I lay in bed Monday morning listening to the sounds of my parents getting ready for work: the water running, dishes rattling in the kitchen, the trumpeting blare of my dad blowing his nose. And then, at last, the anticipated knock at my door.

"Hey," my mother said as she poked her head inside. "You're going to be late for school if you don't get out of bed."

Rolling over, I pulled the covers up under my chin. "I don't think I can go today."

My mom entered my room. "Why not?"

"I'm not feeling well."

Her lips formed a thin line. I could tell she was striving for patience. "You've already missed a lot of school, Blake. How do you expect to keep up if you're never there?"

"Occasionally missing a day of school is not the end of the world. It's fine."

She breathed out heavily through her nose. "I got a phone call from your advisor. She suggested a district-appointed tutor."

I sat up in bed. "I don't need a tutor!"

"Your grades say otherwise. This is your senior year, Blake. You're not dying, so you have no excuse not to go to school. Take your medication and eat something for breakfast. I'll write you a note, say you had a doctor's appointment and that's why you're late."

"But I don't feel well," I complained, flopping against the mattress and throwing my arm over my face. "Can't I stay home? I promise I'll go tomorrow."

"You overdid it yesterday, didn't you? You stayed out way too late. You were supposed to be grounded, by the way."

"I was feeling okay," I said, peeking out at my mother from under my arm. "Besides, I've been cooped up in this house for too long. I needed to get out."

My mother opened her mouth to say more on the subject but then closed it again. "Fine," she said with a relenting sigh. "You can stay home today." She pointed a finger at me. "But you have to study and get caught up on your work. I mean it."

"I will."

Her face relaxed. "Do you want me to check on you at lunch? I can bring you something to eat. Your favorite soup from the cafe?"

I shook my head. "I'll be okay. I'll probably just read and watch TV."

"And study," she reminded me.

"Yep."

"Maybe take a nap, too."

"It's high on the agenda."

She bent down to kiss my forehead and then rubbed away the lipstick she'd left behind. "I'll come home early tonight."

"Don't rush on my account. Seriously, I'll be fine."

My mother gave me a look that said she didn't quite believe me, but she wiggled her fingers goodbye and walked away, closing the door quietly behind her.

I immediately grabbed my cell from the nightstand and texted Olivia: Not going to school today. Sick.

She Facetimed a second later. "You're ditching me?"

"I'm not ditching you. I'm sick."

"You know we have a calculus test today, right?"

"I assure you that calculus is the least of my concerns."

"Lunch is going to suck without you there. Want me to get your assignments?"

"Don't bother. I've got a week's worth of homework waiting for me. I can't handle more."

"So what's wrong with you?"

"Life."

"So you're not actually sick?"

"Not precisely." I sat up in bed and threw off the covers. "I just can't handle school today."

"So you're playing hooky."

"Basically."

"And you didn't ask me to play hooky with you?"

"Sorry. I've got some stuff I need to take care of."

"Whatever. Be evasive. I'm only your best friend, right?" Olivia smiled. "You know I've got your back."

"Thanks, Libby. You're the best."

"Remember this moment," she said. "I gotta scoot. Bye!"

I got ready then, not even bothering to change out of the sweats I'd worn to bed. I pulled on a pair of heavy wool socks and shoved my feet into my fleece-lined boots. Then I twisted my tangled hair into a knot, washed my face, and scrubbed my teeth. My stomach rumbled with hunger, but I pushed the thought of breakfast aside. Nothing sounded even remotely appealing.

If and when I became a vampire, I hoped this incessant hollow feeling would go away. John said vampires could tolerate some food. Knowing my luck, the only thing I'd be able to choke down would be Brussels sprouts or Lima beans. What I wouldn't give for a bowl of chili and a chunk of cornbread from The Market. Even a bowl of Corn Flakes would be nice.

"Whatever," I said to my reflection in the bathroom mirror as my stomach rumbled yet again.

Making my way downstairs, I shoved my arms into my winter coat before grabbing my purse and car keys. Then I yanked open the front door, prepared for a morning of tracking down a miscreant vampire.

"Hey," Zach said, at the same time I stumbled back and demanded, "What are you doing here?"

Zach, who'd been on the verge of knocking, lowered his hand. "Olivia texted me."

"She did?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" I pushed my way outside, turning to lock the door so I didn't have to face him.

"She said you were staying home today, that you're sick."

