Proposal by Meg Cabot

wreckage of her son’s bookshelf. Zack still owned some of his childhood favorites—­the complete Harry Potter collection, and Good Dog Carl . I probably looked ridiculous, sitting there among them.
    But I probably hadn’t looked so ridiculous when they’d opened the door and seen him crouched over me with his fist raised.
    â€œWe came up to see what in heaven’s name is going on here. But I’m not so sure I want to know.” Mrs. Farhat looked as horrified as her husband. “What were you doing to her, Zakaria?”
    â€œ Me? ” Zack bleated. “Mom, you’ve got to be kidding me. She’s the one who started it. She was trying to say that I killed Jasmin! Like I would ever do something like that. You know how much I loved Jasmin. We had something special. You and Dad said so yourselves. You used to say you thought we’d be married some day—­”
    â€œOh, Zakaria.” Mrs. Farhat’s dark eyes were filled with compassion for her son—­but also something else. Something I recognized.
    Dread. She knew. She knew what was coming.
    â€œDaddy and I were only ever joking about that, Zakaria,” she went on. “It was only a little joke between us because when you were little, the two of you got along so well. But it was simply the kind of thing ­people say. We didn’t mean anything by it—­”
    â€œDidn’t mean anything by it?” Zack looked incensed. “But Jasmin and I did have something special. And then she had to go and spoil it by—­”
    â€œZakaria!” Mrs. Farhat’s eyes widened. The dread was turning to fear.
    My heart swelled with pity for the poor woman. What must it be like, giving birth to a monster?
    â€œI don’t understand what’s going on here,” Dr. Farhat said. It was clear that he hadn’t yet realized what his wife had—­what his son truly was. He saw only the devastation in the room, the leaves and debris that been swept in from the storm, the blown-­out plasma screen, the decimated bookshelf and me on the floor . . .
    . . . and the photos of Jasmin Ahmadi that littered almost every flat surface, even the carpet at the chief of police’s feet, where a few had fluttered out into the hallway when Jesse had opened the door.
    He didn’t yet understand what the photos meant, nor could he see—­because no one could see it, no one but me and Jesse—­the ghost of Mark Rodgers, still standing by the French doors, watching, waiting to see if justice really would be served, like I’d promised.
    â€œWhat’s happened?” Dr. Farhat asked, throwing a nervous glance at the table where the votive candles still stood. The only photo that still remained on the wall above them was the one of Zack and Jasmin in their Halloween costumes. The doctor seemed to be starting to put the clues together. “Why would this woman say that Zakaria killed Jasmin?”
    â€œBecause she’s a lying bitch!” Zack screamed, trying to lunge at me. But Jesse’s grip was too strong for him, and all he ended up doing was hurting himself. He did fling a few other choice swearwords at me, however, that caused his father to thunder at him, “Stop it! I will not have that kind of language in my house!”
    Then Dr. Farhat turned to the mayor and chief of police and said, politely, “I apologize. I don’t know what’s come over my son. Maybe it’s the storm. Or maybe . . . well, he’s had a great shock. Truthfully, he’s been acting this way ever since the death of his cousin—­Jasmin Ahmadi. He’s taken it—­we’ve all taken it—­very hard.”
    Mrs. Farhat was looking down at me, compassion—­and resignation—­in her beautiful dark eyes. “Are you all right, my dear?”
    â€œNot really,” I said. I didn’t want to do