Chapter 2

Dylan

I study the words.

What is he talking about?

Is he…

Is he here? I dart my gaze around the inside of the car, scanning one face after another, and then I look out the windows, tossing glances over both shoulders.

But I don’t see Hunter inside the truck, and there aren’t any cars following us.

How did he see the exchange?

I draw in air through my nose, hovering my thumb over my screen for a moment before I type.

But instead of asking Can I see you? like I’ve asked before, I text Where are you?

Where the hell is he? Why is he texting me now? After all this time?

The Read receipt appears, but he doesn’t reply.

Of course. I have half a mind to block his number. He doesn’t get to show up tonight. Now that I’m leaving.

Was Beck lying? Was Hunter in one of the St. Matthew’s cars, watching the whole time?

“We haven’t gotten a girl in the prisoner exchange in…” the guy in the passenger’s seat muses, checking with Farrow. “In how long?”

“You know how long,” Farrow Kelly replies, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and digging in his back pocket with the other.

He pulls out his phone, which I can hear buzzing.

The other one smiles back at me. “Oh, yeah,” he coos. “That.”

That.

The only other Pirate girl to get traded who, legend has it, died here.

I tear off the tape over my mouth.

They think they’re going to be something that happens to me. I’m done with that.

“Farrow, right?” I ask, meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he looks up from his phone. “I know you. Football star, team captain…” I pause and then say under my breath, “But that’s not fair, since you were also captain your senior year…which…was…last…year.”

A gleam hits his eyes, and I wonder if he blew off last semester just so he could play another season.

I turn to Coral Lapinski at my right, dropping my eyes to the necktie wrapped around her wrist over and over again like some kind of bracelet. “I watched you run last spring in the Regionals. One of the fastest miles in the state.”

She’s been offered scholarships, but I hear she has no interest in college, not even if it’s free.

She keeps her eyes forward, not acknowledging me. Her long, blonde hair is flipped over to one side, blowing across her face in the gust coming through the crack in the window. Everything from the tops of her ears down is shaved off.

I face the guy in the front passenger seat, half of his grin turned toward me. “Calvin Calderon?” I say, but then I fall quiet for a second. “I honestly don’t know much about you, except that I heard you think all dogs are boys and all cats are girls.”

Farrow shakes with a laugh.

“How good do you want to know me?” Calvin asks over his shoulder.

I cock an eyebrow. “How well…” I correct him.

And last but not least, I look to my left, to the dark-haired girl with the three roses tattooed on her hand. Aro’s told me about her. She’s the youngest of four.

“Mace, right?” I ask. “You—”

“I don’t give a shit what you think you know about me.”

Her brown eyes loom over me like a storm cloud, and I flash my gaze to the hand, the three roses flexing as she balls her fist.

I turn away. “Understood.”

“And you’re the daughter of Jared Trent,” Calvin calls out.

I stare at the back of his head. “It won’t be what you remember.”

Mace throws something in my lap, followed by a pen. “Sign it,” she says.

I pick up the sheet of paper, my handcuffs jiggling as I squint at the words inside the dark car. “I can’t read it.”

Coral brings up the flashlight on her phone, hovering it over the document. I scan the list of conditions, realizing it’s a permission slip for my enrollment at Weston High and my boarding here. “My parents are supposed to sign this.”

“Will they?”

I meet Farrow’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They probably would’ve signed it a year ago. They’re mad at me a lot more these days.

Wrists still bound, I pick up the pen and scribble my dad’s name and hand both back to Mace.

She only takes the pen. “Drop off the slip in the office tomorrow at school.”

I fold it up and work it into my pocket.

“When am I getting my clothes?” I ask Farrow.

We’re not heading in the direction of Shelburne Falls.

His phone lights up on the dash, and he swipes, then clicks out of the notification.

“I need things,” I tell him when he doesn’t reply. “My charger. My laptop and toothbrush. My pajamas.”

Another notification rolls in for him. He ignores it. “We have everything you need,” he finally says.

Calvin shoots him a look like Farrow’s veered off plan, and I study them both. What’s going on?

Farrow’s phone lights up again. He plucks it out of the stand and throws it in a cup holder.

I tense. They don’t have everything I need.

