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  “Mmmm, sounds good.” She yawned, then nuzzled into his back; moments later her breathing had settled into a deep and steady rhythm. He dropped her hand and lay quietly with his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. There was something about Beth’s message. Something wrong.

  I know what I have to do.

  Try to remember.

  It wasn’t his problem anymore; she wasn’t his problem anymore. Reed closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, counting the seconds. Then breathed out. One. Two. Three. In. One. Two. Three. Out …

  Sleep would come eventually, he told himself. And if it didn’t, there was always the fail-safe option, a small plastic bag with just enough left to help him zone out and forget.

  But the voice mail kept replaying itself in his head. Not Beth’s—Kaia’s.

  When he’d gotten Kaia’s message, he had thought about calling her back—but decided against it. He would forgive her, he’d already decided. But he wasn’t ready to talk to her, not yet. And there had been no hurry.

  He’d just assumed they had plenty of time.

  When Kane finally lifted his head again, she couldn’t read his expression. His eyes were half closed, and his face impassive, hidden in shadow. He rested his hand on her knee and a warm heat radiated out from the point of contact up and down her leg. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For telling the truth. Like always.”

  “Kane, I—”

  “Stevens, I—”

  They laughed, and Miranda gestured that he should speak first.

  “I got you something.” He pulled a small white, scrunched-up paper bag out of his pocket. “For your birthday. Since you’re having such an awesome celebratory weekend so far.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not like it’s your fault. It all just happened.”

  “I am the one who ruined your date,” he pointed out.

  “Is that a note of apology I hear in your voice?” she joked, pressing the back of her hand against her forehead. “Do I have a fever? Because I think I’m hallucinating.”

  “Shut up and open it,” he said, shoving the bag into her hands.

  “Lovely wrapping job.” She needed the sarcasm. It kept all the real emotions away. Miranda delicately peeled open the mouth of the bag and reached inside, pulling out a necklace of cheap, chunky plastic beads, painted in bright colors and attached to a label marked AUTHENTIC NATIVE AMERICAN JEWELRY. It was about as authentic as an aluminum Christmas tree—and just as tacky. “It’s … uh … nice. Thank you?”

  “I saw it and thought of you,” he said proudly. “I knew you’d love it.”

  Miranda knew she probably shouldn’t take it as an insult; but, looking down at the garish piece of pseudo-jewelry, it was hard not to. “It was very … sweet of you to get me something, Kane. You shouldn’t have. I mean, you really shouldn’t have.”

  Kane burst into laughter. “Stop looking so appalled, Stevens. I know it’s gruesome. It’s not like I’m expecting you to like it.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She waved it through the air, giggling as the beads clanked loudly together; wear this and she’d become a human maraca. “But then … what’s it for?”

  “I found it in the gift shop,” he explained. “And it reminded me of—”

  “The gift shop at the Rising Sun,” she cut in. Where they’d spent twenty minutes mocking the jewelry. Kane had strung the ugliest necklace they could find around her neck—and then they’d kissed. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “I can’t believe you forgot.”

  Miranda didn’t want him to know that she remembered every second of that day, that she could show him every point on her skin his hands and lips had touched.

  “We picked out a necklace,” Kane reminded her, “and I put it around your neck—” He took the garish chain of beads out of her hands and latched it around her neck, pausing as his fingers fumbled with the clasp and brushed against her skin. “Like this. And then we stared at each other.” His forearms rested on her shoulders, locking her in. She could see her reflection in his eyes. “Like this. And you got all awkward and sarcastic …”

  “That’s me,” she joked, trying to smile, “ruining things like always.”

  “And I wouldn’t let you.” He moved closer, never taking his eyes off of hers. “I told you how beautiful your lips are—”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “So you do remember,” he crowed, raising an eyebrow.

  “No, I just know I wouldn’t have gone for a lame line like that,” Miranda countered.

