"Dad!" I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening. "Look. What's the message?"

"Message?" He blinked, and then went, "Oh, yeah. The message." Suddenly, he looked serious. "I understand you tried to contact a man today."

I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. "Red Beaumont," I said. "Yeah, I did. So?"

"This is not a guy you want to be messing around with, Suzie," my dad said.

"Uh-huh. And why not?"

"I can't tell you why not," my dad said. "Just be careful."

I stared at him. I mean, really. How annoying can you get? "Thanks for the enigmatic warning, Dad," I said. "That really helps."

"I'm sorry, Suze," my dad said. "Really, I am. But you know how this stuff works. I don't get the whole story, just . . . feelings. And my feeling on this Beaumont guy is that you should stay away. Far, far away."

"Well, I can't do that," I said. "Sorry."

"Suze," my dad said. "This isn't one you should take on alone."

"But I'm not alone, Dad," I said. "I've got - "

I hesitated. Jesse, I'd almost said.

You would think my dad already knew about him. I mean, if he knew about Red Beaumont, why didn't he know about Jesse?

But apparently he didn't. Know about Jesse, I mean. Because if he had, you could bet I would have heard about it. I mean, come on, a guy who wouldn't get out of my bedroom? Dads hate that.

So I said, "Look, I've got Father Dominic."

"No," my dad said. "This one's not for him, either."

I glared at him. "Hey," I said. "How do you know about Father Dom? Dad, have you been spying on me?"

My dad looked sheepish. "The word spying has such negative connotations," he said. "I was just checking up on you, is all. Can you blame a guy for wanting to check up on his little girl?"

"Check up on me? Dad, how much checking up on me have you done?"

"Well," he said, "I'll tell you something. I'm not thrilled about this Jesse character."

"Dad!"

"Well, whadduya want me to say?" My dad held out his arms in a so-sue-me gesture. "The guy's practically living with you. It's not right. I mean, you're a very young girl."

"He's deceased, Dad, remember? It's not like my virtue's in any danger here." Unfortunately.

"But how're you supposed to change clothes and stuff with a boy in the room?" My dad, as usual, had cut to the chase. "I don't like it. And I'm gonna have a word with him. You, in the meantime, are gonna stay away from this Mr. Red. You got that?"

I shook my head. "Dad, you don't understand. Jesse and I have it all worked out. I don't - "

"I mean it, Susannah."

When my dad called me Susannah, he meant business.

I rolled my eyes. "All right, Dad. But about Jesse. Please don't say anything to him. He's had it kind of tough, you know? I mean, he pretty much died before he ever really got a chance to live."

"Hey," my dad said, giving me one of his big, innocent smiles. "Have I ever let you down before, sweetheart?"

Yes, I wanted to say. Plenty of times. Where had he been, for instance, last month when I'd been so nervous about moving to a new state, starting at a new school, living with a bunch of people I barely knew? Where had he been just last week when one of his cohorts had been trying to kill me? And where had he been Saturday night when I'd stumbled into all that poison oak?

But I didn't say what I wanted to. Instead, I said what I felt like I had to. This is what you do with family members.

"No, Dad," I said. "You never let me down."

He gave me a big hug, then disappeared as abruptly as he'd shown up, I was calmly pouring cereal into a bowl when my mom came into the kitchen and switched on the overhead light.

"Honey?" she said, looking concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Sure, Mom," I said. I shoveled some cereal - dry - into my mouth. "Why?"

"I thought - " My mother was peering at me curiously. "Honey, I thought I heard you say, um. Well. I thought I heard you talking to - Did you say the word dad?"

I chewed. I was totally used to this kind of thing. "I said bad. The milk in the fridge. I think it's gone bad."

My mother looked immensely relieved. The thing is, she's caught me talking to Dad more times than I can count. She probably thinks I'm a mental case. Back in New York she used to send me to her therapist, who told her I wasn't a mental case, just a teenager. Boy, did I pull one over on old Doc Mendelsohn, let me tell you.

But I had to feel sorry for my mom, in a way. I mean, she's a nice lady and doesn't deserve to have a mediator for a daughter. I know I've always been a bit of a disappointment to her. When I turned fourteen, she got me my own phone line, thinking so many boys would be calling me, her friends would never be able to get through. You can imagine how disappointed she was when nobody except my best friend Gina ever called me on my private line, and then it was usually only to tell me about the dates she'd been on. The boys in my old neighborhood were never much interested in asking me out.

