Lucas Abbott could not fall asleep. His left arm, however, had already been asleep for more than thirty minutes. As they lay on the sofa, Rayne had her cheek resting on Luke's chest, her head cradled on his bicep. She had done that in her sleep—rolled over, threw her hand on his chest, and cuddled closer. His entire arm was numb though, and it tingled every time Rayne shifted as she dreamt.

Beneath closed eyelids, Rayne's eyes seemed to flicker, and Lucas wondered what she was dreaming about. Wavering candlelight warmed her pallid cheeks, softening the ashen brown hue; long shadows from her lashes fell over her under eyes like flower petals. Lucas gently brushed a strand of her hair from her face, noticing how the dark circles she'd had since enrollment were no longer there. The harsh lines of sleep deprivation, however, remained. Almost like scars . . .

Rayne grumbled a little, stretching. The movement transformed the tingles in Luke's bicep into full-blown pins and needles. When he groaned, her eyes fluttered open. "No, no," he insisted. "Go back to sleep."

"You're still awake?" she asked with a yawn.

He chuckled. "Sort of. My arm fell asleep."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Rayne sat up, and Lucas used the opening to maneuver his body sideways, facing her.

"I don't mind," he said. "Lay back down."

She paused before resting her head on the sofa once more. They had nearly forgotten the presence of shadow people, leaning over them, until Rayne's eyes shifted to gaze through her peripherals. Lucas caught her arm, pulled her vision toward him, and shook his head. From his vantage point, he could see them all. It was why he had not yet fallen asleep. Countless shadows stood over them, the dim candlelight doing little to dissipate their solid black forms.

She reached up for him then, her fingers brushing the bruises along his jaw with a tenderness that almost startled him. He hadn't anticipated the way her touch would stir something inside of him—a gentleness he hadn't felt in so long.

"Did Cole do this?" she asked, her voice as quiet as the flicker of the candle.

Lucas hesitated, searching her eyes. It was challenging—trying to reconcile her concern with the bruises. He had grown so accustomed to his pain being overlooked or dismissed; so much so, that he'd even built a habit of doing it to himself. 

"Some of them," he confessed at last, raising his own hand to confirm the markings she traced, still unsure what to make of her quiet sympathy. His fingers covered hers for only a moment before drifting down to her shoulder. His thumb ghosted the discolored patches on her skin, tracing the path of shadowy tendrils that seemed almost alive, curling into her flesh. "As for the others, well . . . You have them too," he whispered. He nodded toward the darkness, where the shadows seemed to merge with the room's edges. "I think the shadow people leave marks whenever they touch us."

Rayne's eyes widened, as though she hadn't considered that possibility before. She glanced down at her arm, almost like she was seeing it for the first time. For a heartbeat, she seemed distant, alarm darkening the edges of her expression. Then, she blinked, refocusing on him—whatever dangers the shadows posed seemed secondary to something else.

"Still," she murmured, her fingers lingering at the curve of his neck before falling away, "not all of these are from them." Her voice tightened, a thread of concern pulling at the space between them. "Lucas, why do you let him push you around?"

He went still, tension coiling his chest. "You think I let him?" he replied, but his voice lacked the sharpness he intended—it came out too quiet, too resigned.

"I'm pretty sure you're stronger than him. Wealthier, too." She studied him, a faint frown drawing her brows together. "But sometimes it seems like . . . you're punishing yourself for something."

The words cut deeper than they should have, and he was momentarily speechless. He looked away, jaw clenched to hold back the things he didn't want to admit—not even to himself. The room seemed smaller, the silence pressing in from all sides as the shadows leaned ever closer.

He swallowed hard and turned back to her, his expression carefully composed. "What were you like?" he asked, the question coming out rougher than he intended. "Before all this?"

It was a deflection, and he knew it. Yet, there was a kind of hopefulness in it, a need to glimpse something lighter—something that might pull them both back from the darkness all around them.

"You mean, before I became a schizophrenic criminal?"

"You're not schizophrenic." He almost laughed, until he realized . . . it could be true. "Are you?"

Rayne fixed her eyes on his, her lips sewn agape, seemingly caught somewhere between a breath and the truth.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "You don't have to answer that."

Rayne shook her head. "No, it's fine. It's just . . . Well, they thought that I was at one point," she admitted, "but . . . those symptoms are gone now. They've diagnosed me with PTSD instead, saying I suffered a 'temporary psychotic break' last year because of it . . ." Rayne shrugged, seeming to inch away from the shadow that placed a slender, hand-like mass over her shoulder.

