10

M iles was supposed to be meeting Gabriel at the library in half an hour and he couldn't find his sketchbook.

He'd brought it home from school, pulled it out of his backpack, and then at some point it had vanished. It had other sketches from the vision he'd been working on, so he couldn't leave it here.

They'd finished digging through yesterday's books without finding anything helpful, so Miles had thrown out the idea of going to the library to check the city records for any other properties the Hawthornes might own. Gabriel wasn't excited about it—Miles was beginning to suspect excitement was a foreign emotion to him—but hadn't objected strongly enough to dissuade him.

It'd been a great idea up until Miles got home and his mom innocently asked him what his plans for the rest of the day were. He'd been sure everything was written all over his face, that she'd be able to see Gabriel's Hawthorne aura clinging to him. He'd gone through the trouble of concocting a whole ridiculous story to explain where he was going but panicked and mumbled about homework. It was becoming clear that Miles wasn't cut out for all this lying and sneaking around. He didn't understand how some people found the energy to do it constantly.

"Hey." His mom knocked softly on his open bedroom door, summoned by his guilt-ridden worrying. "You have a minute?"

Miles's heart was already racing. The last thing he wanted was for her to come in. God, she was going to catch him. She was going to catch him and if he managed to survive, she'd ground him until he was thirty. A prisoner in his own home, doomed to be known forever as a traitor to his family.

"Sure," he made himself say, wincing at the squeak in his voice. "What's up?"

She perched on the edge of his bed. "I wanted to let you know there's another party on Friday. It's Jane Bryant's birthday, and we'll be leaving around six. Good news—no suit required this time."

He couldn't think of anything he wanted to do less than go to a party and pretend he wasn't in the middle of a crisis.

"Got it. Friday. Leaving at six."

She gave him a reassuring smile. "It'll be a nice time. No Hawthornes, so it's already better than the last one."

His speeding heart screeched to a halt at the mention. "Oh? They weren't invited?"

"I'm sure they were. But Felicity can't stand to mingle with the lower-class families, unless it's at her mansion where she can make everyone feel inferior."

He didn't doubt it.

"Emily Montero will be there," Sarah continued. "I had her mom over for lunch last week and she mentioned Emily doesn't have a boyfriend. I know the two of you grew apart, but this would be a good chance to reconnect. You were just the cutest couple as kids, and we always joked you'd end up together. Maybe…?"

"Mom!" Mortification rushed through Miles. "Emily and I barely know each other anymore."

It was true. Emily's mom, Catalina, and Miles's mom had both married into gifted families, so they spent a lot of time together. Which meant they'd always pushed Miles, Emily, and Charlee into the living room and told them to keep busy while gossiping in the office over coffee. The three of them were bus buddies all through elementary school, had scary movie sleepovers in Charlee's room, and spent hot summers splashing around in Emily's backyard pool.

Middle school changed things. Miles started a year before Emily, Charlee two years before that, so their schedules didn't match anymore, especially once he started helping after school with jobs. Emily played soccer and started making new friends, then her parents got divorced. She stayed in Thistle with her dad, but her mom left to stay with her family in Columbia, so the coffee and gossip visits stopped. Thinking back, Miles was ashamed he hadn't made an effort to see her, to be there for her during the divorce, but she had other people by then who knew how to comfort her better. Or at least, that was an easy excuse at the time.

"That's not true," his mom said dismissively. "People don't change that much in a few years. And you two go to school together, you must see her sometimes."

Well, yeah, because Thistle High was so small it was impossible to avoid anyone even if you tried. Their interactions were limited to waves in the hallway and the occasional small talk in the cafeteria line. It was always good to see her, they just weren't close like they used to be.

"Can we not do this, please?" Miles could hear the misery in his words.

"All I'm saying is, you can view these parties as a fresh start with her. It'll be good for you to have a friend there."

Friend . As if she wasn't obviously angling for a love match. "I'll think about it," he said, desperate to get her to stop.

