Up All Night

by Laura Silverman

Genres: Anthologies; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When everyone else goes to bed, the ones who stay up feel like they’re the only people in the world. As the hours tick by deeper into the night, the familiar drops away and the unfamiliar beckons. Adults are asleep, and a hush falls over the hum of daily life. Anything is possible.

It’s a time for romance and adventure. For prom night and ghost hunts. It’s a time for breaking up, for falling in love—for finding yourself.

Stay up all night with these thirteen short stories from bestselling and award-winning YA authors like Karen McManus, Tiffany D. Jackson, Nina LaCour, and Brandy Colbert, as they take readers deep into these rarely seen, magical hours.

Full contributor list: Brandy Colbert, Kathleen Glasgow, Maurene Goo, Tiffany D. Jackson, Amanda Joy, Nina LaCour, Karen M. McManus, Anna Meriano, Marieke Nijkamp, Laura Silverman, Kayla Whaley, Julian Winters, Francesca Zappia

Release date: July 13, 2021

Publisher: Workman Publishing Company

Print pages: 352

Sample

If this were a normal Friday night, I would’ve left Katie Chang’s party before midnight. Curfew is nonnegotiable in the Finch household, and I’m way past it. But my parents are in Bermuda for their anniversary, and as Katie pointed out when convincing me to stay, “It’s not like they put a tracking device on your phone before they left, Grace.”

Probably. My father didn’t become the detective with the most arrests on the Owens Mills police force without having a few tricks up his sleeve. It’s almost two in the morning, though, and I haven’t received a get your ass home text yet, so I’m probably safe.

From parental ire, anyway. Not from playing what feels like an endless Never Have I Ever card game in Katie’s basement. Granted, I’m the one who suggested it, but we’ve barely started and I’m already yawning. Still, this is about as exciting as nightlife gets for our band-nerd crew, even when it’s well after midnight.

“Never have I ever gone skinny dipping,” Malik Roy, Katie’s boyfriend, reads from the card he’s holding. The dozen or so people sitting in a circle on Katie’s threadbare rug all take a drink, except for me.

“Liars,” I say.

Malik rolls his eyes as he chugs the last of his beer. “Grace Finch, ladies and gentlemen. Oh-for-four in this game because she’s allergic to fun.”

“Because I’m honest,” I protest. “You guys are only pretending you’ve done stuff so you can drink.”

“Which. Is. Fun,” Malik reminds me.

“I guess,” I mutter, shifting restlessly beside him. Every party at Katie’s house is exactly the same: we watch movies, we drink (but never too much), and we play some kind of game. Usually, the game is designed to let us experiment with being edgier than we actually are; last time, it was Crimes Against Humanity.

Which is fine. Obviously. I’m Detective Steve Finch’s only child; mildly risqué card games and warm beer are as edgy as I’m supposed to get. I am, as my father likes to remind me, a Role Model. I used to chafe at being labeled “the boring one” in a group that’s not known for excitement, but I’ve come to accept it. Mostly.

“Maybe you’re not asking the right questions,” someone says.

We all turn at the new voice, and my pulse picks up when I see who’s leaning against Katie’s wall near the basement stairs. “What the hell is Caleb Manning doing here?” my friend Adita whispers in my ear. It shouldn’t be any surprise that Caleb’s at a late-night party—that’s pretty much what he’s known for, along with using his older brother’s ID to buy alcohol for said parties—but he’s never bothered with our crowd before. Everybody in the circle tenses, like a herd of gazelles that just realized a lion wandered into their midst during mealtime.

“I, um . . .” I whisper back, trailing off as Caleb’s eyes find mine and he smirks in recognition. “I might’ve invited him.”

Take that, Malik. Caleb Manning might be a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.

“Whaaaaaat?” Adita breathes, taking a bracing sip from her cup. Of Sprite. She drove here, but even if she hadn’t, she’s not a drinker. “When did you . . . why would you . . .”

“It was a spur of the moment thing,” I say. “We were both in the principal’s office this afternoon.” My friend’s eyebrows arch higher as I add, “I was making copies of next week’s resolution for debate team.” Debate is one of the many, many extracurricular activities that Adita and I do together.

“And what was he doing?”

“I didn’t ask. It seemed, um, discipline-related.”

Adita regards me doubtfully, and I don’t blame her. She’s one of the most careful, methodical people I’ve ever met. She needs a scholarship to get out of Owens Mills, and every move she makes is part of a complex calculation where the under­lying equation is always how will this look to a college admissions officer?