His neck tensed as he pulled Rayne closer to his chest, away from the creeping darkness.

Rayne sealed her eyes shut. "But my psychiatrist," she said, forcing the word as though she could force away the shadow with it, too. "Well, he keeps asking me all these questions like he thinks I am."

Lucas tried to keep his focus on her and not the shadow. "Does that scare you?"

Rayne nodded.

"Well, it shouldn't," he replied.

"But Red keeps asking me about hallucinations—saying if I'm seeing things, it could mean I'm on the wrong medication. Ever since I got here, I've been seeing all sorts of things that no one else can, and then I found out that Nikki isn't even real, and—"

"She is real, Rayne."

"But Lucas—"

"No, Rayne. She may be dead, but she's real. And besides, that isn't even my point."

"What's your point, then?"

"My point is that it doesn't matter what label they give you. These diagnoses don't define us. Even if you were schizophrenic, that wouldn't make what's happening here any less real. What you're experiencing is valid, no matter what anyone says."

Around Rayne's bicep, the shadow's finger-like tendrils squeezed, puckering her skin under its grip. A deep plum stain began to blossom beneath the surface, darkening like ink spilled beneath unbleached parchment. The edges took on a muddied hue, like dusk seeping into the earth, the bruise emerging slowly where warmth had been chased away.

Lucas looked over her shoulder, daring to stare straight into the black abyss. If sorrow could take humanoid form, then this was like peering directly into the obscure orbs of Grief, Depression, and Despair themselves, and Lucas could feel all of them slink into his flesh, carve their way into his organs, and begin tying his stomach in knots.

Rayne's movement against his chest brought his vision back to her. He peeled his eyes from the wretched shadow and met hers.

"Lucas," she began slowly, "I . . . I don't remember doing it—what I did to end up here." She shook her head. "I mean, I know why I'm here, and I know what I did, because they told me. But I . . . I don't remember doing it."

"What did you do?" he asked softly.

"I . . . I killed someone."

A loud burst of wind rustled leaves against the shack's exterior, contrast to the stillness that lay between Lucas and Rayne. It was obvious she wanted him to say something, and Lucas knew that he was supposed to . . . but figuring out what to say was difficult.

Should he have been surprised? Maybe even frightened?

He was neither.

He finally asked, "Who?"

She raised her shoulders. "I don't know."

"Because you don't remember it?"

She nodded.

"Rayne, are you sure that you even did it?" Blinking away a sudden flood of tears, she nodded again, and he hushed her. "Okay . . . but they never told you who it was?"

Rayne shook her head. "They tried to tell me, but it always made things worse. I kept spiraling into psychosis every time they brought it up. That's when they started thinking I might be schizophrenic. But when they stopped trying to tell me about it, the symptoms disappeared. I spent most of the year in a psych ward . . ."

Lucas watched her take a deep breath, wipe her eyes, and then, he could not understand why the next words from her lips pulled a smile across his own.

She said, "You must think I'm bonkers, huh?"

"Bonkers?" he echoed, a surprised laugh escaping him. Maybe it was her quirky Michigan accent, or maybe it was the way her vulnerability clashed with the darkness of her confession. Whatever it was, when he saw her eyes drop in response to his laugh, he gently lifted her chin. "Hey," he whispered, "if you're bonkers, then what does that make me?"

Rayne simply stared at him—his hand on her face, the corner of his lips—and then she said, "Well . . . you're probably bonkers, too."

After a beat, they began smiling, then giggling, until eventually, it grew into a gentle wave of laughter that was so soft and so pure, it rained over them like confetti. As it settled, drifting away like feathers in the wind, Lucas said, "This is probably selfish of me, but . . . I'm really glad you're here, Rayne."

She smiled. "Me too."

It was not long, however, before the remnants of their laughter grew tense, catching on the apprehensive air that seemed to emanate from the shadows in a black, vaporous cloud. Lucas's smile vanished as he studied the black figure slither over them. It dipped its head down to whisper in Rayne's ear, and Rayne slammed her hand over it, sealing out the sound and the wind just as Lucas had tried to do the same. Moving too slow, his hand covered hers instead.

She looked up at him, a tear slipping down her cheek. Lucas wiped it away with his thumb. "Hey. You're not crazy. I see it too."

"Somehow, that's worse."

"It's gonna be okay," he promised her. "We're gonna get through this. We're gonna figure this all out, and everything's gonna be okay." He pillowed his arm beneath his head and pulled her closer. "Hey, why don't you tell me more about Mr. Matthews' brother?"

"What?" She pulled back, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Well, you mentioned him in the library. It seemed important."

