Chapter 1

Tonight, I was going to kiss Bobby Mai.

Probably.

I mean, not because I wanted to.

Not that I didn't want to.

The problem, though, was that I was being railroaded. The universe was conspiring against me. Exhibit A: The Sweethearts Festival at Shipwreck Shores.

If you've never heard of Shipwreck Shores, don't worry—neither had I. It's an amusement park a little up the coast from Hastings Rock, and, as you can probably guess from the name, it has a decidedly nautical theme. The park was usually closed in the winter, because most people didn't enjoy swinging around on Mr. Octopus in freezing weather. But, as my friends informed me, Shipwreck Shores opened every year for a single week in February to celebrate, of all things, Valentine's Day.

See? This is the kind of conspiring I was talking about.

Night had already fallen as my friends and I entered the park. We passed the turnstiles, which were set in a plywood fa?ade meant to look like the prow of an old ship, and were met on the other side by a wall of light and sound. The midway stretched out ahead of us, lined on either side by candy-striped booths that held games of chance: the ring toss, the shooting gallery, Gone Fishin'. Overhead, strands of lights cast a warm yellow glow over the scene, and an enormous banner announced SWEETHEARTS FESTIVAL. (I'm telling you, it was the whole universe out to get me.) People milled around on the asphalt paths, many of them Hastings Rock natives. Normally, I'm not much of one for crowds—cue my endearing little case of social anxiety—but the park was big enough that it didn't feel crowded, and, more importantly, I knew and liked a lot of these people. Mr. Del Real (of Swift Lift Towing) won a teddy bear from the milk bottle toss as we passed him, and a little girl hopped up and down next to him, screaming with excitement. Althea and Bliss Wilson were bundled up against the cold, and they stopped at a heart-shaped photo backdrop so Althea could plant a giant smacker on Bliss. Mr. Cheek, who owned Fog Belt Ladies Wear, broke off his conversation with someone in a whale mascot costume long enough to wave at us. He even cooed, "Bobby! Over here!" which was pretty impressive—I'd never seen someone coo long-distance before. (Bobby pretended not to hear him.)

Beyond the midway, the flash and spin of turbo lights picked out the frames of a roller coaster and a Ferris wheel, and several other buildings glowed with their own illumination, although it was hard to tell what they were at a distance. Keme had insisted I study a map of the park before we came—amusement parks were apparently a thing for Keme, or maybe it was just Shipwreck Shores—and I half expected to be quizzed. So, I thought one of the buildings was probably the theater (called the Treasure Chest) and another was the fun house (Davy Jones' Locker), and another was the pirates' equivalent of a food court (the Kraken's Den).

Music played in the background ("That's Amore" wasn't any less cheesy on a calliope, but it also wasn't any less romantic, and it was another sign that Someone was trying to seriously mess up my life with all this Valentine's business), and the air was sweet with the fragrance of the cotton candy machines. I started to drift toward a booth that sold turkey drumsticks (I mean, they were wrapped in bacon—how could I resist?) when a hand caught my arm and dragged me down the midway.

I opened my mouth to protest, but Keme pointed toward the back of the park and kept dragging me.

"But I'm hungry," I said.

"You ate dinner before we left," Bobby said behind me.

"But I'm hungry for bacon."

"I used to be hungry for bacon," Fox said. It sounded strangely mournful, and I gave them a look. They'd opted out of their usual steampunk attire, and tonight, they wore nothing more, uh, dramatic than an insulated parka with a faux-fur-lined hood. "I used to be a slut for bacon."

"You're still a slut for bacon," Millie told them. She was trying to look at everything as we walked, her face alight with happiness. "You're still a slut for lots of things."

"I'm not," Fox said mournfully. "I'm not a slut at all, not anymore."

"Circling back," I said, "I'd love to make a quick stop—"

Keme huffed an annoyed breath and tightened his grip on me.