Sometimes I want to ask her if she ever gets the urge to break out of our good-girl roles and do something unexpected. But it’s not a fair question; she doesn’t think she has the option. Even being in the same room as someone like Caleb is practically giving her hives.

Maybe I shouldn’t have rocked the boat like this. But it’s too late now.

Someone hands Caleb a beer and he takes it without looking at them, draining half of it in one gulp. His bright blue eyes rove around the room, a half-smile on his lips. Caleb is tall and lean, with shaggy, dark blond hair that frames sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, and he would hands-down be the most sought-after guy at Owens Mills High if he ever decided to lose the attitude. And the criminal tendencies.

Adita plucks at my sleeve. “Are you into him?” she hisses.

“Of course not! I was just being nice.”

“Not to Katie you weren’t,” Adita mutters. And I have to agree: Katie looks more than a little terrified as Caleb moves closer to the Never Have I Ever circle. “Have you forgotten your father arrested Caleb? Or has he?”

“Nobody’s forgotten that.” It was last summer, for trespassing in a skate park after dark. Before that, Caleb had been warned a few times by other Owens Mills cops about disturbing the peace and underage drinking, so that relatively minor crime landed him on probation. Along with a permanent spot on my father’s shit list.

Which, admittedly, is part of why Caleb interests me. It’s exhausting being Steve Finch’s daughter for lots of reasons, not the least of which is the long list of people, places, and behaviors I’m supposed to avoid. When everything you do is scrutinized, there’s something fascinating about someone who couldn’t care less about rules.

“He looks twitchy,” Adita says, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’ll bet he’s high.”

“So are we playing or what?” Caleb asks. He doesn’t sit, though—just sort of looms over Malik, who’s still holding the Never Have I Ever cards.

“Uh, yeah. You know the rules, right? You just—” Malik goes to hand the deck of cards to the girl sitting next to him, but Caleb intercepts them.

“Let me guess,” he says, deftly shuffling the deck with one hand. “You’re playing old school. Drink if you’ve done whatever the card says, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “That’s boring. We should mix it up, ultimate-challenge style.”

“What does that mean?” Katie asks, her eyes on the spinning cards.

Caleb drops them into his other hand and extracts a single card from the deck, holding it against his chest. “One-on-one. I pick someone to take a turn, and they have to do whatever the card says—right now. So who should it be?” He takes his time shifting his gaze across the silent group. “Eenie . . . meenie . . . miney . . . Finch,” he finally says, locking eyes with me.

“No way,” I say. “That’s not how you play.” I turn to Adita for support, but she just shakes her head. The expression on her face couldn’t be more clear: serves you right.

Malik, who’s looked nervous ever since Caleb walked in, starts to grin. Of course he would; the last few cards all had to do with getting naked. “Change approved,” he says. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Grace.”

“Absolutely not—” I start, but Caleb’s already reading the card.

“Never have I ever . . .” He frowns, full lips turning down. “Spied on a neighbor. Huh. That’s boring. Let’s do a different one.”

“You can’t,” I say quickly, letting a relieved smile spread across my face. “That would go against the rules you just established. Anyway, Katie’s neighbors aren’t boring. She lives across the street from a haunted house, you know.”

Caleb’s brow furrows. “A what now?”

“Murphy Manor!” Malik crows. When Caleb doesn’t react, he adds, “Come on, you must’ve seen it on your way here. Giant Victorian that looks like it should be condemned? Same old dude has lived there for, like, fifty years.”

Katie nods energetically, eyes wide. Her strange neighbor is one of her favorite topics. “Mr. Murphy’s wife died a few years ago from unknown causes,” she says, her voice dipping dramatically on the last two words. “Like, she wasn’t sick or anything, and she wasn’t even that old. Ever since then—and I swear to god I’m not making this up—we keep hearing weird noises, like someone’s crying or moaning. And sometimes I see a figure in the window that’s, like, transparent.”

Caleb stares at her. “Are you for real right now?”

“Oh, yes.” Katie smiles happily, her earlier nerves forgotten. “It’s totally haunted. Mrs. Murphy had all the money, you know. She inherited that house from her family and she was super cheap. People say Mr. Murphy got rid of her so he could finally enjoy life, but it backfired because her ghost is still there and she’s slowly driving him insane.”

“Nothing slow about it,” Malik says under his breath.

“Katie,” Adita says patiently. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“You haven’t heard the noises!” Katie insists. “Or seen the figure.”

“Well, I guess that settles it.” Caleb stuffs the card into the pocket of his ratty leather jacket. “Come on, Finch. Let’s go spy on a haunted house.”

“Let’s?” I ask. “When did this become a team effort?”