  “Girls love my lines,” he said, close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips, close enough that she couldn’t see his mouth moving because his enormous, dark brown eyes filled her field of vision.

  “I’m different,” she reminded him.

  “I know. That’s why, instead, I just—” And the distance between them disappeared as he kissed her. Everything disappeared other than his lips, and the touch of his skin as she stroked her hand across his cheek. His teeth, nibbling at her earlobe. Her tongue, lightly grazing his neck. His breathing, heavy and fast, her quiet gasp as his warm hand slipped beneath her shirt and pressed against the skin of her lower back.

  And then reality came rushing back, and she pushed him away.

  Right into the pool.

  “Oh, no!” She jumped to her feet as he flailed about, finally finding his footing and standing up in the waist-deep water, drenched. “I can’t believe I just did that, I’m so sorry, I—”

  “It’s fine,” he assured her, holding out his hand. “Help me up?”

  She should have seen it coming. She’d seen enough movies. But she still took his hand—and, like clockwork, he pulled her in after him. The cold water slapped her in the face, spun her upside down, and when she found the surface, shivering and gasping, she was alert again, aware enough to stay away.

  “Now you want to tell me why we’re both in the pool?” Kane requested, wading toward her. She backed away.

  “You pulled me in!”

  “You pushed me first.”

  “Good point.”

  Kane sliced through the water and, before she could get away, wrapped his arms around her.

  “Let go,” she said, and it sounded less like an order than a question.

  “You’re shivering,” he pointed out.

  “And you’re soaking wet, so I don’t see how that’s helping.”

  “Why did you push me away?” he asked, his lips at her ear.

  Miranda didn’t say anything.

  “I thought we were having fun,” he prodded. “Weren’t you having fun?”

  She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her face. Her chin dug into his shoulder; he’d get the idea.

  “So why push me away?”

  “You know why” she said quietly. He was right, she was shivering—but not because of the cold.

  “No.”

  “Yes you do! Please don’t make me say it.”

  “Miranda, I don’t …?”

  “You heard Harper.” She tried to slide out of his embrace, but he wouldn’t let her. He only let go a little, so he could see her face. That was worse. “You know why I …” Miranda just wanted to look away, to be away, but the best she could do was squeeze her eyes shut so she didn’t have to see him looking at her. “I can’t do casual. Not with you. It’s too hard.”

  “And what if I don’t want casual?”

  She didn’t want to understand his meaning, because it was too dangerous. If she was wrong …

  “Open your eyes, Miranda.”

  She shook her head.

  “Open them, or I’m kissing you again,” he threatened.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Let’s try this,” he told her. He wasn’t smirking, or even smiling. “You. Me. For real. Let’s just do it.”

  “But … why?” Was this some kind of pity thing? Didn’t he know how much worse that would make everything in the morning, when the dream ended
and she woke up?

  “Because you want to. And because … I want to.” He didn’t sound sure, but he looked it.

  “It would never work.”

  “Probably not. But Stevens, why not take a chance for once?”

  It was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one with everything to lose.

  On the other hand … what did she have to lose, she asked herself, when she had so little to start with?

  She’d spent so long convincing herself that this moment would never happen, and now here it was—and she almost hadn’t recognized it. She was terrified; but that was no excuse.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” he repeated, his irresistible smile finally making an appearance. “You’ll deign to give me a shot?”

  It was hard for her to speak, since she was barely breathing. “I guess you lucked out. So … what now? Should we, uh, talk about what we’re going to—”

  He pressed his right hand to her lips, then, lightly, traced a path across her cheek, to the tip of her ear, then down along the edge of her jaw, coming to rest with his fingers just beneath her chin. “Enough talking,” he told her. “We have a deal—now we celebrate.”

  The water was still ice cold, but as he leaned down and kissed her, his soaking hair dripping down her face, his wet T-shirt sticking to her skin, she felt perfectly warm.

  And though the water was only waist deep and her feet were firmly planted on the floor of the pool, she felt like she was floating.