The farther we went into the park, the more impressed I was. First, by the crowds—I couldn't believe this many locals had turned out, and I was starting to wonder if the Sweethearts Festival drew a regional crowd. I wouldn't be surprised if people drove out from Portland or down from Astoria for something like this. Because honestly, the park was nice. I'd been expecting some sort of decaying 1950s wasteland that would have been the perfect setting for a Stephen King novel about a haunted carousel (like, in the very first scene, one of the carousel horses bites someone on the rump—Mr. King, if you're reading this, I own that idea). But instead, Shipwreck Shores was lovely. It was well maintained. It was clean. It didn't have the perpetual miasma of puke and cigarette smoke I remembered from a certain park I'd visited, which will not be named. I mean, this place wasn't Disney World, but it was adorable.

Something flew over me. I only had a moment to glimpse the glitter of metal, and then someone let out a bloodcurdling scream.

My first reaction was to get away. I only made it a few feet before Bobby caught me and wrapped me in a bear hug. My heart was racing. Adrenaline ran through me like pins and needles.

Keme burst out laughing.

And then my brain caught up with my body. In the distance, someone in a pirate mascot costume was flying overhead—and the fading whirring sound suggested a zipline. As I watched, the pirate let out another scream and slashed the air with a cutlass. JaDonna Powers (who has what I think of as church hair) put both hands over her head and said, "Ryan, don't you dare mess up my set!"

Ryan the pirate answered with a bellowing, "Avast!" and kept going on the zipline.

"Oh Dash," Millie said in what, I suspected, was not one-hundred-percent-genuine concern. "Are you okay? We should have told you."

Keme laughed harder.

"We should have told you," Indira said, with a pointed look for the children. Indira was looking particularly lovely tonight in a wool coat, and the white lock of hair was extra witchy (maybe that was still the rush of adrenaline talking). "I'm sorry, Dash. I forgot—the first time Keme brought me here, those stupid pirates about gave me a heart attack."

"I'm going to have a heart attack," Fox said. "The big cheese. The last enchilada."

"I love enchiladas," Millie announced.

"Uh," I said, "are you okay?"

"I'm great. Oh my God, it was so funny when that pirate almost chopped off your head, and they were like—" Her demonstration nearly took off Keme 's head, which honestly, would have served him right. "And then you fell into Bobby's arms, and it was the most precious thing ever."

Keme snorted to show what he thought about that.

It was a good reminder that Bobby was still holding me in a bear hug. And now that my attention had been drawn to it, I couldn't think about anything else. Bobby was a little shorter than me, but he was a lot stronger, and I was instantly aware of his body pressed against mine. I swear to God, I could feel his muscles even through all the layers of winter padding.

I wriggled free with a grateful-slash-apologetic-slash-God help me smile for Bobby. "No, I meant Fox."

"I'm fine," Fox said. "Never hope or pray or want anything, children. The Buddha tells us that desire is the root of all suffering."

"Did something happen?"

Bobby shrugged. Indira frowned. Millie and Keme were lost in their own world—Millie was trying to chop Keme, and Keme looked so happy he was probably about five seconds from going to the great Ferris wheel in the sky.

Fox drew themselves up and declaimed, " Life happened."

I thought, if they'd had a scarf, they would have tossed it over one shoulder, but they settled for moving away from us in a slow, dignified walk.

"Is that an Oscar Wilde quote?" I whispered to Bobby.

"Not everything I say is an Oscar Wilde quote," Fox snapped without looking back.

Bobby gave me another Bobby shrug. Indira was still frowning, but before I could ask her what was going on, she hurried after Fox.

And that left Bobby and me to bring up the rear. Alone. Together. After he'd hugged me.

This is what I was talking about—I didn't have a chance.

We trailed after the others—Keme and Millie were still fooling around, and it looked like they were playing some version of tag, because they kept sprinting away from each other and then back together again. Millie hid behind someone in a lobster mascot costume. Keme took a shortcut through a gift shop selling pirate-themed jewelry. (Bobby didn't want to get his ear pierced—I asked.) Millie tried to do parkour on a trash can. Keme died instantly, on the spot, out of a mixture of laughter and puppy love.

As Bobby and I walked, the silence grew…prickly. That was a new development. Over the last eight months, we'd spent a lot of time together—first as friends and then, more recently, as roommates. And one of the things that I'd liked about Bobby from the beginning was that he was so easy to be with. He was quiet. He was kind. He never felt the need for small talk, but he was happy to chat if I wanted to.