Like my underwear?

Farrow keeps going, though. Into town, up a road of broken concrete, and deep into the hills. Any remaining lights of Shelburne Falls on the other side of the river disappear.

I sigh. “So will I be able to get some sleep before the hazing starts?”

Farrow looks out his side window, flashing his Green Street tattoo in the rearview mirror—the word RIVER inked vertically, starting behind the earlobe and running down to nearly the base of his neck. A line strikes through the middle of the letters, from top to bottom.

Green Street is a gang, and I’m not sure if Farrow works for them yet, but that tattoo means he will. I don’t see one on Calvin, and I don’t want to turn my head to study Coral or Mace’s necks, because they’ll know I’m staring.

My cousin Hawke has the tattoo, but only because Aro, his girlfriend, is from here. She was Green Street property. If he wanted what was theirs, he had to get branded.

I look down at my phone again, still not seeing a response from Hunter.

The truck swerves, and I glance at Farrow, trying to type on his phone as he drives.

“Everything okay up there?” I ask him.

Someone is burning up his phone.

But he keeps typing. “Don’t worry.”

We wind through a neighborhood, left and then right, orange, red, and brown leaves kicking up under the tires and flying into the air. Abandoned storefronts and dark apartment buildings sit on both sides of the street, and I spot a small park, shrouded under a canopy of leaves. I can just make out a playset with a slide through a hole in the trees.

Farrow blows through a red light, cruising past a bar with one light outside the door and no windows, and I watch as he takes another left, not signaling.

“So, who am I staying with?” I ask them.

“I doubt any of our places will be up to your standards,” Mace says.

“Try me.”

“No Starbucks,” Coral chimes in. “No little shopping districts. No city landscaping.”

“No traffic laws either, it appears,” I add, feeling Farrow speed way above the limit. “What do you all want out of this?”

They won’t let me go home, not even to collect my belongings.

They won’t tell me who I’m staying with.

“I won’t run away screaming,” I warn them.

Farrow slows, pulling up alongside the curb in front of a row of townhouses. “But we’re certainly going to piss you off,” he says.

A snort goes off somewhere in the truck, and then everyone pops open their doors and climbs out. Peering beyond the windows, I see others loitering in the street and on the sidewalk, music vibrating under the tires. I only hesitate a moment before I follow.

Groups of people sit in tiered positions on porch stairs, while others stand around burnt-out street lamps and cars that look like they haven’t moved in a decade. An ’80s, two-door green Dodge that looks like it weighs more than my house sits lopsided on two flat tires, a young guy with dark hair and a leather jacket, fisting a plastic cup, leans against it.

I slam the door to the truck, Farrow and his crew waiting for me. Turning, they lead me like we’re on parade, everyone’s eyes following me as I float past.

They still haven’t told me where I’m sleeping. I cast my gaze around, seeing both sides of the street lined with the same style brownstone townhouses, but for whatever reason—either age, wear, or damage—they’re close to looking black. They might’ve been impressive once.

Gazing ahead, I see this street disappear into the horizon, a few lights in Shelburne Falls glittering in the distance.

We’re high. This neighborhood sits on a hill.

And these houses…they’re not cheap. Or they weren’t back in the day.

Something pulls at my memory.

What is this place? Most of the houses in Weston are one story, with clapboard siding and overrun lawns.

Here, wrought iron railings lead the way up stone staircases to rich, wooden doors and mostly dark windows, although the house to my right has a soft glow coming from the second floor.

“Oh, shit,” someone gasps.

I look to see a guy with his head turned over his shoulder, gaping at me.

Mace stops me and unfastens my cuffs, taking them off as another young guy drifts past me. “It’s going to be a long two weeks, baby,” he taunts.

“Has she had her shots?” someone else jokes.

But then Farrow swipes something off the top of an old wooden barrel, handing me a drink. About two fingers of something cloudy white.

I don’t even smell it. I hand it back.

Amused, Farrow swallows the contents in one gulp.

“Where are—” But my phone rings, cutting me off.

I look at the screen, hoping it’s not my parents.

Kind of wanting it to be Kade. Kind of not.

But Aro’s name stares back at me instead. I answer. “Hey.”