"I'm not trying to put you on the spot, but I worry about you. When I was your age, I was with friends all the time, going on dates, in clubs at school… Your dad and I decided not to homeschool you and your sisters so you could have a chance at normalcy."

They always said that, but the words were empty. There was always a line—have fun playing pretend as a normal highschooler, until a job came up. Until he got injuries that would make people ask questions, then he was home for the week with "the flu." Until his grades slipped and he drew unwanted attention from his teachers who would give him an extra hard look, ask his parents in for a chat, question his home life. Until he graduated and he had to throw away his farfetched art college dream for the family business.

A chance at normalcy would mean something if his future had ever actually been a choice. But the line was always there.

"No offense, Mom, but you weren't born into this family. You had normalcy because you were normal. I'm not."

"That doesn't mean you can't have friends or do things or—"

"Everyone in Thistle already thinks we're a family of weirdos, and not the cool kind. I have to lie to people constantly. I can't be honest about what we do, how I spend my free time, what my plans after school are."

She didn't get it. Between the lying, the social anxiety, and the fact most of his classmates would be moving away after next year for college while he stayed behind, it was easier not to bother.

His mom sighed. "Start with talking to Emily for me, okay? You need friends you can be yourself around, it'll help you come out of your shell."

She wasn't totally wrong. Miles had talked with Gabriel more in the last few days than with anyone at his school in the last month. Necessity aside, it was kinda nice to be himself. Not counting Charlee, Gabriel was probably the closest thing Miles had to a friend, because he had zero competition. Which was just… depressing.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed.

Satisfied with her meddling, his mom left. Miles waited for the stairs to creak as she went downstairs before grabbing the nearest pillow and chucking it across the room. It hit the door, narrowly avoiding Charlee as she poked her head in.

Her eyebrows flew up. "I won't bother asking how your day went."

Miles collapsed face-first onto his bed.

Charlee came over and offered him half of the heart-shaped sugar cookie in her hand. It was the bigger half.

"You heard all of that, didn't you?"

"Sorry. I didn't want to interrupt." When he waved away her cookie, too queasy for sugar, she took a big chomp out of it, crumbs raining down onto his comforter. "Emily, huh? I guess we should've seen this coming—Aunt Sarah's always been rooting for your childhood-friends-to-lovers fairytale romance."

His stomach churned. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Charlee bit her lip, but didn't push. She always knew when to let things go, a rare and underrated quality.

"Wanna help me with something?" he asked, hoping she pitied him enough to oblige. He needed to get out of this house. "Fair warning: it's Gabriel related."

"I'm not sneaking him in here for you."

Miles had a brief flash of Charlee helping to pull Gabriel through his bedroom window, Gabriel looking around, nose wrinkled in distaste at the secondhand decor and chaotic clutter.

"No," he said quickly. " Never . We're meeting at the library in a bit—can you distract my mom so I can sneak out?"

She groaned. "Listen, you know I support you finally having a rebellious phase, but does it have to be with Gabriel Hawthorne?"

"Would you rather I start smoking behind the school? Steal a motorcycle and ride it around town late at night? Flip off old ladies?"

"Yes."

He snorted. "Well, sorry to disappoint. Are you going to help me or not?"

"Fine. But you owe me."

"I'll grab you some candy on the way home."

"Sour watermelons. Two bags, minimum."

"Deal." It was a small price to pay for her to run interference.

Miles rolled off his bed and stretched, checking the time on his phone—he needed to get going. While he wasn't thrilled to see Gabriel again, it did feel good to finally be working on something. Even when it was a futile waste of time, according to everyone else.

"Is that him?" Charlee asked.

"Hmm?" Miles turned and found her staring at his open sketchbook on the bed, his drawing of Gabriel facing up. It must've been tucked under his comforter, out of sight. "Oh, uh, yeah, that's him." He wasn't sure why he felt so self-conscious. "I'm trying to get everything down from my latest vision."

She pursed her lips. "Well, at least now I know why you're so invested in saving him."

"What—what's that supposed to mean?"

