Chapter Seventeen
Oliver started to scramble to his feet—and froze as recognition slapped him across the face.
The thing that had pounced on him from behind the screen—ghost, ghoul, whatever it was—was it . . . was it Primrose?
Primrose, whom he’d seen walk out of this room almost twenty minutes ago.
Oliver stared. And the longer he stared at that shadowy figure, that pale face, the more certain he became.
It was Primrose, her eyes wide and shocked, both hands pressed to her chest as if her heart was trying to burst free of her ribcage.
His own heart was certainly trying to burst free of his ribcage. His pulse thundered wildly in his ears.
And it wasn’t only his heartbeat that he heard in his ears; his scream echoed there, too.
“Prim?” he said cautiously, still ready to fight or ru