“Dylan!” she shouts, but static suddenly fills my ear. “Don’t go in—”

And then more static.

I look at the screen, seeing the call is still connected. “What?” I shout for her to repeat.

“Someone—” Again, her voice disappears.

Farrow Kelly starts to head deeper into the crowd, and I crane my neck, trying to keep tabs on him.

“Can I call you back?” I start to follow. “You’re cutting out.”

“Knock Hill—”

“Huh?” I cover my other ear to hear better.

“Dylan!” she shouts again.

“I can’t hear you.” I shake my head, losing sight of Farrow and pushing through people to catch up. “Text me, okay?”

I hang up, remembering as soon as I end the call that she’s from Weston. Kade would’ve told her and Hawke by now that I got traded in the prisoner exchange. She sounded worried.

I hop up onto the sidewalk, stopping at Farrow’s side as he pulls off his hat and tosses it through a back seat window of an old black Pontiac GTO. I withhold my shudder. Pontiacs…

“Where are the adults?” I ask.

I don’t see anyone here over twenty.

He starts to walk away, glancing back at me. “You know, some people wanted your cousin in the prisoner exchange.” He runs his fingers through his greasy blond hair as I follow. “They thought he’d be fun. Personally, I wanted Thomasin Dietrich.” He takes a shot off another barrel tabletop, turning to face me. “I mean, she’s practically a Rebel anyway, and in no time, she’ll be an adult. She wants to be one of us.”

“But she’s not old enough.”

He nods. “Yeah…” Almost like he’s thinking out loud.

Thomasin Dietrich is Nate and Piper’s kid, and she’s a freshman. And she’s a Pirate, but only reluctantly. If she weren’t at the mercy of her address, she’d come to school here instead. I’ve seen her hanging out with the Rebels a lot over the past couple of years when she was—and still is—far too young to be out of the house, on her own, at any hour of the night.

This place is an escape for her. She suffocates in the Falls like I do, both, in part, due to our parents’ history.

“But more than anything,” Farrow continues, “I wanted a girl.”

I tilt my head, seeing him grin. His eyes dance like something downright evil is playing behind them, which is even more eerie, because they’re such an innocent shade of blue. Like cornflowers.

“It couldn’t have worked out better,” he boasts.

“Yeah, considering—” Calvin starts to say.

But Farrow interjects. “Shhh.”

People drift by, their eyes taking me in, and he continues walking, passing an old Nova with the engine running. The six-liter pipes pump out exhaust in clouds, the car rumbling on the pavement as a young woman leans back against the fender with her shirt unbuttoned.

I don’t watch where I’m walking. Just stare as the car vibrates against her body, making the slivers of her breasts I can see shake. She peels off the shirt, standing topless as everyone gazes at her, and some guy stalks up to her, pulling off his T-shirt. She dares him with her eyes, and everyone watches as he takes her ass in his hands and presses his naked chest to hers.

And they keep going.

I narrow my eyes, watching him unzip the back of her skirt and then start to unfasten his jeans, their eyes never leaving each other, and no one else’s gaze faltering from them. Their bodies pulsate against each other, trembling with the car, and my feet move under me, taking them out of my line of sight.

What the f—?

“So why did you volunteer?” I hear Farrow ask.

But I still crane my neck, trying to see if the exhibitionists are taking everything off. “What are they doing?”

But my voice is barely a whisper.

“Was it ego?” he doesn’t seem to hear me.

“Escape?” Calvin chimes in.

I turn my attention back to them, Farrow broaching further. “Entertainment, maybe? Is that why you volunteered?”

“We’re soooo entertaining,” Mace jeers, circling me.

A deep brown townhouse looms behind Farrow, a light glowing in both of the bottom-floor windows and one on the second. Tattered curtains hang over them, and I spot the house number on a black oval plaque with gold trim next to the large brown front door.

01.

I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what I wanted to say. Something scratches at a far corner of my brain.

House numbers beginning with zero are rare. I’m remembering something.

01…10. Zero-one. One-zero.

I glance at the houses on both sides of this one. 1313 to my left. 1323 to my right. 1333 next to that one…

I’m lost in thought when Farrow continues. “You came with us because you thought that who your father is would matter. You wanted a fresh audience, didn’t you?”

