“Go to the cops then!” I shout. “But mind if I ask what you plan on telling them? Because saying two dead teenagers came to you in the middle of the night and told you something or someone is going to kill you is only going to get you locked in a cozy, padded cell.”“Well, it has to be better than spending another second with you.”“Make sure they put that on your headstone, will you? Right below ‘Here lies Benedict Bartholomew Ford. He had no friends and a really stupid name’.”