn’t. Not at first. I couldn’t leave the river.”

Of course. It was his Veil.

“And then, after I met you, and I could leave … I was— I guess I was afraid of seeing them without me. Afraid it would hurt too much. Afraid I would get stuck there. Like the Mirror of Erisorn.”

I stifle a laugh. “Erised.” That’s the mirror in Harry Potter that shows someone what they want most, but Dumbledore warned Harry that people could waste away in front of it.

Jacob manages a small smile. “Yeah. Like that.” He looks down. “I really should read those books.”

“You really should.”

We both go quiet after that.

Jacob is done talking, and I don’t know what to say. I’m sad I didn’t know before. I’m glad that I do now. That he’s trusted me with this, his past, his truth, the pieces that add up to Jacob. And no matter what happens, I won’t let him forget who he was, who he is. What he means to me.

I lean against him, just until the air blurs between our shoulders, and this time, when I feel the slight resistance of his body against mine, it doesn’t scare me.

Your name is Jacob Ellis Hale, I think. You were born in Strathclyde, New York. Two and half years ago you dove into the river, and last year, you pulled me out.

You are my best friend.

In life. In death.

And everything in between.

Pauline is waiting for us back at the hotel, sitting on a plush seat beside our luggage and Grim’s carrier.

She stands when she sees us, elegant as ever in a white outfit and dark heels. She hands me a small parcel. My photos, developed by her father.

“Monsieur Deschamp sends his regards,” she says. “He says you have a special eye, and that you must have used some clever techniques to get the effects you did.”

I press the envelope to my chest. The truth is, I have no idea if my camera still works, if the magic lay in a specific part, like the original lens I lost. Or if it’s special because it’s mine.

Only one way to find out.

I turn through the photos as Mom and Dad check out of the hotel.

Among the “normal” photos is a shot of Mom and Dad in the Tuileries our first night, the carnival rising in the background, the light blurring faintly so it looks like fire. Then a picture of the two of them standing on a narrow street, admiring a window full of macarons. The crew setting up among the crypts in Père Lachaise, and Mom on a bench, hands spread as she speaks in the Jardin du Luxembourg. The opera, with its gleaming chandelier before it fell. A photo of Adele, beaming around the white stick of a lollipop on our way to Notre-Dame. And of course, our first trip to the Catacombs, the empty gallery leading to the tombs, and then the tunnels and tunnels of bones.

I’m proud of these pictures. They’re exactly what Mom and Dad asked for, a look behind the scenes at the making of their show.

But the paranormal shots, the ones I took beyond the Veil, are something else. Something more. I was afraid that the new lens wouldn’t work, but the magic of my camera clearly doesn’t belong to any one piece.

If anything, the images are getting clearer.

The Tuileries, the Catacombs, the cemetery at Père Lachaise—they show up in ghostly shades of gray, the images faint, underexposed but visible. The palace, traced with white from the searing heat of the fire. The tunnels, dark save for the faint glow of a lantern, the empty gaze of a skull.