The house behind Farrow is misnumbered. It doesn’t fit in the sequence with the others on the street.

Zero-one.

And backwards, it reads, One-zero.

Zero-one.

One-zero.

Zero-one.

One-zero.

And then it hits me.

01 and 10. My face falls. Their football numbers.

I shoot my eyes up, taking in the house again. Three stories, a gable over the entryway, a small lantern on the right side of the grand door, and the shadow of the flame inside dancing against the dark house.

This is where she was last seen.

“Knock Hill,” I whisper.

That’s what Aro had said.

This neighborhood is Knock Hill, but while all of the houses lining both sides of the road are similar, there’s only one that’s infamous.

He brought me to the house.

“Well, it does matter who your father is,” Farrow goes on.

“Good,” I say, but my voice shakes a little now. “He doesn’t take his anger out on who deserves it. He takes it out on whoever he can reach. Be careful.”

I steel my jaw. I’m not running home.

My phone rings, buzzing in my hand, and I hold it up, but before I can see who’s calling, Mace snatches it away.

“Hey.” I reach to take it back, but she tosses it to Calvin, who glances at the screen and smirks.

“Aro Marquez,” he says, handing it to Farrow.

He takes it. “She’s too late.”

“Where are the adults?” I ask.

“I’m an adult.”

“Where am I staying?” I demand next. “What’s going on?”

They stare at me, Mace and Calvin flanking their boy. Calvin tips his head toward Farrow. “He won’t like this.”

He?

But Farrow tells him, “He’ll love it.”

Who will love what? Jesus, fuck.

The door to the house opens, and Coral Lapinski appears, jogging down the steps with a couple of other girls.

“We good?” Farrow asks her.

She nods, sliding her hands into her jacket pockets and looking at me.

“Are you sure about this?” Calvin questions Farrow.

But Farrow ignores him, closing the distance between us and holding out his hand. “You need sleep. Come on.”

I fold my arms over my chest. He drops his hand, turns, and leads the way up the stairs.

Everyone else stays put, as do I.

They’d be stupid to harm me, right?

But then again, are any of them smart? Prone to common sense?

They didn’t know I was coming tonight, though. I don’t think they had a chance to throw together a prank.

Or plan a murder.

Right now, most of the people I care about don’t know where I am or what I’m doing, and I kind of like that, because I’m always the one chasing.

Chasing Kade’s notice.

Chasing my dad and his approval.

Chasing Hunter.

If I completely disappear, maybe they’ll wonder about me for once.

I start after Farrow, the others staying behind.

He opens the door to the house, a small light glowing in the foyer. I see a hardwood floor, the sheen worn away, and stairs leading up to the second floor. A gloomy lantern hangs over the top landing.

He holds the door open, and I step inside, hearing him close it behind me.

I cast my eyes in a long sweep over the area. What appears to be a living room sits to my right. There’s a green velvet couch and a small end table, but nothing else. No TV that I can see.

I arch my neck though the entryway, seeing a refrigerator in the next space, but I can’t see the whole kitchen from here.

There’s a hallway ahead, more doorways, possibly to a dining room and bathroom. There’s probably a back door, but I’m not sure about a yard. The houses are close together.

I don’t see parents. No host family.

“About twenty years ago, there was a flood here,” Farrow tells me. “You knew that, right?”

I shift, the gritty unvarnished floor grinding under my shoes.

“Yes,” I mumble.

We climbed higher in elevation from the bridge to get to Knock Hill, but the river isn’t the only thing that threatens to flood during heavy rains.

The waterfalls my town is named after empty into a pool that feeds a stream that overflows into a spillway when needed.

But that year, as I was told, the spillway didn’t hold.

The highway was washed out, people literally had to stop their cars, get out, and run.

“Shelburne Falls had the infrastructure to keep the overflow at bay,” he tells me. “We didn’t, because our city budget went right into bad peoples’ pockets. They got rich, driving this town into the ground.”

It would be unrealistic to harbor a grudge against my town over weather that we couldn’t control, but if I were them, I might be bitter. It’s understandable. I’m just impressed he knows the City of Weston is to blame too.

