When Smith pulls into the school parking lot, I barely notice Lance say goodbye. Too many thoughts are bouncing around inside my skull, making it difficult to think straight.

I need to get home. Take something to help me sleep and shut off my brain. I lean over, plant a kiss on Smith's cheek, and hop out of the car, into the murky haze of a nearby bonfire. The heavy scent of smoke curls my nostrils.

Smith unrolls his window, his breath a white mist on the late September air. "Hey, you. Not so fast," he says as I head toward my SUV. Before I know it, he's at my side, his hands reaching for me, bringing me close. "You've been way too quiet. What's wrong?"

I lean into him, my nose squished against his chest. "I told you. I had a fight with my mom."

"Is that all?" When I glance up, his hands find the small of my back, bringing us closer. "Something else is going on. Isn't it?"

I stare into his eyes. They're warm, like caramelized sugar, beneath the overhead lights.

Another lie works its way up my throat but I swallow it back before it rolls off my tongue. I can't take more dishonesty. It's going to gnaw away at me until there's nothing left.

"Is this about Jordan?" He brings a hand up, his fingers caressing my chilled cheek as he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

Something spirals in my chest. He knows about Jordan. How the hell does he know?

I search for an explanation that doesn't sound too off the wall, but come up blank. There are not many ways to suggest that Jordan is hiding something big. Something Emma doesn't want us to know. Either she knows who took Emma in the first place, or that maybe Emma left on her own free will. I open my mouth, pray the right words find their way out, and hope they won't make it look like I'm losing my mind.

But he beats me to it. "Even if Jordan does like girls, you can still invite her to hang out with us. It wouldn't be a triple date, exactly, but it could still be fun."

Wait. Is he serious? That's the conclusion he's come up with in regard to my silence?

Smith's expression confirms my question, and an audible breath escapes my lips. "You don't think they'd mind? I doubt they've even spoken to her before."

Laughter spills from his mouth, working the tendons along his neck. "I don't think we're an unfriendly bunch, do you? Every one of you welcomed me when my family moved to town."

I cock my head to the side. "You moved here in kindergarten. We weren't jaded back then."

"And we are now?"

I almost laugh out loud, though it's not particularly funny. "More than you realize."

"Well, I think our friends are more accepting than you give them credit for." He hesitates, like he wants to say more, but isn't sure if he should. And then, "I didn't realize you and Jordan were close."

There it is. My gaze moves away from his, and settles on the collar of his jacket. "We're not. But I think she's nice, and I'd like to get to know her better."

Smith gives me a funny look.

"Is that weird?" I ask, fighting back a cringe.

He shakes his head. "Not at all. It's just ... unexpected."

I imagine it is. In all the years we've known each other, I've never strayed far from our social group. Soccer doesn't count. I'm a different person on the field than I am off. On the field, I'm confident. Ready for anything. But off, I'm more reserved. I prefer predictability, no surprises allowed. It's why I Google the spoilers for every book I read. If I know what's going to happen beforehand, I won't feel as anxious by the end.

"I'm glad you came out tonight." The conversation's over. Smith inches closer, closer, until my back presses against the SUV. The corner of his mouth inches up, a smile meant for only me. "I missed you."

And just like that, all the air leaves my lungs. When my hands clasp his hips, the curve of muscles beneath his shirt tease my fingertips. The way he's looking at me now says he's no longer thinking about our friends.

Neither am I.

His voice suddenly thickens, radiating from some place deep. "Can I see you tomorrow night?"

My heart loses control in my chest, and for a moment, words fail me. When I regain the power of speech, I try to keep my voice casual, and not sound as desperate as I feel. "I'd like that. Oh, wait—" My stomach plummets to my toes. "I can't, I'm watching Rowan. My dad and Meredith have a dinner party to go to and won't get back until late. I'm spending the night."

He finds a way to step closer, and the heat from his body somehow penetrates our clothes, sending a delicious rush of warmth across my skin. Or maybe I'm the one who's overheating?

"I can come over after your sister's tucked in bed." His jaw clenches, unclenches, as he dips his head closer.

Alone time with Smith. It's exactly what I've been wanting, what I've been waiting for for so long. Just me and him and no one around to interfere. Dad's dinner parties are elaborate affairs. I remember them from when I was younger. Influential people discussing influential things. Any reason to talk about themselves over bottles of bubbly.

They'll be gone for hours.

My fingers crawl up Smith's chest and curl around the back of his neck. "She's usually asleep by eight-thirty."

"I can be there by eight-thirty-one."

I can't hide my smile. "Do you remember where they live?"

"The gated neighborhood on Gull Lake," he murmurs, his breath against my lips. His fingers guide my chin upward until his mouth captures mine, slowly, so slowly, his tongue probing its way inside.

The tension that's been plaguing me melts away, taking the recent drama with it. I want to stay in this moment forever, cancel the rest of the world. But a car careens into the parking lot, kicking up stones, and the moment's over before it begins. The black Range Rover pulls into a spot nearby, and more kids than what can fit comfortably in the rear seats spill out the back doors. They migrate to neighboring vehicles, whooping and hollering their goodbyes, as their voices echo around us.

I glance at the time on my phone. "Shit, I have to go. I told Mom I'd be back by midnight."