The half-smile is still on his lips. “I can’t make you deal with a ghost all by yourself.”

“We should all go,” Malik says, rubbing his hands together. Which isn’t surprising; he’s the self-appointed fun one of our group. If something interesting is going to happen, he’s not about to miss it.

Adita glances between Caleb and me with a faint frown. She looks like she can’t decide whether Caleb is more likely to try to kiss me or kill me on the way to Mr. Murphy’s house—or which one would be worse. “Great idea,” she says drily. “We’ll turn Never Have I Ever into a late-night, live-action game involving trespassing on a potentially disturbed man, because what could possibly go wrong with that?”

I avoid her glare. “The more the merrier.”

She sighs. “Is that your way of saying I have to come with you?”

Malik turns to Katie. “You in, Katie Kat?”

Katie shakes her head firmly. “No thanks.”

“Thought you were into ghosts?” Malik teases.

“I am. I’m also into maintaining respectful boundaries with them. Especially when they live across the street,” Katie says. Caleb hands the deck of cards to her and she tries to shuffle them like he did, but only manages to spill them onto the floor. “Plus, I still have guests, so . . .”

“There are enough people going already, anyway,” I say, getting to my feet before the crowd can mushroom even more. A yawn builds at the back of my throat—I almost never stay up this late—and I swallow it before shaking out my hands to wake myself up. “We’ll report back once I win this round.”



The four of us have barely gotten down the front steps of Katie’s house when we see it—bright lights burning in half the windows of Mr. Murphy’s house, shining like a beacon into the darkness that surrounds us.

“So . . . he’s still up?” Adita asks, her steps slowing. I’m surprised she made it this far, to be honest; loyalty to your bestie since fifth grade only goes so far. When it comes to College Admissions Math, trespassing = no Ivy League.

“Or the ghosts are,” Malik says, raising his hands and wiggling his fingers to show just how not-bothered he is. “Boooooo.”

“Ha, ha.” She shoves at his arm, stopping in place. “Forget it. Let’s go back inside. I thought he’d be asleep.”

Caleb shrugs. “Maybe he sleeps with the lights on. But if not, who cares? We’re spying, remember?” He turns and walks backwards, arms spread out as he speaks in an exaggerated stage whisper. “The whole point is to be sneaky. He’ll never know we’re there.”

“I don’t like it,” Adita says stubbornly. “This is a bad idea. I’m out.” She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head toward me. “You should be too, Grace. If Mr. Murphy is awake he’ll call the police on you, and your father will lose it.”

I pause a beat. The night is cloudy and windy, the moon a pale crescent above us. The Changs’ house and Mr. Murphy’s are the only two at the end of their cul-de-sac, separated from the rest of the street by a wooded area. Everything is quiet and peaceful. “Only if we get caught,” I say.

Caleb puts his hands together in a silent clap. “Grace Finch, ladies and gentlemen. Turning to the dark side.” He glances at Malik. “You bailing too, man?”

“Nah,” Malik says, although he sounds less sure than he did a minute ago. “Come on, Adita, we’re just gonna peek in the guy’s window. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Adita repeats. “I’m going inside. And I’ll probably head home in like ten minutes, Grace, so you’d better be back by then if you want a ride.”

“I can take you home,” Caleb offers.

Adita rolls her eyes. “This night just keeps getting better and better,” she says. Then she backtracks through the Changs’ front door, shutting it firmly behind her.

“Never have I ever been a tightass,” Caleb murmurs, and I swallow a guilty laugh. Adita’s right; she always is. But I can’t turn back now.

The three of us cross the darkened street toward Mr. Murphy’s house. It must have been gorgeous when it was first built: graceful turrets, wide stairs leading to a stately front door, high windows with stained-glass detail, and beautiful crown molding everywhere. But years of neglect have left it decrepit and crumbling, the white paint peeling so badly that the entire house looks gray. The grass is almost knee-length, the bushes surrounding the house wild and unkempt. It’s the polar opposite of my parents’ neat, orderly Cape, and I have to admit: I kind of like it. There’s something dramatic and forbidding about the entire scene, almost as though we’re stepping into a dark fairy tale—or, like Katie said, a ghost story. An alternate reality where anything could happen.

“We should approach from the side,” I whisper when we reach the edge of Mr. Murphy’s lawn. “Then make our way to those bushes under the window.”

We’re halfway there when the wind picks up around us, causing one of the loose shutters on the bay window to rattle. Malik lets out a startled yelp, then drops to the ground with his arms over his head like he’s dodging sniper fire. “Did he hear me? Is he coming?” he asks, his voice low and panicked.