I snorted. "You know that sick is code for skipping, right?"

He put a hand on my shoulder and I stiffened. "I still love you, Blake."

I rounded on him. "Really? Because you haven't uttered one word to me since that night at the fair. You stood by as Gabe dragged my name through the mud and told everyone on the team how I cheated on you."

He cringed. "Yeah, about that . . ."

"Yeah. About that."

Zach shuffled from one foot to the other. "I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what else to say. I'm a jerk for not sticking up for you."

I closed my eyes and exhaled forcefully. "No, you are not a jerk. All of this," I said, swirling my hand in front of me. "All of this was just . . . it was a really unfortunate mess. If I could go back and make things better between us . . ."

Zach grabbed my shoulders. His excited breath came out in small puffs of white, smelling strongly of cinnamon gum. I held my own breath as I tried not to gag. "There's still time to make things better," he said. "I already admitted to still loving you, Blake. Do you still love me? Because we can make this work. I know we can."

I wiggled away from him and took a step forward, intent on getting to my car, but he clutched my arm. "Do you still love me?" he asked again.

I pulled away from him. "Don't ask me that, Zach. That is not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is that we can never have what we had. It's gone. For good. And the sooner you get that through your head, the better it will be for everyone."

"But Olivia said—"

"What? What the hell did Olivia say?" I made a mental note to have a word with my so-called best friend about staying the hell out of my love life.

"She said you've been depressed lately. Look, I know you had a thing for that John guy over the summer, and I don't even pretend to know what you saw in him, but don't you see that was just a minor setback? We've been together since freshman year, Blake. A love like ours doesn't die."

"Oh, spare me the clichés. There is no chance for us. Zero. We are officially over!"

The corner of Zach's mouth trembled. "Don't you dare cry," I said, pointing a finger at him. "I do not have time for this."

Zach's nostrils flared, and he blinked furiously as he tried to get himself under control. His voice was no more than a whisper when he spoke. "I'm going to ignore everything you said because I know that's not the real you. You haven't been you for a long time now, and no one knows what's going on, not even Olivia."

I opened my mouth to make some flippant comment about what a big baby he was being, but then shut it abruptly as a sudden stab of guilt pierced my heart. I sat down on the step and wrapped my arms around my legs.

"I'm sorry, Zach. I really am. More than you will ever know."

He sat down next to me and began rubbing small circles in my back. "You don't have to apologize."

His easy forgiveness made me feel even worse. "Yes, I do. You're so sweet, Zach. You don't deserve any of this."

Zach put his arm around me. "I just wish you would tell someone—anyone—what's going on."

I shook my head. "I can't. And even if I could, no one would believe me. Maybe one of these days I can, but not now."

We lapsed into silence after that. What else was there to say?

"Hey," he said moments later, his tone much lighter. "Do you have a date for the Halloween dance? I sort of need a Wilma for my Fred Flintstone."

I laughed despite myself and sniffed loudly. I pointed to the tattoo on my neck. "I had something much darker in mind."

He cringed dramatically. "Yeah . . . I wasn't going to say anything about that, but what the hell? People at school are going to think you've totally lost it."

"Call it a momentary lapse of judgment."

Zach gave me a glowing smile. "I know. I'll be Dracula and you can go as Lucy."

"Doesn't Lucy get her head chopped off?"

He leaned his head against mine. "Then you can be my Mina."

"As I recall, it didn't end well for Dracula." I pushed his arm away as gently as I could. "Look, I need to go."

"Where to?"

"I can't tell you."

He gave me a look. "You can't, or you won't?"

I shrugged. "Both, I guess."

He nodded, his mouth pressed shut in a tight line, and stood. "Okay. But I want you to know that I'm here for you. Whenever you decide to open up about what's going on, I hope you'll come to me."

"Thanks," I said. "I mean that."

He bent and kissed the top of my head. "Take care of yourself, Blake."

"I'm trying."

Zach turned to go, and I sat and watched until his car disappeared. And then I cried until I couldn't cry anymore.

**********

I drove around for the next hour trying to think where a fugitive vampire might hide, provided he hadn't left town altogether. I considered going back to The Marauder's Cove to ask the waitress Donna, but I couldn't drag her into my mess any more than I already had. Besides, I didn't want to step foot in that place if I could help it, or go anywhere I might encounter Josiah.

