“We have had a few unfortunate incidents here at Harbor House, but they were all explained in our reports.”

“Yes, I read those. It’s just that, statistically, it looks very … unusual.”

“It most certainly does,” she said, nodding in complete agreement. Then, just like that, a lightbulb went off in her head. “But you don’t think there was foul play involved, do you? Those poor kids all had previous conditions. The ones who were sick.” She started ticking off names on her fingers. “And then there were the accidents. Thank the heavens for Mrs. Ochoa. If not for her, we might have had another tragedy just the other day.”

“Mrs. Ochoa?”

“Yes. Our custodian. A stack of lumber fell and almost crushed little Rudy. Mrs. Ochoa saw it about to happen and pushed him out of the way. He’s in the infirmary, too, with a banged-up leg. Otherwise, he’s fine. And then there were the suicides. Two of those.

“You have to understand, all these kids come from broken homes. Sometimes it just gets to be too much, and they think the only thing left for them is to take their own lives.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I wasn’t here when those happened.”

“I thought you’d worked here for over ten years.”

“Yes, yes. I just meant I wasn’t on-site. Our first suicide ever rocked the halls of this establishment. Almost broke the director, she was so distraught. I was in Delaware for a family reunion at the time.”

I knew her accent was Northeast.

“And then CC. Poor CC. I thought she was doing so well. She had come to us after a bad foster home situation. Didn’t trust a soul at first. But she adjusted so well. I had the night off when she took her life. It was so tragic.”

None of this made sense. There was no rhyme or reason to the deaths. Accidents and suicides and strange illnesses. There was no pattern. Not one that I could see, anyway.

“Can you tell me who found the children who committed suicide?”

“Yes, the first one, a boy named Givens, was found by his roommate, and the second, CC, was found in the downstairs girls’ room by Mrs. Ochoa. She called me in that night, she was so upset. But there was a horrible snowstorm, and I barely made it.”

“And what about the others?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Who found the kids in the accidents?”

“Okay, well, one was Matthew’s friend Abby. And with Roberto, it was our maintenance man, Joey. And then there was another girl, beautiful thing when she wasn’t wearing all that eyeliner, who fell ill and became unconscious so fast we barely had time to call an ambulance. And then…”

I let her go on, trying to piece together the facts. All my Spidey senses would suggest Ms. Rizzo was telling the truth. She seemed genuinely distressed. Could all this truly be a coincidence? Maybe there really was no foul play. Maybe this was just a home with a lot of bad luck. Maybe …

When the truth dawned, I closed my eyes, almost kicking myself for being so thick. I sat back in the chair. Accidents. Illnesses. Suicides in children who had exhibited no signs of depression.

“Are you all right, Ms. Davidson?”

“Yes.” I opened my eyes. “Sorry. Ms. Rizzo—”

“Oh, Florence, please.”

“Florence, this might sound odd, but did you notice any strange behaviors in the children before they died?”

“No.” She thought back. “Not that I can think of offhand.”

“I have.” I turned to the girl who’d showed me in.

“Malaya, what are you doing?” Ms. Rizzo stood to shoo the girl out. “Get back to the infirmary.” She turned to me. “She had a fever this morning, poor dear.”

“They aren’t them anymore,” Malaya said before the woman scooted her toward, I would assume, the infirmary.

Bingo.

“Okay,” I said, jumping up. “I guess I’ll let you get back to your day.”

“Oh, okay, then. Good luck with your case.”

“Thank you. Can Malaya see me to the front door?”

“Oh, I guess it wouldn’t hurt. But then right back to bed, young lady.”

She smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

We walked a few feet before I asked her, “What have you noticed, hon?”

“Those with the curse. They aren’t them anymore. They change.”

I stopped and sat on a chair outside an office and fiddled with my boot to buy us time. She sat beside me.

“How do they change?”

“It’s real slow at first. They just kind of go crazy, and then they get sick a lot, and then something awful happens.”

“How long after something happens does another resident start showing symptoms?”

“It takes a while. We all guess at who it will be. For a while, we thought it was Heather this time, but she’s gone. She ran away. I wish I was that brave.”

“You are, sweetheart. You’re talking to me now.”

“That’s not being brave.”

“I think it is.”

She looked at a woman down the hall. The custodian, Mrs. Ochoa, I presumed.

“They don’t see us. They pretend to, but they don’t. We tried to tell them about the curse, but no one would listen.”

“Well, I am all ears,” I said. “You hit the jackpot of ears. If I had any more ears, you’d be calling me a stalk of corn.”

She offered me half a smile with a side of sadness.

“Do you know who’s cursed now?”

She nodded and pressed her mouth together to keep it from quivering. “Hugo. My little brother. He’s in the infirmary, too. That’s why I pretended to have a fever.”

Son of a bitch. I put a hand on her back, then asked, “How do you pretend to have a fever?”

“You just recalibrate the thermometer and put a heating pad on your face before Nurse Rizzo gets there.”

I laughed softly.

“I did it too much one time, and it said I had a temperature of 112. Apparently I should have been dead. Or in a coma.”

“See?” I said, grinning at her. “Brave. You risked a lot to stay here with your brother.”

“Not really.” Her breath hitched in her chest.

“Can I see him? Like, incognito-style?”

“You mean, can I sneak you in to see him?”