Caleb and I both crouch beside him, waiting, but there’s no sound except the wind and our own ragged breathing, and no movement from Mr. Murphy’s house. “We’re good,” I whisper. “Maybe we should crawl the rest of the way, though.”

“Adita might’ve had the right idea after all,” Malik murmurs, but he follows my lead to the edge of the bushes that run across the front of the house. I wanted to slip behind them but now that I’m here I realize it’s impossible; they’re too close to the house. So we creep beside them, hunched over, until we reach the bay window. Then I force my way between two bushes, their stiff needles pricking my arms, and stand on my tiptoes. “I can’t see inside,” I whisper. “I’m too short. Can you?”

Caleb’s a lot taller than me, but still a few inches shy of the window. “Here,” he whispers over my shoulder, and before I realize what’s happening his arms have wrapped around me, lifting me a few feet off the ground. I exhale sharply, surprised at the suddenness of the movement—and yeah, okay, maybe a little breathless at the contact, too.

But once I get my bearings, I have a clear view into the room. It’s filled with clutter, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Even with the lights blazing, it’s a dark and dreary space. Everything looks forlorn, from the circular rug in an outdated floral pattern to the mismatched lamps on either side of the couch.

“What do you see?” Caleb asks.

“A couch,” I start, but I don’t get anything else out before he grunts dismissively.

“Nobody gives a crap about the furniture, Finch. Is anyone there?”

My eyes rove around the room, flicking from one corner to the next. Even though I know Katie’s ghost story is bull, the back of my neck still prickles at the way certain shadows fall. The grandfather clock looming against the far wall looks a lot like a person, and I could see how glancing through the window during a certain time of day might—

“Finch,” Caleb says. He’s starting to sound a little out of breath. “Speed up the surveillance. I don’t have arms of steel over here.”

“I think we’re done, right? With the game?” Malik asks nervously. “I mean, we’re spying. We’ve spied. Nothing on the card said we had to do it indefinitely.”

“I don’t see—wait.” My whisper gets urgent as the shape I’ve been looking at suddenly becomes clear. “Guys. There’s a foot.”

“A foot of what?” Malik asks.

“A person’s foot. On the floor, behind the couch.”

Caleb is still holding me. I peer down at Malik’s worried, upturned face, reflected moonlight obscuring his eyes behind his glasses. “Is someone, like, hiding?” he asks uncertainly.

“I don’t think so. Put me down.” Caleb drops me so quickly that I stumble when my feet hit the ground, and have to grab his arm for support. “It looks like whoever it is might’ve fallen or something, but I couldn’t see enough to tell.”

“We better check it out,” Caleb says. “Maybe the old guy hurt himself. Depending on what kind of lock he has, I might be able to pick it.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Malik asks. “We can’t break into his house at three o’clock in the morning!”

“Malik’s right,” I say. “We should call an ambulance.”

Malik bites his lip. “And then what? How do we explain why we’re here?”

“I mean . . . probably the truth, right?” I say.

While we were talking, though, Caleb was already mounting the front steps. Now he’s poised with one hand pressed against the door. “Guys,” he calls in a loud whisper. “It’s open.”

“What?” I make my way beside him and see that he’s right; there’s a shadowy sliver of empty space between the door and its frame. “Why would it be open in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t know,” Caleb says. He pushes lightly on the door, causing it to swing fully open with a loud, prolonged creak. “But it is.”

“Oh, hell. We need to leave.” Malik sounds full-on panicked now. “Somebody might still be inside. Caleb, don’t—Caleb!”

Too late. Caleb’s already inside, and with a resigned look over my shoulder to Malik, I join him in Mr. Murphy’s hallway. It’s dead silent inside the house, except for a loud ticking that’s probably the grandfather clock I saw in the living room. I take a deep breath, and the dust that tickles my nostrils almost makes me sneeze. A large, curving staircase is in front of me and a set of double French doors is to my right. I glance at Caleb, who’s standing stock-still beside me, then slip through the doors.

I blink a few times when my feet hit carpet, letting my eyes adjust to the brightness of the lights after the dimness of the hallway. I’m in the living room I’d just been looking into from outside. Same bookcases, same rug, same couch, same . . . foot.

“Right there,” I breathe.

Caleb’s hand grasps mine, squeezes once, and lets go. He stays beside me as I approach the sensible brown shoe. It’s Mr. Murphy, the rest of him hidden behind the couch. He’s facedown and perfectly still, dressed in a flannel shirt and the kind of chino pants my grandfather wears. Somehow, that’s what finally sets my heart racing as I kneel beside him.

