And after nearly an hour of talking （and after his cousin packs up her guitar and heads home, after all the surrounding tables have emptied out and it’s just me and Adrian and the café staff wiping down tables） I reach into my bag and produce my latest discovery—the drawings from the recycling bin.
Adrian flips through the pictures in astonishment. “You’re saying Teddy drew these? Five-year-old Teddy?”
“That paper comes from Teddy’s sketch pad. And I can hear him drawing in the bedroom. He comes out with pencil all over his fingers. The only thing I can think of is—” I tap the Encyclopedia of Supernatural Phenomena. “Maybe he’s channeling someone. Maybe it’s the spirit of Annie Barrett.”
“You think Teddy is possessed?”
“No. This isn’t The Exorcist. Annie isn’t trying to destroy Teddy’s soul or take over his body. She just wants to borrow his hand. She uses it during Quiet Time, when he’s alone in his bedroom. And for the rest of the day, she leaves him alone.”
I pause so Adrian can laugh or make fun of me, but he doesn’t say anything, so I outline the rest of my theory: “Annie Barrett is a good artist. She already knows how to draw. But this is her first time drawing with someone else’s arm. So her first few efforts are terrible. They’re just scribbles. But after a couple pages she gets better. She gains control and there’s more detail. Texture, light, and shadow. She’s mastering her new tool—Teddy’s hand.”
“So how did these pages end up in the trash?”
“Maybe Anya put them there. Or maybe Teddy did, I’m not sure. He’s become very private about his drawings.”
Adrian cycles through the pictures again, this time studying them more closely. He turns some of the drawings upside down, searching the scribbles for a deeper meaning. “You know what they remind me of? Those picture-puzzles in Highlights magazine. Where the artist hides stuff in the background. Like, the roof of the house is actually a boot, or a pizza, or a hockey stick, you remember those?”
I know the puzzles he’s describing—my sister and I used to love them—but I think these pictures are more straightforward. I point to the drawing of the woman crying out in anguish. “I think this is a self-portrait. I think Annie’s drawing the story of her murder.”
“Well, there’s one easy way to find out. Let’s get a photo of the real Annie Barrett. Compare her to the woman in this picture. See if they match.”
“I already looked. There’s nothing online.”
“Well, lucky for you, my mother works summers at the Spring Brook public library. They have a massive archive of town history. A whole basement full of materials. If anyone’s going to have a picture of Annie Barrett, it’s them.”
“Could you ask her? Would she mind?”
“Are you kidding? She lives for this stuff. She’s a teacher and a part-time librarian. If I tell her you’re researching local history, she’ll be your new best friend.”
He promises to ask her first thing in the morning, and I feel so much better, now that I’ve shared my problems. “Thank you, Adrian. I’m glad you don’t think I’m crazy.”
He shrugs. “I think we have to consider every possibility. ‘When you eliminate the impossible, all that remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ That’s Spock in Star Trek VI, but he’s paraphrasing Sherlock Holmes.”
“My God,” I tell him. “You really are a nerd.”
* * *
We walk home in the dark and we have the sidewalks to ourselves. The neighborhood feels safe, quiet, peaceful. Adrian plays tour guide, pointing out the houses of his most notorious high school classmates, like The Dude Who Rolled His Parents’ SUV and The Girl Who Had to Change Schools After a Scandalous TikTok Video. I get the sense he knows everyone in Spring Brook, that his high school years were like a glossy Netflix teen drama, one of those silly soap operas where everyone is beautiful and the outcome of a varsity football game has life-altering consequences.
Then he points to a house on the corner and tells me it’s where Tracy Bantam grew up.
“Should I know who that is?”
“The point guard for the Lady Lions. Penn State’s women’s basketball team. I figured you knew each other.”
“Penn State is enormous,” I tell him. “There are fifty thousand students.”
“I know, I just figured all the jocks went to the same parties.”