"Please." She all but rolled her eyes. "He looks like the handsome-but-tortured love interest in every teen drama ever. Don't tell me—he reads depressing poetry, stares wistfully out at the rain, and he's mean to you, but in a mysteriously sexy kind of way?"

"Oh my God, shut up."

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong." Even if Gabriel was objectively attractive—and that was a huge if —his rotten personality canceled it out. "I'm going to the bathroom and when I get back, you'd better be gone. Mom isn't going to distract herself."

He stuffed his sketchbook into his backpack as she snickered, not seeming remotely concerned.

"Hey, make sure you ask Gabriel all about"—she threw herself dramatically across the bed, dropping her voice as low as she could—"the tragic accident that wasn't his fault but he still feels responsible for and uses as an excuse to never love again."

Someone kill him.

"You're ridiculous." Miles grabbed the pillow from earlier and hurled it at her again. "I'm done with this conversation."

"Don't forget my sour watermelons!" she called after him as he escaped into the hallway. He regretted ever asking for her help.

***

"Wait, wait, wait."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time." Miles bumped the crosswalk button again, the robotic voice getting louder. When the walk symbol finally lit up green, he jogged across the street as fast as he could with two hot drinks in his hands and a heavy backpack on his shoulder.

Thistle Public Library was a formidable old brick building squatting in the middle of the town. It was four stories tall, with stained-glass windows on the top floor that lit up when the sun set, and sparse hedges lining the front sidewalk. Its parking lot was always inevitably, annoyingly, frustratingly full.

Between the line at the coffee stand, circling the parking lot twice with no luck and having to go down three whole blocks to find a spot, he was officially running late.

He pushed through the front door of the library and hurried to the stairs that led to the top floors. Taking them two at a time didn't accomplish much besides leaving him embarrassingly out of breath, but a few seconds later he was in front of an unimpressed Gabriel.

"You waited," Miles panted out in surprise.

Even with the effortless, put-together air that Gabriel always exuded—a skill all Hawthornes must be well-trained in—he seemed awkwardly out of place against the backdrop of chipped wooden tables and faded chairs that had been here as long as the building.

"I did. Despite you being"—Gabriel examined the clock on the wall—"nearly fifteen minutes late to our appointment."

Appointment . He sounded like Miles's doctor.

Miles murmured, "Sorry," and led Gabriel to a table in the far-left corner, out of view of anyone coming up the stairs. "We can sit here."

He watched Gabriel shrug out of his coat, then roll up the sleeves of his white button-up with quick, practiced movements. His forearms were as pale as the rest of him, his wrists slender, almost delicate. With the contrasting rainbow of books shelved behind him, he looked plucked out of a black-and-white photograph.

Gabriel paused, making it clear he'd noticed the staring.

"Uh, these are for you." Miles set the two drinks down. "I mean, whichever you want is yours. One's tea and the other's coffee. I didn't know which you liked, obviously, but I like both, so I'll drink whichever you don't want…" He took the tea when Gabriel pulled the coffee to his side. "Oh, and here, I almost forgot." Shaking out his jacket pockets, sugar and little containers of creamer clattered onto the table.

Hesitating, Gabriel took two packets of sugar and poured them into his coffee.

It was Miles's attempt at a peace offering. If one of them didn't try, they weren't going to make it five minutes without strangling each other.

Taking a sip, Gabriel grimaced and pushed the cup back to the middle of the table.

Miles stared at the nearest bookcase and sent a plea to the universe for restraint. If that wasn't possible, a nice heavy book to hit Gabriel with would do.

"So… I was thinking about this part I read in the book you gave me, about the original Hawthorne house on your property—"

"It's a dead end," Gabriel declared without hesitation. "It was demolished when my great-great-grandmother, Florence Hawthorne, had the current house built. I've walked our property extensively and never seen even a sign of it. It doesn't fit what we're looking for anyway—no basements or lower levels."

Gabriel's idea of fun would be something boring like walking around their massive property, scowling at squirrels and stomping on wildflowers. Miles supposed wandering around outside must be better than being trapped in that creepy mansion.