“Mr. Murphy, are you okay?” I ask, reaching for his shoulder. Caleb helps me turn him over and—oh, god. His eyes are wide open but lifeless, his face pale and slack, and the right side of his head is covered in blood. I should scream, I think hazily, but my throat has closed to the size of a pinprick. I can’t push a single sound out. Caleb doesn’t speak either, and we sit in silence until I hear heavy breathing behind me and a loud, shocked gasp.

“Holy shit,” Malik says, sinking to his knees. His hands fly to his mouth and his body spasms as he retches. He manages not to throw up, but his voice is muffled by his palms as he chokes out, “He’s dead. Mr. Murphy is dead.”



“You never should have gone inside, Grace.”

My dad’s partner on the Owens Mills force, Detective Lisa Ramirez, rubs a hand over her face as she hands me a steaming cup of vending machine coffee. I know it’s going to taste horrible, but I take a long sip anyway because it’s four in the morning and I need the caffeine. “You should have called us as soon as you realized the door was open.”

“I know. I just—I wasn’t thinking straight,” I say.

Detective Ramirez makes an exasperated noise. “Apparently not. Playing drinking games and trespassing in the middle of the night? That’s not like you, Grace.”

“I wasn’t drinking,” I protest. Detective Ramirez quirks a brow. “I wasn’t. Give me a breathalyzer if you don’t believe me.”

She folds her arms and gazes at me for a few beats before relenting. “I do, actually. You seem perfectly sober. But this entire night is still a mess. I’d text your father if it weren’t so late.” She rubs her face again. “Or so early, I guess. Either way, he won’t be pleased.”

Story of my life, I almost say. Dad’s relentless drive toward perfection makes him an excellent cop and an impossible-to-please father. Detective Ramirez doesn’t need to hear that, though, so I stay silent and pour a healthy dose of sugar into my coffee. I look around for a spoon or a stirrer, but there’s nothing, so I swirl the coffee gently in my hand.

Detective Ramirez and I are in a small conference room with the door closed, and I haven’t seen or spoken to Caleb or Malik since we arrived. I understand the drill; the officers need to take our statements independently to collect as many perspectives as possible, and avoid having one person’s memory morph into everyone’s. Still, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone except Detective Ramirez. Or slept. I’m starting to feel the effects of both.

“Maybe it was a good thing, though?” I say. “Mr. Murphy could have been there for ages if we hadn’t found him. He lives by himself, doesn’t he?”

Detective Ramirez doesn’t answer, and I inch my chair closer to the table. “Did someone kill him? That’s what Malik thinks. Since the door was open and all. And because of the . . .” I take a gulp of my too-sweet coffee, grainy with all the sugar floating near the top. “Vase.”

We found it on the floor. Malik picked the heavy bronze vase up first, dropping it in horror when he noticed the dark red stain along one side. Caleb saved it from rolling beneath the couch before I snatched it away and put it carefully on a side table. “Evidence,” I reminded them. Malik just nodded, eyes wide, as Caleb continued checking Mr. Murphy’s wrist and neck like he’d find a pulse eventually if he kept trying.

Detective Ramirez sighs. “You know I can’t discuss that with you.”

“Was he robbed?” I press.

She ignores the question. “You’re here to give a statement and that’s it. So let’s review everything one more time, and then we can get you home.”

We spend another half hour going through the night in painstaking detail. I’m so tired that when I close my eyes to remember the layout of Mr. Murphy’s living room, I briefly fall asleep sitting up. Detective Ramirez raps her knuckles on the table, and I jerk awake. “All right,” she says. “That seems to be a sign I’ve kept you here long enough. Is there anything we haven’t talked about that we should? Anything you observed that surprised or confused you?”

“I mean, everything did,” I say, and she gives me a wry smile.

“Touché. Listen, we’re going to want fingerprints and a DNA sample from you for exclusion purposes, but you’re not eighteen yet, right?” I shake my head. “So we can’t do that without parental consent. We’ll call your dad once it’s no longer the crack of dawn, and bring you back after we’ve spoken to him. Also, it’s possible you’ll remember something new after you’ve gotten some sleep.”

“Maybe.” I slouch lower in my seat, my veins buzzing with the combination of exhaustion and caffeine. “Is Katie going to get into trouble?” I blurt out. “For, you know. Having alcohol at her party. Or will Malik, for drinking? Or all of us for trespassing, or—”

“None of that is our primary concern,” Detective Ramirez interrupts. “We’ll leave the disciplinary action to your parents.” I swallow audibly, and her tense expression softens a little. “You’re a good kid, Grace. In the scheme of things, this isn’t a bi. . .