  Beth didn’t know why she answered the phone. She supposed it was a reflex, left over from her old life. She couldn’t have been hoping that there was still a chance—that someone could say something that would make a difference. Even if there was someone who could reach out to her through the phone and explain to her how to fix things, this wasn’t going to be that kind of call.

  Beth had seen the number on the caller ID and she picked it up, anyway, but that didn’t mean she was ready to talk. She lifted the phone to her ear but remained silent, trying to decide whether to hang up.

  “I can hear you breathing.” Harper’s voice was low and cold. It reminded Beth of someone, though at first she couldn’t figure out who. Then it came to her: Kaia. “I know you’re there. Beth. Beth. Say something.”

  What do you want? It took her a moment to realize she’d only mouthed the words, and no sound had come out. She tried again. “What do you want?” It was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough.

  “What do I want? What do I want?” Beth held the phone away from her ear, but could still hear Harper’s tinny laugh. “You’re the one who called me, remember? Oh no, wait, you didn’t call me, you left a message. Like a coward. Afraid to face me, Beth? Too afraid I’ll tell you what I really think of you?”

  “I think I’ve got that figured out already.”

  Just hang up the phone, she told herself, and you can end this for good.

  “Don’t pretend you know what I think,” Harper snapped. “If you knew anything, you wouldn’t leave some stupid message whining about how sorry you are, like that’s going to change anything. You don’t get to do that.”

  “What should I do, Harper?” she asked, trying to sound tough, but failing miserably. “You tell me.”

  “Grow a fucking spine for once, how about that? You face me. You face me and tell me what you did—”

  “I already told you.”

  “You tell me again, and you tell me how sorry you are,” she sneered, “and then you listen when I tell you exactly where to stick your useless apologies. You. Face. Me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Where are you?”

  Beth didn’t say anything.

  “Where the hell are you!” Harper screamed, the last word sliding into a shriek of rage.

  Beth just wanted it to stop; she wanted everything to stop. “I’m on the roof,” she whispered. “At the hotel. On the roof.”

  “Stay there,” Harper commanded in a dangerous voice. “I’m coming.”

  Beth hung up.

  Why? she asked herself, the panic rising. Why tell her, when it would be impossible to face her without disintegrating? Just one more stupid decision in a lifetime of them. Harper would arrive soon, and Beth knew what she would say. And it would all be true. “Coward.” “Bitch.” “Murderer.” There would be no one to calm Harper down, and no one to hold Beth and assure her—lie to her—that it would be all right. There was no one left at all. The fear and loneliness threatened to overwhelm her—and then she remembered.

  It didn’t matter how angry Harper was. It didn’t matter what she wanted to say.

  Because by the time she got there, it would be too late. It would be over.

  chapter

  13

  The phone call sobered her up. Harper ran the entire way back to the Camelot, fearing that Beth would lose her nerve and disappear. And as she reached the top of the stairs, she discovered she’d been right to worry: The roof was empty.

  Screw it, Harper thought in disgust. She should have known better. For all she knew, Beth had never been here in the first place. Maybe she’d thought it would be fun to send Harper on a wild-goose chase. She was probably downstairs in the room—Harper’s room—right now, enjoying a good night’s sleep. Or worse, she was down there awake, and she wasn’t alone.

  Harper refused to consider the possibility. Not because it wasn’t likely, but because she’d done enough vomiting for the night.

  She hesitated on the rooftop, trying to plan out her next move, and that’s when she saw it: a hint of blond, just behind the walled edge of the roof.

  The Camelot rooftop was shaped like a turret, with a flat, round top surrounded by a thin, waist-high wall of fake brick, assembled in a cutout pattern that looked like jack-o’-lantern teeth. The gaps were wide enough to sit on—and low enough to climb through.