If only I had Ian's cell number. For that matter, why didn't Mr. Abernathy just get it from John and then call him up and threaten to let his progeny starve to death? That would save everyone a lot of drama. As it was, Ian was probably hiding out somewhere waiting for John to get in touch with him, not knowing that things had gone horribly wrong.

For lack of a better idea, I drove to John's place. After trying all the doors and windows that I could reach, only to find them locked, I had the brilliant idea of checking under the doormat. Sure enough, a dull gold key was hiding underneath.

Being in John's house without anyone there felt wrong. The place seemed a lot bigger than I remembered and eerily quiet. Treading lightly, I walked aimlessly from the foyer to the living room to the kitchen, with nothing but the traffic on the street outside to break the silence. I opened the refrigerator door, but there was nothing inside but organic strawberries, a few slices of dried-out cheese pizza that looked stiff as cardboard, and blood. Lots of blood. Swallowing down the urge to vomit, I slammed the door.

I had been in John's house only twice before and never to the second floor. I gripped the banister for support, slowly making my way up the wooden staircase. The first room I came to was sparsely furnished. There was a bed, its covers a twisted and tangled mess, along one wall. A dresser, its drawers left ajar as though someone had packed up and left in a hurry, stood pressed against the opposite wall. I turned away, having seen enough. There was a bathroom to my immediate left, but it was the closed door at the end of the hallway that got my attention.

The floor creaked underfoot as I made my way down the narrow passageway. I gripped the doorknob, the metal cold and slick in my hand, and turned. I felt John's presence at once. I could smell him here, practically feel his warmth. The memory of him was so overwhelming a choking cry caught in my throat and I had to sit down to catch my breath. I clenched the quilt in my fists.

"Keep it together, Blake."

As I scanned the room, my eyes landed on a framed photograph of John standing between a man and a woman. It was a posed portrait, taken in a studio. The words Olan Mills were embossed in a gold font in the bottom corner.

The man and woman were strikingly similar in appearance to John—especially the woman, who had the same dark hair and vivid green eyes. Curious, I picked up the frame and popped out the cardboard backing. Scrawled in black ink, the words read Miriam, Landon, and John Kelly—June 1996. They had to be his mother and father.

Replacing the backing, I turned the photo over to study it. John hadn't aged a day, and yet the picture had been taken before I was born, most likely right before he was turned. When had it happened? What had become of his parents, Miriam and Landon Kelly? I had so many questions I hoped John would be able to answer for me, hopefully soon.

Returning the photo to the table, I opened the drawer next. There were only two items inside: a composition notebook and an ink pen. I hesitated only a moment before pulling out the notebook and opening the front cover. Every page contained a list of names, with what I assumed was the person's age, and a date printed next to them. Abigail Tyler, 17, 9-13-97; Kristy Deerfield, 17, 10-21-97; Jacob Rosenbaum, 17, 10-27-97 . . .

The list went on for pages, the dates becoming more recent with each new entry. Finally, a name caught my eye: Dylan Edwards, 17, 5-21-15. I knew Dylan. He went to my school. We had fourth-period AP English together. And then another name near the bottom: Jill Honeycutt, 17, 6-07-15. I turned the page. Elijah Stein, 17, 6-17-15. Chloe Barnett, 17, 6-29-15. Michael Jeffreys, 17, 7-5-15. Blake Ehlert, 17, 7-28-15. Alyssa Smithson, 17, 8-5-15. Corey Benjamin, 17, 8-15-15 . . .

My eyes went back to my name and the date printed next to it. That day, exactly one week after I turned seventeen and was legally old enough to be a Donor, was the first time John and I had spoken to each other beyond a few mumbled words. It was the day I had started to fall for him.

I stared at my name until it blurred on the page and the realization of what the book was finally dawned on me. Every person listed had O negative blood, just like me. Every one of them had been manipulated by John into becoming a Donor.

Just like me.

Slamming the book shut, I shoved it back into the drawer where it belonged. "Dammit, John."

Just then my cell rang with a call from my mom. "Hello?"

"Why aren't you in bed?"

"Mom. You're home?"

"Yes, I'm home. Answer my question."

"I, uh . . ."

"Blake Edwards Ehlert. I suggest you get yourself home. Now."

The line went dead.

After smoothing the covers of John's bed, I made my way downstairs and scribbled a note for Ian with the hope he might return to find it. Then I locked the door and replaced the key under the mat. Gathering what little nerve I had left, I got in my car and drove home to face my mother.

***** 

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