"My brother likes to explore," Gabriel added. It was the first bit of info he'd willingly offered up about his family. "I asked him if he's come across anything similar to the room you described, but he said no."

Yet another dead end.

"I've been going over the first vision for anything I might have missed, but there's not much. You're wearing a white button-up, which I thought might be helpful, a shirt you'd only wear for a special occasion, but"—he skimmed Gabriel's current outfit—"apparently not."

"No." The certainty in his tone had Miles picturing one of those old, fancy wardrobes filled to the brim with identical white button-ups.

"Then I don't think there's anything helpful in it."

"Unsurprisingly. That seems to be the theme with your visions." Gabriel managed to make it sound like it was Miles's fault.

There was that Hawthorne charm he'd been waiting for. Talking to Gabriel was like tiptoeing across a floor, not knowing which step would trigger a trapdoor beneath your feet. The kind with lots of big pointy spikes waiting for you at the bottom.

It was okay. Miles had prepared for this. He could be civil.

"That's true," he agreed, keeping his voice calm. Unbothered. He was totally unbothered. One hundred percent. "But they're still the only thing we have to go on. So, what if—and I'm just throwing out an idea here—you could stop being so condescending and appreciate that I'm contributing. Or, even better, you can find something useful."

Yeah, civility had probably never been a realistic option. But hey, he'd tried.

Gabriel's lip curled. "Yes, how could I forget what you've brought to the table—jumbled, pointless visions, an over-inflated sense of self-worth, and a general air of bumbling confusion. You're right, the lack of progress is clearly my fault."

"Do you get a sort of sick satisfaction out of going for the lowest blow possible?"

"It's called being efficient."

Miles refused to be goaded into an insult-slinging contest. "You don't have to be so rude all the time," he snapped, trying to will away the heat creeping up his neck. He could do this; he could be the bigger person.

"I know, but I find insulting you rather therapeutic, if I'm being honest."

Seriously? He was such a jerk.

"I can't believe I was surprised someone wants to murder you," Miles muttered, then clamped his mouth closed, horrified. He hadn't meant for that to slip out. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

Murder.

Neither of them had said it, but they both had to be thinking it—Gabriel wasn't an idiot, and Miles just knew. He could feel it in his gut.

"Sorry," he mumbled again. How did he always end up being the bad guy when Gabriel started it?

Gabriel dismissed the apology with a flick of his fingers, like he was shooing away a pesky fly instead of discussing his own murder. "I already assumed as much. You saw blood on my face, so it's presumably a head injury. That implies several things, none of which are particularly helpful." He scrutinized Miles, considering. "You don't have any murderous tendencies, do you?"

Miles didn't appreciate him joking about that, especially knowing he was going to be there—Gabriel had been looking at him, talking to him in his vision. The possibilities had haunted him the last few days.

"If I'm going to be there," he said slowly, "wouldn't the easiest way to change the future be to make sure I'm not ?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"That maybe this isn't the best idea. If I'm with you when you die, and I'm only with you right now because we're working together on this, doesn't that imply it could be what makes your death happen in the first place?"

"You think that in our attempt to prevent this, we're going to bring the vision to fruition?"

"Yeah." It had been eating at him relentlessly. "Don't you?"

If Miles was going to be present for his death, why would they spend time together? Why try to find the place it happens? What if in their search for answers, they discovered something worth killing for?

What if, in warning Gabriel, Miles had put his death into motion?

He couldn't ignore that possibility.

"The future doesn't work that way," Gabriel said. He sounded certain.

"But if we stayed away from each other, and you stopped wearing your stupid button-ups, that's two things we've changed. We'd already prove my visions can't come true."

"It wouldn't matter. Those are small details of a bigger point in time. It might alter things slightly, but the end result will be the same. Ultimately, no matter what choices we make, we'll always end up there."

Miles gaped at him. "If you believe that, why are you even trying?"

For the first time, Gabriel faltered. "What else is there to do? Sit around and wait to die?"

It was a fair point, if one Miles hadn't expected Gabriel to make.

"And," Gabriel continued quietly, "you think there's a chance. You're trying."