The water filled this neighborhood like dirty water in a shallow teacup, and even though these houses sit six feet off the ground, relatively safe, the businesses downtown didn’t survive. The owners, many of them Knock Hill residents, evacuated.

“And most of Weston never came back,” he says.

Even after the water receded…

It was this week, twenty-two years ago, in fact. The same year the last girl from Shelburne Falls was a prisoner here.

She was in this house.

There were brothers.

Pranks, parties, the big game…

And rain. There was lots of rain.

But no one knows what happened in this house. I don’t think people in Weston even know that their story started in the Falls, either.

In Carnival Tower.

It’s an old speakeasy hidden away, between Rivertown—the bar and grill on High Street—and Frosted, my aunt Quinn’s bake shop. Only a few of us know it’s there, tucked away between the walls to unsuspecting people walking by on the sidewalk.

Our story tells of a Weston guy in love with a Falls girl, but she hated him. In his desperation, he killed himself, and his best friend—along with his crew—invaded a house one night while she was babysitting. Some say he intended to kill her. Get revenge. But the story says he seduced her instead, up against the floor-to-ceiling mirror that still hangs in Quinn’s shop.

And some say the boy who reportedly killed himself over her watched his friend get revenge for him from the other side of the glass.

We discovered through old cell phones left in the tower that they weren’t friends at all. They were brothers—twins—and maybe, just maybe, the one who loved her faked his death to plot revenge. Or maybe, he was the one pinning her up against the glass, finally getting what he wanted.

The story goes that they decided to prolong their payback. They let her live that night and invented the tradition of the prisoner exchange to get her across the river and into their house instead. This house.

“You want the place?” Farrow asks me.

I turn my head. “What?”

He approaches me, hands in his pockets. “You’re going to have freedom here you’ve never known.” The vein under the Green Street tattoo on his tan neck throbs. “No supervision. No curfews. And we’ll get you keys to a bike.”

My eyes widen.

“Yeah, I know all about you and your daddy not training you.” He smirks, suddenly looking twelve instead of nineteen. “You’re going to have a great time here, kid.”

A bike? They’re really lending one to me? Maybe this won’t be so bad—

But then he grabs me, circling my waist with one arm and squeezing my neck with his other hand as he backs me into the wall.

I gasp, immediately planting my hands on his chest and shoving as hard as I can.

He just comes closer, biting out words in my face. “But you will stand with us through everything we do to Shelburne Falls over the next two weeks,” he grits out. “And I promise…” He tightens his arm around me so hard I can’t breathe. “Dylan Trent, you will sweat in this house.”

I suck in a breath. What?

“Your virginity won’t leave Weston.”

I stare at him, and then he pinches my jaw, jerking my head to the side, so he can bite out in my ear, “I want your blood on our sheets.”

What the fuck? Anger boils in my stomach. I shove him away, and he finally releases me, holding up his hands, chuckling.

“Oh, make no mistake. You’re going to consent the fuck out of that, you’ll want it so bad.”

“I dare you,” I spit back.

No one has ever tried to get me into bed, and I would do it if I wanted to, but I won’t be some trophy. He can try.

And how the hell did he know I was still a virgin?

He chuckles. “The house is yours,” he tells me. “School tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven.” He starts to leave, tossing a final thought over his shoulder. “If you’re still here.”

He opens the door, turning for just a moment to fling my phone back to me. I catch it, watching as he closes the door, and I rush up to lock it behind him.

Asshole.

I turn, crashing back against the door. What the hell? They have parents. The school is run by adults. Is no one worried about a liability issue? This is sanctioned by the school board and the parents. The teachers are expecting someone. Wouldn’t the administration already have a host family ready?

I’ll have to tell them where I’m living when I show up to the school tomorrow. They’ll sort it out then.

I listen to the party outside, a couple of engines rumbling and fading away, and I drift my gaze around the foyer and up the stairs.

Wallpaper peels from the walls, dust coats the modest chandelier above my head, and the varnish is worn away on every step up to the second floor. There are no pictures on the walls or furniture in the entryway, and I push off, strolling into the living room.

I’m anxious to see if there’s a bed upstairs, but I want to make sure the back door and windows are locked.

I should call Aro.

I should call my mom and have her pick me up.

At the very least, I know I’m safe at home. Maybe this isn’t worth it.