"Well," my mom said, brightly. "If the milk's bad, I guess you have no choice but to try one of Andy's quesadillas."

"Great," I groaned. "Mom, you do understand that around here, it's swimsuit season all year round. We can't just pig out in the winter like we used to back home."

My mom sighed sort of sadly. "Do you really hate it here that much, honey?"

I looked at her like she was the crazy one, for a change. "What do you mean? What makes you think I hate it here?"

"You. You just referred to Brooklyn as 'back home.' "

"Well," I said, embarrassed. "That doesn't mean I hate it here. It just isn't home yet."

"What do you need to make it feel that way?" My mom pushed some of my hair from my eyes. "What can I do to make this feel like home to you?"

"God, Mom," I said, ducking out from beneath her fingers. "Nothing, okay. I'll get used to it. Just give me a chance."

My mom wasn't buying it, though. "You miss Gina, don't you? You haven't made any really close friends here, I've noticed. Not like Gina. Would you like it if she came for a visit?"

I couldn't imagine Gina, with her leather pants, pierced tongue, and extension braids, in Carmel, California, where wearing khakis and a sweater set is practically enforced by law.

I said, "I guess that would be nice."

It didn't seem very likely, though. Gina's parents don't have very much money, so it wasn't as if they could just send her off to California like it was nothing. I would have liked to see Gina taking on Kelly Prescott, though. Hair extensions, I was quite certain, were going to fly.

Later, after dinner, kick-boxing, and homework, a quesadilla congealing in my stomach, I decided, despite my dad's warning, to tackle the Red problem one last time before bed. I had gotten Tad Beaumont's home phone number - which was unlisted, of course - in the most devious way possible: from Kelly Prescott's cell phone, which I had borrowed during our student council meeting on the pretense of calling for an update on the repairs of Father Serra's statue. Kelly's cell phone, I'd noticed at the time, had an address book function, and I'd snagged Tad's phone number from it before handing it back to her.

Hey, it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.

I had forgotten to take into account, of course, the fact that Tad, and not his father, might be the one to pick up the phone. Which he did after the second ring.

"Hello?" he said.

I recognized his voice instantly. It was the same soft voice that had stroked my cheek at the pool party.

Okay, I'll admit it. I panicked. I did what any red-blooded American girl would do under similar circumstances.

I hung up.

Of course, I didn't realize he had caller ID. So when the phone rang a few seconds later, I assumed it was Cee Cee, who'd promised to call with the answers to our Geometry homework - I'd fallen a little behind, what with all the mediating I'd been doing . . . not that that was the excuse I'd given Cee Cee, of course - and so I picked up.

"Hello?" that same, soft voice said into my ear. "Did you just call me?"

I said a bunch of swear words real fast in my head. Aloud, I only said, "Uh. Maybe. By mistake, though. Sorry."

"Wait." I don't know how he'd known I'd been about to hang up. "You sound familiar. Do I know you? My name is Tad. Tad Beaumont."

"Nope," I said. "Doesn't ring a bell. Gotta go, sorry."

I hung up and said a bunch more swear words, this time out loud. Why, when I'd had him on the phone, hadn't I asked to speak to his father? Why was I such a loser? Father Dom was right. I was a failure as a mediator. A big-time failure. I could exorcize evil spirits, no problem. But when it came to dealing with the living, I was the world's biggest flop.

This fact was drilled into my head even harder when, about four hours later, I was wakened once again by a blood-curdling shriek.

CHAPTER 5

I sat up, fully awake at once.

She was back.

She was even more upset than she'd been the night before. I had to wait a real long time before she calmed down enough to talk to me.

"Why?" she asked, when she'd stopped screaming. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"Look," I said, trying to use a soothing voice, the way Father Dom would have wanted me to. "I tried, okay? The guy's not the easiest person to get hold of. I'll get him tomorrow, I promise."

She had kind of slumped down onto her knees. "He blames himself," she said. "He blames himself for my death. But it wasn't his fault. You've got to tell him. Please."