But after Bobby and West had broken up, things had started to change. And then at Christmas, after some bad communication, Bobby and I had talked. Nobody had said anything about dating or romance or even liking each other (like, like like; I mean, obviously we liked each other), but I could feel it again, something changing between us. My sister had dropped in unexpectedly at New Year's, and that was the first time I'd admitted, out loud, that I might want more than friendship from Bobby. If that's what he wanted. Not rushing into anything, of course—but when the time was right.

Because that was the whole problem: I couldn't tell if I was imagining things, and it was driving me crazy. Sometimes, like right now, Bobby and I might be doing something perfectly normal—walking through an amusement park while our friends acted like goofballs—and all of a sudden, the air would feel charged, like I'd shock myself if I moved too fast. It made goose bumps break out on my arms. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It made my heart galomp-galomp in my chest until I thought I was going to be sick, and then I inevitably thought about how if Bobby tried to kiss me, I might legitimately puke from sheer nervous panic, and then I'd have to move to one of those leper islands and spend the rest of my life making my clothing out of coconuts.

But Bobby never actually did anything. Bobby was just Bobby. He was friendly. He was sweet. He could listen to me yammer on about my writing without his eyes glazing over. And he was maddeningly, infuriatingly, confusingly impossible. I'd spent almost an hour the day before explaining the pros and cons to making Will Gower, my fictional detective, a blond. Bobby, with the patience of a saint, had endured all of it. When I'd finished, he'd said, "I think his hair should be brown like yours."

??!??!?!??!??!

Why? Why would he say something like that? What did it MEAN?

(I recognize I might have veered into Millie's lane there for a moment.)

So now, as we walked under the strands of lights (no more flying pirates, thank God), with the calliope music following us and the scent of funnel cakes making my stomach grumble (yes, I'd eaten dinner—that wasn't the point), I was trying, once again, to decide if it was all in my imagination. It certainly didn't feel like it was in my imagination. It felt like there was this invisible electricity building in the space between us, and if I reached out and touched him, my hair would stand straight up and start smoking. All I could think about was the way he'd held me. How solid he'd felt. The unmistakable lines of his body. The strength in his arms. The slight hint of the sporty, masculine scent he carried. The way he'd moved his head, and how the stubble on his chin had rasped against the sensitive skin on the back of my neck.

That, of course, was when Bobby said, "Want to ride the Sea Snake?"

I stared at him. I had no words. Zero words. I mean, my God, I am not responsible for what went through my head at that moment.

Apparently, my silence went on too long because Bobby added, "The roller coaster?"

"Oh." I sucked in some drool, coughed, and managed, "Oh!" I had a vision of the two of us jammed next to each other in one of those tiny roller coaster cars. Our knees touching. Our elbows touching. That unmistakable scent. What if he kissed me? God, what if he didn't? What if he wanted me to make the first move? "Uh—"

"But I don't want to ride the Sea Snake," Millie told Keme. "It's too LOUD."

She was kind of undermining her point, but I seized it as an opportunity. "How about you and Keme go? And Millie and I will stay here."

Keme nodded and started for the roller coaster.

Bobby, however, lingered. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, go on."

"Because we could still go together." He added, "Keme could ride by himself."

"Uh, no. No. You guys go ahead. I'm going to scout out some hot chocolate."

Bobby's hesitation had a slightly bemused quality, but finally he said, "Okay."

A moment later, he and Keme had gotten in line for the ride.

"Dash," Millie said—right in my ear, by the way—"he wanted to ride with YOU."

"Oh no, I think Keme would kill me because I get too scared—"

"Not KEME! BOBBY!"

I was starting to wonder if you could get a concussion from sheer volume.

Millie didn't wait long for a response, thank God. She folded her arms and said, "You're super bad at this stuff. I'm going to look at this jewelry! Come get me when they're done with the ride."

Well, say this for Millie: she calls them like she sees them.

Also, she's not wrong.