Checking the living room, I secure one window, but the other latch won’t slide. I lock eyes with some dude outside as he laughs and drinks with his friends. He flips me off, and I yank the curtains closed like it does any good, because they’re sheer and full of holes, so he can still see me. I can practically feel his amusement as I spin around and head into the kitchen.

I open up the two-door fridge, the off-white color yellowed with age, with wood-grain accents on the handles popular way before my parents were born.

There’s a plastic pitcher of something red on the top shelf, a loaf of bread half gone, and a small container of butter. I take it out and open it, seeing knife marks in the spread and toast crumbs. Mold grows around the edges of the container, and I put it back, grabbing the bread. Turning over the package in my hands, all I see is green inside. I throw it back in the fridge and close the door, taking another look around.

That food isn’t recent, but it’s not twenty years old, either.

The house, from what I’ve seen so far, isn’t comfortable or very clean, but it doesn’t look mistreated. Not like it’s used by teenagers who just want to drink and practice their graffiti, or by squatters who hole up here day in and day out.

A table sits in the small room on the other side of the kitchen, an old Ethan Allen six-seater. Windows show trees behind the house, but I don’t walk over to investigate further.

I check all the windows and the back door before heading through the kitchen, into the living room again, and toward the foyer.

I start up the stairs, dialing Aro back, but before I can send the call, the floor above me creaks.

I halt.

Gripping the railing with one hand and my phone with the other, I listen.

That sounded like a footstep.

I train my ears, waiting for it again, but nothing happens.

It’s probably a prank.

I rock back and forth a little, because I don’t want to stay, but the last thing I want to do is swallow my pride and run, either.

It’s a prank. I take another step, a creak vibrating under my foot, and I sigh, continuing up. Houses creak. Maybe it was just the stairs.

Upstairs, the walls are just as empty, except for the five closed doors. If anyone is in the house, they’re behind one of them.

Taking the handle of the door to my left, I open it to find a bathroom. I flip on the light.

There’s a porcelain sink, built-in shelves and drawers for storage, and a bathtub shower with the curtain closed. I don’t hesitate. I throw it open, sucking in a breath and thankful to find it empty.

I move to the next room, seeing a linen closet behind the door, but all it’s stocked with is old two-by-fours with nails sticking out of them and a Dustbuster. Like, the first Dustbuster ever.

There’s a bedroom to the right, empty except for a corner table and chair.

No dark, mysterious shadows loom behind the curtains. No bloodstains on the floor.

I close the door, moving to the next room which has a bed. Yay. And a dresser. And torn posters plastered on the walls, most of which I can’t make out what they’re advertising. Movies? Bands?

There’s no bedding, not even a pillow, and I am not that brave. I’d rather sleep on the floor than on an unwashed mattress with an undocumented history.

Closing the door, I move to the last one, not sure what I’m going to do if it’s a bust, as well.

But when I open the door, I’m hit with the scent of flowers. Something warms under my skin, making my hair rise, and I step in, unable to take it in fast enough.

It’s a guy’s room, but it certainly doesn’t smell like Hawke’s or my brother’s. It smells like shampoo and my mom’s perfume and Juliet’s candles.

Unlike the others, this one is furnished with a twin bed, black wooden dresser to match the headboard, and a nightstand on the wall next to the bed. A desk sits to my right, next to the closet door, with an old wooden chair that looks like it might’ve been part of the dining set downstairs. A bookshelf stands behind me, to my left, and there’s a Chesterfield chair in the diagonal corner, next to the desk.

And ahead of me, there’s a window. Leaves flutter outside, and I see brick through the branches. Must be the next house on the other side of the tree. Hmm. I have a tree outside my bedroom window at home. Except my room—my mom’s old room—has French doors instead of a window.

Reaching over, I feel for a switch, but when I flip it, nothing happens. I flip it a few more times, with no success. A lamp sits on the bedside table, so I walk over and reach under the shade, turning the knob. Soft light fills the room, and I’m about to go to the window, but I spot the white sheets on the bed below. Peeling them back, I scan the fitted sheet, just making sure I don’t see anything weird.

I lean down. It even smells good. I grunt my approval, pretty damn grateful. This must’ve been what Coral was doing in the house. Putting fresh sheets on the bed.