Miles didn't know what to say. Tension stretched in the air between them, a whisper of the thread he'd sensed connecting them the night they'd first met, quivering against his ribs, and—

Gabriel jutted his chin out. "I refuse to be shown up by a Warren. If I'm going to die, at least it can be with dignity."

And like that, the moment was over, the feeling gone.

Miles wasn't going to argue about it anymore. At the end of the day, it was Gabriel's life and his decision. "We should go check the library database," he said, standing. "I did a history project last year on local landmarks and found out they have catalogues for tons of stuff—city records, historical maps, newspapers, whatever. I bet we can see if your family has any other properties in Thistle."

Gabriel followed him to the nearest table of computers, watching over his shoulder as he pulled up the library's digital collections search. He typed in "Hawthorne" and pressed enter, watching the loading wheel spin.

Miles was proud of himself for having thought of this. It had been a surprise when he'd come here last year for the project and found that a lot of relevant information on local history wasn't available online, instead kept exclusively on the library and city databases.

"What if nothing comes up?" Gabriel asked.

"Then I guess it's your turn to have an idea."

The computer dinged as the search results loaded in a neat list.

"Ha!" Miles gestured at the screen triumphantly. "Property purchase records and building permits." The dates were old enough that they were likely for Gabriel's current house, but it didn't hurt to check.

He went to click on the first option, but Gabriel caught his wrist, sudden and striking as a viper. "Wait. Look at that—the third down."

Harry Warren.

It took Miles a second to remember where he'd seen that name before—the old family photo from his dad's desk. Written on the back had been the name Harry, he was sure of it.

"Why would someone in my family show up in a search of your last name?"

"Click on it."

"I'd love to, but you're holding my hand hostage."

Gabriel stared down at where his fingers were still wrapped around Miles's wrist, as if they'd acted of their own accord. Letting go, he curled his hand into a fist and shoved it into his pocket with a grimace.

What a drama queen. It wasn't like Miles had some contagious disease.

He rolled his eyes and clicked on the link. When it loaded, the photo was a grainy black-and-white shot of a man with short hair and thick-rimmed glasses. His mouth was pinched in the corners, jaw tense.

The caption said: Harry Warren (1890–1958), the prime suspect in Jocelyn Hawthorne's disappearance (1917) .

What the hell?

"Do you know anything about this?" Miles asked Gabriel.

He shook his head. "I recognize the name, Jocelyn, but I couldn't tell you why. We have family portraits, photographs, and heirlooms all over the house."

"I've never heard about it, either. That's weird, right? Like, this seems pretty important."

"One way to find out."

Beneath the picture caption was a list of specifications, including sources. Miles took out his phone to snap a picture.

Thistle Herald, August 20th, 22nd, and 23rd of 1917. Microfilm.

It took them a minute to find the filing cabinets that held the library's extensive microfilm collection a floor down, tucked away in a room that looked like it hadn't been touched in months.

"Find the film." He nodded at the wall of meticulously organized filing cabinets. "There should be three different rolls, one for each date under the Thistle Herald section."

Gabriel started scanning the drawer labels while Miles opened the microfiche viewing program. He hadn't used this thing since last year, but someone had taped a handy little step-by-step guide to the desk. It even had pictures.

When Gabriel brought over the three rolls, Miles had everything ready to go. He unwrapped the first brown film carefully from the spool, looped it around the two microfiche handles, and tucked it underneath the glass panel, flipping the light switch. A moment later, a black-and-white newspaper article from the Thistle Herald appeared on the computer screen.

Even Gabriel appeared slightly impressed.

"Now—" Miles pressed the forward button, the machine whirring and images passing as if they were actually flipping the pages of a newspaper from 1917. "Let me know if you see the right article."

Gabriel leaned in close, unblinking gaze locked on the screen. His arm brushed against Miles, but he didn't shift away.

It took them two passes before they spotted it, Miles having to adjust the size so the whole thing fit on the screen.