Smith lets out a dismal sigh. "I should get home too. Booker has an early lacrosse game and I'm expected to show my support." He rolls his eyes. "But I should be back in time to catch the last half of your game."

The fact that he's going to be there, rooting me on in front of the team, puts a smile on my face. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

We share another kiss before retreating inside our vehicles, and I spend the drive home in a happy blur. The taste of Smith on my lips and the promise of more to come tomorrow has me on cloud nine. When I pull into the driveway, our house is dark, with the exception of the dim lamp Mom left on in the foyer.

My fingers punch in the alarm code and I let myself inside. Everything's quiet.

Something about the empty house, the uninterrupted silence, feels thick. Eerie. Like something's there, waiting for me to notice. But not a person, more like a ghost. An uninvited energy that clings to the walls, the furniture, weaving itself among the fibers, hiding inside the nooks and crannies. Making itself at home, all the while we're unaware.

Once upon a time, I was terrified of this house. Of the invisible dangers that lurked in the dark, and the countless threats on the outside that could force themselves in. So much can go wrong, things beyond our control. A person can go crazy thinking about it. I try not to think about it.

As I head toward the kitchen, the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My pace slows, my eyes searching for feathery signs of movement. But everything's still. It's only my imagination, overworked and overwhelmed. I stretch my neck, my back, shake away the creeping unease.

Is that how Emma felt before she disappeared? Like there was a ghost hiding in the shadows, watching her? A phantom without a face—or did she know exactly what was going on?

The soft glow from the kitchen night light guides my way. I reach into the fridge and pop a handful of blueberries in my mouth, the tart juice exploding across my tongue.

The vertical blinds pulled across the patio doors sway in the air circulating from the vent. I shift a panel to the side and peer through the glass. Darkness cloaks the backyard and the rugged foothills behind it, the silhouette of pine trees black against the midnight sky.

It's peaceful, nothing but shadows and silence, and a sense of calm overcomes me. Until an unexpected luminescence draws my gaze to a second floor window next door.

Emma's room.

What's she doing right now, in her bedroom, all alone? As far as I'm aware, she's not attempted to communicate with our friends, except for that one unanswered call to Smith. How does she occupy her time and mind?

Should I reach out to her? Apologize for what I said, and how I behaved while she was gone? How I'm behaving now? It would be so easy to grab my phone, tap her name, and wait for her to pick up. Would she accept my call?

Something flutters in my chest. It's no wonder my brain can't rest with all the overthinking I do. If I fall over the edge, it's going to be my own damn fault—no one's torturing me, but me. Did I learn nothing from before?

I let out a breath and push away from the sink.

Think happy thoughts. Think about Smith, and tomorrow night. About my upcoming soccer game against Cedar Falls, and spending time with Rowan. Concentrate on how grateful I am that Emma is home safe. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing—it's over now. Even if things aren't the same between us, there are so many positives to be thankful for. Why do I always focus on the negatives?

My gaze takes one last sweep over the yard before I reach for the medicine cabinet. When I open the door, there's not much staring back. Ibuprofen for headaches, cramps, fevers. Acetaminophen, if the first one doesn't work. Cough and cold medicine. Mom's high blood pressure pills. Vitamins.

The three remaining bottles are mine. Two mood stabilizers, and something to take the edge off and help me sleep. Without it, I'd lie awake for hours.

I pop the pills into my mouth and swallow them down with a sip of water, begin my nightly ritual before heading up to bed.

When I was younger, Dr. Wilder taught me how to clear my mind by regulating my breaths to promote relaxation. Exhale with a whoosh, inhale through my nose, count ten Mississippis and start all over. I do this as I tiptoe up the stairs, bypassing the step half way up that creaks every time someone touches it. Breathing in and breathing out, the darkness curling around me. The sound of white noise, in the form of Mom's fan, leaks beneath her closed door, unfurling a tranquility in my chest.

Turning the knob to my bedroom, I step inside the black and make my way to the night stand, my fingers searching for the lamp switch. At night, I prefer the soft glow through the linen shade as opposed to the harsh ceiling fan overhead.

As I slip out of my jacket and toss it over the chair, the bedroom door groans closed behind me. I set my cell phone on Do Not Disturb and place it face down on the nightstand, tug my sweatshirt over my head, each task completed with the utmost of care. Any sudden movements will kill the bedtime regime, and when you find a formula that works, you don't dare fuck with it.

A chill rushes over my skin, sending goosebumps down my arms and along my bare stomach. It's cooler in my room than normal. Crawling beneath the covers will be a treat. When I shrug off my jeans, the light in Emma's bedroom once again crosses my mind. Part of me wants to text her and set the record straight. I hate the idea of something I've done hanging over my head. Even after everything, I don't want her to be mad at me.

But I guess it can wait until tomorrow.

I arch my back, reaching for the clasps of my bra, when something in my room shifts. I can feel it taking shape behind me.

I'm not alone.

Unease surges through my chest, contracting my ribs, squeezing my heart. I whip around just as a dark mass lunges forward, a cold hand clamping over my mouth, stifling a scream. With a hypnotic-like power, hollow brown eyes grab onto mine and hold.

They belong to Emma Navarro.