By the time I'd recovered from having my eardrum blown, I realized Indira and Fox were gone. Hopefully, Indira would get to the bottom of whatever was going on with Fox. I knew now that, in hindsight, I should have been worried when Fox showed up without a single visible strap, buckle, or goggle.

I turned in place, considering the path, trying to recall the map Keme had made me study. The Kraken's Den would have hot chocolate, I was pretty sure. And I could get one for Bobby. And for Keme, too. And Millie. I mean, it would be weird if I just got one for Bobby, right? But would it be weirder to get them for everyone? I mean, people could get their friend a hot chocolate. Couldn't they? Or was that crossing a line? Or did it mean something? Like, maybe getting someone hot chocolate was code for something else. The way "Netflix and chill" was a code. Which I hadn't known until Keme's eyes got really, really wide one time.

After another moment of indecision, I started off in the direction I hoped would take me to hot chocolate, Dippin' Dots, and maybe—if I were lucky—a bacon-wrapped turkey leg. But I didn't get far, because as I passed one of the lit-up buildings I'd noticed from the midway, my steps slowed, and then I stopped to stare.

In crooked, mismatched letters, the sign said Davy Jones' Locker, and there was no mistaking the place for anything but a fun house: the windows didn't line up, the door was out of true, smoke billowed behind the drifting curtains, and music floated out into the night. It didn't appear to be a popular attraction; no one went in while I was watching, and it looked a bit run down. One of the park's many ziplines hung from the roof, and I imagined that in the summer, it would be an easy launch point for a pirate to go sailing overhead. But what held me in place was the unmistakable fact that, aside from the shake siding and the steel roof and the overall wonkiness of the place, it had clearly been modeled on Hemlock House. It had the same sprawling Victorian shape—all you had to do was add some brick, tack on a few dozen chimneys, and you'd have my Class V haunted mansion.

I was still thinking about what that might mean—was it a nod to local architecture? a kind of inside joke? nothing but a weird coincidence?—when a familiar voice called out, "Dash!"

I immediately looked around for an escape, but of course, nothing presented itself. No magic wardrobe to Narnia. No getaway car. Not even a nice little patch of lava to throw myself into.

Meanwhile, Tony Lamb hurried up the path toward me. Tony was a big guy—you could tell he'd been an athlete, even if he was easing into middle age now. His hair was starting to thin. His beard was going gray. He was always unfailingly friendly and polite, which only made things worse. The first time I'd met him, he'd cornered me at the Otter Slide and—well, propositioned me sounds a little too much like Pretty Woman , but he'd tried to set me up with his son, Chester.

So far, I'd managed to avoid being talked into an actual date with Chester—who, from what I'd gathered, lived in Tony's basement, fought with his mom, and loved puzzles, board games, and photography. I got the feeling that if Chester ever had to go out in the sunlight, he'd hiss and shield his eyes. (Although, let's be fair—look who's talking.)

"Wow, Dash, talk about luck!" Tony beamed at me as he pumped my hand. "We were just talking about you."

The we in that sentence was petrifying. "Hi, Tony. Sorry to run, but I told Bobby I'd get him some hot chocolate—"

"Chester's not going to believe this!" And then, before I could wrench my hand free and sprint away, he called over his shoulder, "Chester! Come meet Dash!"

Along the side of Davy Jones' Locker, a shadowy figure was wiping his hands. He gave a start, stuffed the towel—or whatever it was—into his pocket, and looked over. Then, shoulders slumping, he made his way toward us.

I'd taken him for a brunet at first, but as he got closer, I saw he was more of a dark blond, his hair faded on the sides and, on top, textured into a perfectly imperfect mess. His beard and mustache were an even darker honey color and neatly trimmed. He had blue eyes the color of a winter morning, and he was built with an athlete's lean muscle—how Tony must have looked, I thought, thirty years ago. He was the kind of handsome that made people accidentally walk into traffic, and he smiled as he reached us.

"Hi," he said. Quiet, but assured. Tony dropped my hand, and Chester seized it—he had a nice, strong grip. "Chester Lamb. Pleased to meet you."