LOCAL WOMAN MYSTERIOUSLY VANISHES

Thistle police opened an investigation early Tuesday morning into the disappearance of Jocelyn Hawthorne, 22, who was reported missing late last night. She was last seen by her older sister, Florence Hawthorne, at their family home on Monday evening, when she dressed for a walk and informed the household she was going into town. Miss Hawthorne expressed a fear that something amiss had befallen her sister when she did not return on time, as she had very regular habits. Authorities were contacted soon after.

Mystery shrouds her disappearance. No neighbors reportedly saw her leave and no current leads have been found as to her whereabouts. Officer Collins, first to arrive at the Hawthorne home, said: "We've discovered no signs of foul play or anything to make us believe Miss Hawthorne has met with violence. We remain hopeful she will turn up soon."

They are asking anyone who may have information as to her whereabouts or who might have seen Miss Hawthorne that evening to come forward. Volunteers have joined in a large-scale search of the area.

No mention of Harry Warren.

"Next," he told Gabriel, holding out his hand.

It was quicker this time, the article one of the first—it had probably been front page news.

ARREST MADE IN LOCAL INVESTIGATION, POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY

Wednesday evening, Thistle police arrested Harry Warren, 27, as their primary suspect in the case of a local missing woman, Jocelyn Hawthorne, 22. They declined to make a public comment at this time, though an anonymous source says that they have strong reason to believe he is responsible for her mysterious disappearance. Rumors of a key witness have been circulating, as well as evidence obtained by the police that Miss Hawthorne is no longer alive. As of yet, there has been no official confirmation.

Edwin Hawthorne, the aged father of the missing young woman, has offered to pay a sizeable reward for any information that leads to her being found. He stated: "I know in my heart that she's still alive, waiting to be found. Someone saw something, or knows something, and with their help, we're going to bring her home." City officers report that they are continuing to search day and night, but no trace of Miss Hawthorne has been discovered yet.

Miles could feel Gabriel's stare boring into him. He didn't know what to say. Why had he never heard about this?

"One more." Gabriel held out the final roll.

The last article, Miles skimmed. According to the police's key witness—Jocelyn's sister, Florence—Harry was seen following Jocelyn when she left for town the evening she disappeared. Their families were close friends, she said, but he had a romantic obsession that turned to violence when Jocelyn rejected him. He'd been livid, making threats against her life.

An anonymous source from within the police department confirmed that they were now searching for a body.

Miles pushed away from the desk. It made sense now why his parents had never told him about this. How did they explain that his ancestor was a cold-blooded murderer? But the story they'd told him, how the Hawthornes made their name using Miles's family as collateral, how they'd nearly destroyed their reputation… They'd always made it sound like the Hawthornes were the ones in the wrong, the ones responsible for the hatred stretched taut between them.

It was all a lie.

"Well," Gabriel said. "Now I understand why my mother rants about the Warrens every time she has a bit too much wine with dinner."

He didn't sound particularly bothered.

A bitter taste coated the back of Miles's throat. He'd been looking for the missing link, a reason for his visions. This could be the universe's way of getting him to even out the scales again and make things right: a Hawthorne life taken, and a Hawthorne life saved. Redemption for his family.

Because he wasn't already under enough pressure.

"I guess the truth hurts sometimes." It was all he could think to say.

Gabriel frowned. "It shouldn't. We have no control over what our ancestors did. I don't see how this changes anything."

Because , Miles couldn't say, part of him had still been viewing himself as the hero, Gabriel's family as the villains. This whole thing as a noble quest given to him by the forces of the universe because he was one of the good guys.

He was saved from having to come up with an answer by a loud chirp. Gabriel pulled a phone in a sleek black case from his pocket, studied the screen, and announced, "I have to go."

"What? Right now?"

"Yes, right now." Gabriel strode to the door. "How do I get back upstairs for my bag?"

Miles would go with him, but he couldn't leave the films out and all over the place. "Right, then left at the reference counter."

Gabriel vanished through the doorway without another word.

"Yeah, don't worry," Miles muttered to himself, "I'll clean this up. Nice of you to offer."

The only response he got was silence.