Which means they weren’t expecting to keep anyone here before I jumped in the truck tonight. Otherwise, they would’ve had the room ready. Why the change of plans?

The walls are café au lait, but I can tell they’re faded from age and probably from the sunlight that streams though the windows during the day. There are several dark patches where pictures used to hang.

Walking to the closet, I breathe deep, expecting anything. It’s the last place I haven’t checked.

But when I open the white door, there are only clothes. No hidden prankster. No monsters or Pirate girl killers.

The house is empty.

But I thin my eyes, noticing something. The clothes aren’t men’s.

Shoving hangers aside, I slide one after another, taking in the jeans, T-shirts, three classic Gap tees—which I think they stopped making years ago—two skirts, a few tanks, and one silk crop top. I pull out the jacket, running my fingers down the black wool and large orange S on the breast. It’s a Pirate varsity jacket like mine, but this one has a number on the arm—eighty-two.

And it’s the real deal. My school doesn’t sell these anymore.

We have everything you need…

I shake my head, hanging the coat back in the closet. They certainly went to great lengths to keep up the pretense of an urban legend. Like I’m really supposed to think these are Winslet’s clothes? The Pirate girl who supposedly died during Rivalry Week?

I start to close the door, but I hear bells and stop.

I freeze, listening to the one special ringtone that I haven’t heard in a year.

The one especially for Hunter.

I release the door, my heart punching like a hammer every time I exhale.

He liked bells. Chimes.

I hold up my phone, seeing his name.

Swiping, I hold my phone to my ear.

“You should go home,” he says.

I close my eyes.

I haven’t heard his voice in a long time. It’s quiet, parts of his words falling to whispers but always strong. Strolling to the window, I tip my chin a little higher as I stare into the dark night.

“How do you know where I am?” I ask.

Hunter is silent for a moment. And then finally, he repeats, “You should go home.”

“Then come and get me.”

I have no idea what’s going on or how he knows I left Shelburne Falls, but if he’s worried and wants me home, then he can come here and make me. He had his chance to answer the phone. Or any one of my texts.

“Where are you?” I ask. “You’re not at Ciaran’s anymore.”

He was staying with his grandfather in the Chicago suburbs while he attended St. Matthew’s. If he’s not going to school there this year, then where is he?

“Are you home?” I press. “Maybe in Hawke’s hideout doing your classes online?”

Lurking right under our noses…

Hawke discovered Carnival Tower, and since one of the entrances is in Frosted, we can access it easily. Especially since Frosted is only open in the summers right now with Quinn still attending college at Notre Dame, and we don’t have to worry about her finding out and telling our parents.

She’s our dads’ sister, but we don’t call her aunt. It feels weird. With only a few years on us, she’s more of a cousin to us.

Maybe Hunter knows about it, and that’s where he’s been. I don’t give a shit.

“Are you strong now?” I taunt. “Did you come back to face us finally?”

“You think I still have a chip on my shoulder after a year?” Hunter keeps his tone low. “I have my own life now. You’re not that important.”

Leaves sway in the light breeze, and I notice the music outside has long-since stopped. I only hear him in my ear.

It’s good to know where I stand. As if his silence over the past several months wasn’t enough of a hint.

“Neither are you,” I tell him. “Either of you. So let me be.”

I’m staying.

He’s quiet for several moments, and I expect to hear the click of him hanging up, but before he does, he speaks one more time. “You’re not alone in that house.”

My stomach dips, and he ends the call.

What?

I train my ears, listening.

But the house is quiet. He’s just trying to scare me off. If he really thought I was in danger, he’d haul me out of here. He may be angry for whatever reason, but he wouldn’t let me be hurt.

Would he?

I hover my thumb over my phone screen, diving in and opening the app. I never looked in the year he’s been gone, because I always thought I knew where he was, and it wasn’t cool to be some kind of stalker.

But I click on Hunter’s name, and a blue dot suddenly appears, the location of the phone he just called me from right next to me.

I zoom in, again and again, and I stop breathing.

Raising my eyes, I gaze through the tree outside my window and into the dark room in the house directly across from me.

He’s here.

He’s in Weston.