  Harper took a few quiet steps across the roof, as the tip of a blond head dipped below the brick and then, a few seconds later, bobbed into sight again. It wasn’t until Harper reached the opposite end that she got a good view of what was happening: Beth had climbed over the wall and found footing on a narrow ledge that ran around the outside of the turret. She was pressing herself flat against the fake brick, one hand clutching an ugly plaster gargoyle, the other balled into a fist.

  “You can do it,” she murmured to herself. “Come on. Come on. Do it.”

  “Holy shit.” The words popped out of Harper’s mouth before she could stop herself. “Beth, what the hell are you doing?”

  Beth twisted her head up to see Harper, who caught her breath, as it looked for a moment that the movement might shift Beth’s balance enough to send her flying. “You weren’t supposed to see this.” She turned away again, and stared down—way down—at the ground. “But I couldn’t—”

  “Then what was the plan, genius?” Harper snapped. “I was supposed to come back here and find you all splattered and bloody on the ground?” Beth flinched, and Harper pressed on. “Yes, splattered and bloody—what did you think would happen if you do something stupid like this? You float to the ground on a magical cloud and ride off into the sunset? Are you nuts? Oh wait, what am I saying? Look where we are. Of course you’re freaking nuts.”

  Stop, she begged herself. Just shut up. Tell her not to jump. Tell her it will all be okay. Harper knew her role in this script, and the ineffectual clichés she was supposed to utter. She was supposed to play the hero, to save Beth—and the thought enraged her. Where was Beth when Kaia needed saving?

  Where was Beth when Harper was lying on the ground in pain, choking on smoke, waiting for sirens, waiting to hear Kaia scream, or move, or breathe?

  “I don’t owe you anything,” she cried. “Do you hear me? I owe you nothing!”

  Beth didn’t respond. From where she was standing, Harper could see Beth’s arm shaking and her grip on the gargoyle slip, then tighten. She could see the tears running down Beth’s face, and the way the ball of her left foot stuck out over the edge. And, if
Harper leaned over, she could see all the way down, to the half-empty parking lot below. She could see the spot where Beth would land.

  If.

  Harper wondered if it would be possible to survive a drop like that, and wondered how you would land. If you dove forward, would you smash into the pavement gracefully, like a diver hitting an empty pool, arms first, crumpling into the cement, and then head, then body? Or would you twirl through the air in some accidental acrobatics and fall flat, a cement belly flop? An old Looney Tunes image flashed through her head, and for a second, she pictured a deep, Beth-shaped hole in the ground, Beth standing up and brushing herself off, flat as a pancake but otherwise intact.

  This is real, Harper had to remind herself. The edge was real. The drop was real. The ground was real. She could climb onto the wall and all it would take was one step, and everything would end. No equipment necessary. This is real.

  “Beth. Don’t.” Her voice had none of the sugary sweetness of some touchy-feely suicide hotline. Harper, in fact, couldn’t associate the word “suicide” with this scene—that was a textbook word, a TV word, something ordered and comprehensible that happened to fictional characters and crazy teenagers on some other town’s local news. This was too messy to have a label, especially a label that predicted, required, a certain end. This was just some nameless thing that was happening, and she wanted it to stop. “Come back up here. We’ll talk.”

  “You don’t want to talk to me,” Beth said dully.

  “Yes, of course, I do.”

  “You hate me.”

  “No,” Harper protested. Lied. “I forgive you. I accept your apology. Just come back up here. We’ll figure it out.”

  She wanted to mean it, but she couldn’t, and it showed. “Look, let me call someone,” she suggested. “Reed or—” Even now, she couldn’t say it. “Someone.”

  “No!” Beth twisted around in alarm, again almost losing her grip. “Don’t call anyone! And don’t lie to me.”

  You’re the liar, Harper wanted to say. The hypocrite, the crusader for truth and justice, the perfect, principled princess, little miss cant be wrong. What a joke—what a fraud she had turned out to be. No one had ever guessed at what lay beneath the blond hair and blue eyes.