This was Chester Lamb? This walking hunk of…hunk? Where was the sunlight-avoidant nerd who spent his life in a basement doing puzzles and taking pictures of people with his telephoto lens? (Okay, maybe there was some Rear Window in there.) Where was the scrawny, socially awkward man-child trapped in perpetual adolescence? I mean, for heaven's sake, where was the geek? It was suddenly a little harder to breathe, and a white hum started in the back of my head—and not because he was so attractive. Or at least, not only because of that. I'd spent a lot of my life getting better at handling my social anxiety, but being thrust into what felt like a high-stakes conversation without any warning was certainly triggering it.

"Dash," I finally managed. "Hi."

Tony was beaming at us like this was the single greatest social encounter in human history.

"I know my dad's been pestering you," Chester said, and now his smile had a different quality, like we were both in on a joke. "Sorry about that."

"What? Oh, no. Not at all."

"I promise I'm not a stalker."

"Of course you're not a stalker," Tony said with a little too much enthusiasm. "Dash, Chester's working at the park now. He's so good they've already promoted him!"

"From sweeping the floors to taking pictures," Chester said.

"He manages the portrait studio! He's so talented. Chester, you should show Dash some of your photos sometime."

The voice in my brain that never turned off wondered why Chester, if he was the manager of the portrait studio, had been wiping his hands near what appeared to be a service entry to the fun house.

Before I could follow the thought, Chester shot his dad a warning look. Then, to me, he said, "Taking pictures of tourists in pirate costumes is less about talent and more about getting kids under nine to hold still."

"He's doing great," Tony said. "He's going to be employee of the month."

"They don't have an employee of the month," Chester said, and now his tone was strained. "They're not even open the whole month."

An uneasy look flickered on Tony's face, and then it was gone, and in the same hearty tone, he said, "But I bet they'll make an exception for you! Chester's so special. Everyone knows it. They can tell as soon as they meet him."

Something that I wanted to call rage darkened Chester's face, but with what looked like an effort, he smoothed out his features. His voice was still tight, though, when he said to me, "Sorry. I know he's a lot."

"No," I said, and I meant it. The fact that Chester seemed so…normal, and that he was clearly frustrated with the situation, actually took the edge off my own distress. "It's all right. I mean, it's not exactly how I grew up. One time, I went to a bookstore with my mom, and she took off her glasses, and she completely forgot about me. I stood there while she looked at all these books, and then she turned to me, like she was surprised somebody was there, and asked me to check for some titles on the computer. I guess she thought I worked there?"

Chester burst out laughing. It was a nice laugh, infectious, and it gave him an adorable dimple.

"I knew you guys would hit it off," Tony said. "Didn't I tell you? Listen, Chester's got a break coming up. Dash, I know you said you wanted some hot chocolate. Why don't you and I walk over to the Kraken's Den, and Chester can meet us there when he clocks out?"

I had a momentary vision of being trapped at the Sweethearts Festival on what would be the equivalent of a middle school date. Tony would probably buy our food, and then he'd sit at a nearby table and pretend not to listen while Chester and I made awkward small talk. Maybe we'd even go roller skating like in a John Hughes movie. (Did they go roller skating in any of John Hughes's movies?)

"Actually, I can't," Chester said. "Somebody called in sick, and I have to do the ring toss."

"That's great, though—" Tony tried.

But before he could finish, Chester touched my arm and said, "It was nice to meet you, Dash. Sorry this was super weird."

With a wave, he trotted off down the path.

Tony called after him. "You should trade numbers."

Chester didn't look back.

For a moment, Tony looked flummoxed. Then he said, "How about this? We'll find the ring toss, and you can play the game while you chat with Chester and get to know him better. My treat!"

And that was it. The official eighth-grade date.

I opened my mouth to say something—or possibly just to scream—and that's when I noticed Bobby. He stood along the path in the direction of the Sea Snake, and he was staring at us. How long had he been watching? I tried to play back what had happened. Chester shaking my hand. Chester smiling. Chester touching my arm. A frantic voice insisted I hadn't done anything wrong. Bobby was too far away for me to read his expression.

If you're not prone to bouts of social panic, you might not understand why my brain suddenly shut down. It was the same way I felt when I was trapped in a crowd, the same way I felt back when I'd been (disastrously) trying to date, the same way I felt when I had to make small talk with a stranger. It was like something snowed out all rational thought, and the only thing I could think about was getting away from there.

Somehow, I managed to mumble, "Excuse me."

"Wait," Tony said, "Chester's free tomorrow night. Why don't you come over—"

But I was already darting toward the fun house. Thoughts of Bobby chased me. What if he'd seen? What if he'd thought—

But I couldn't put it into words. If I put it into words, it might become real.

For once, sensory overload turned out to be a blessing. When I stepped into the fun house, music washed over me—circus music. You know it: Julius Fucik's "Entry of the Gladiators," although when most people hear it, they probably think of a cartoon character walking a tightrope or juggling or doing a magic trick. The entry hall was dark, with barely enough light for me to make out the passage ahead. The smell of old wood and the perpetual seaside damp hung in the air.

I kept moving into the house, still on autopilot. A fun house wasn't exactly my idea of fun anymore (something about the threat of being stampeded by overexcited children), but at one point, I'd thought they were awesome. Davy Jones's Locker had all the classic elements: a fog machine hissed as a haze built in the air; illuminated skulls glowed overhead; the circus music picked up its frenetic tempo. When I stepped into the hallway, the gravity-tilt floor rocked underfoot, and I had to throw out a hand to steady myself.

With the floor rocking back and forth under me, I made my way to the next room. Deeper in the house, a scream rang out, but I barely noticed the sound effect. I felt another of those moments of unreality wash over me. This room looked like the living room at Hemlock House. The dimensions were smaller, and of course, the furniture and decorations were different (and clearly knockoffs). But the layout of the fireplace and the built-in shelves and the papered-over windows was the same. A wavy mirror over the mantel gave back a distorted version of me, and it felt like I'd stepped into a nightmare.

I shook it off and kept going. The floor plan wasn't identical to Hemlock House, but it was clear that whoever had designed this place had been familiar with the interior of Nathaniel Blackwood's famous home. After the living room, I had to go through a dining room where the floor dropped suddenly, and an animatronic parrot shrieked and flew across the room. Then there was an even darker corridor where the walls spun around me (one of those revolving barrels), and a glow-in-the-dark skeleton lurched out unexpectedly, cutlass slashing, jaw juddering with recorded laughter.

A flight of stairs led up, and these were motorized—they shifted and shook, and even with the circus music still playing, I could hear the machinery struggling. When I came out at the top, I found myself moving along a hall of mirrors. Some of them made me look small. Others made me look enormous. Others rippled, splitting me up into disjointed parts: a huge mouth, an enormous hand, a swollen sneaker.

When I reached the end of the mirrors, a doorway led into a bedroom that had clearly been modeled on the master at Hemlock House. It didn't have Vivienne's personal touches (that would have been too creepy), but it was still hard not to be wigged out when I saw the canopy bed, the balcony, even the stone fireplace that had caused me so much trouble when I'd first come to Hastings Rock. From the windows, the sounds of the park filtered into the fun house—excited voices, music (different from the circus music in the house), even a bellowed "Ahoy" as one of the zipline pirates zoomed overhead.

And then I saw the woman.

She lay prone on the floor, her face turned toward me. The light was so low that it was hard to tell more than that she was white and had short, dark hair.

"Hello?" I said. And then, "Are you okay?"

Nothing.

It was one more piece of the fun house, I told myself. As soon as I got close, she'd jump up and scare me. That was part of the fun—although how much fun was debatable. But even as I tried to convince myself, I knew I was wrong. This wasn't an animatronic parrot. It wasn't a glow-in-the-dark skeleton. It wasn't even a guy in a mascot costume zipping overhead with a sword.

She still hadn't moved.

I crossed the room and crouched next to her. Up close, I could make out more details: she was tan, her face lined, as though she'd spent much of her life in the sun. Dark hair. An overbite that made her look slightly like a rabbit. Her coat was worn at the cuffs, and the shirt underneath looked threadbare, as did her jeans. The soles of her boots were thin enough that they had cracked in places. She wasn't breathing, and when I tried, I couldn't find a pulse.

I got to my feet and ran.