"It's not."

"Rayne—"

"It's none of your business, Lucas."

He recoiled slightly. "None of my business?"

"Yeah, none of your business." Rayne turned away from him, lying on her back.

The shadow person loomed above, its blank face staring back at her, and Lucas's unease grew as she continued to meet its gaze. "Rayne," he said, his voice tense.

She ignored him.

Stop looking at it, he thought, each second of her silence revving his anxiety.

Rayne cocked her head to the side, squinting her eyes as she met the shadow's dark gaze, and whispered, "Besides, Lucas, it's . . . it's complicated."

"Dammit, Rayne." Frustration surged through him. He rolled over, positioning himself above her with one knee between her legs—a wall between her and the shadow. His hand was next to her face on the sofa, supporting his weight, and his heart pounded in his skull, cheeks flushed. "Everything about this," he said, looking her up and down, "is complicated. Don't you get that?"

She inhaled sharply. "Lucas, what are you doing?"

"I don't want you to look at it."

"Look at what?"

"The shadow." He quirked his brow. "What else?"

"I don't know, Lucas. You're confusing me." She looked down.

Lucas followed her gaze, realizing the compromising position they were in.

Rayne snapped, "Why do you care so much about Mr. Matthews anyway? You keep bringing him up."

"Because you're pushing your luck, Rayne. When Cole finds out—"

"When Cole finds out what?" She waited, then said, "Go on, Luke! Say it!"

"You're playing with fire. You know how Cole feels about you, and you're—"

"Forget Cole, Lucas. I want to know why this whole Mr. Matthews thing bothers you."

He huffed. "You spend too much time with him, Rayne. It's weird."

"Weird," she repeated.

"Yes. But if there's a reason, like—I don't know—his dead brother is haunting you, then fine. I get it. But maybe you should at least talk to me about it."

"I don't have to tell you anything. I've already said too much. Don't get greedy, asshole."

"Oh, so now I'm an asshole?"

She glared at him. "Get. Off."

Lucas pushed himself onto his knees and sank back onto his heels. Rayne sat up slowly, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. The shadow drifted closer, and Rayne exhaled. She gripped the neck of Lucas's sweater and pulled him back to her; the motion forced the shadow to wisp away from their embrace.

"You're not . . . an asshole," she admitted quietly, and for a split second, he thought she was looking at his lips. She met his eyes. "You're just not telling me everything. Why do you care?"

Lucas sighed, his eyes tracing the sleep-deprived scars under her eyes, the way her cheeks had berried pink with anger. "Because what if it's important?" he said, his voice softening. "What if it can help us with the shadow people? What if all of this has something to do with . . . Mr. Matthews?"

"What?" Rayne released his shirt. "Lucas, how could you say that? Mr. Matthews is the best person at this godforsaken place. You always stand up for him whenever Cole is—"

"I know, but . . ." Lucas shrugged. "It's just something I've been thinking about ever since you mentioned his brother in the library. That's all."

Rayne exhaled. "Well . . . I haven't seen him in a while anyway . . ."

There was a fire in his chest that Lucas could not explain. "Why's that?"

"I don't know," she said. "It feels like . . . he doesn't want to see me. Or maybe . . . he can't. Like something is holding him back."

Lucas assumed she was still talking about the teacher. "It's probably the fear of losing his job, Rayne."

"I'm not talking about Mr. Matthews. I'm talking about his br—"

Outside of the shack, a twig snapped, and Lucas placed his hand over her lips. "Shh, wait . . . . . . Did you hear that?" He sat up taller, peering over Rayne, between the audience of shadows, and out the small window beside the entryway.

Standing outside, glaring and breathing heavy, was David Sheppard.

Lucas sprang to his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins powered by the fidgety, flaming furnace in his chest. "Rayne, we have a problem."

"What is it?" she asked, scrambling to stand just as the door blew open.

"It's not what you think!" Lucas shouted, raising his hands in surrender, but David Sheppard, and his massive looming form was already barreling toward them. Lucas braced himself. David's fist struck his jaw, sending him reeling. Rayne screamed when David tackled Lucas, and the two began exchanging brutal blows. David's boyfriend, Spencer Callaghan, hesitated in the doorway, surveying the spectacle with fearful green eyes. After landing a hard punch to David's nose, Lucas gained the advantage, and Spencer shrieked when Luke flipped David over and pushed him to the ground. "Damn it, Shep! I said, this isn't what it looks like!"

David elbowed Lucas so hard—he fell backward. In the opening, David sat up, wiped his bleeding nose with his forearm, and bellowed, "You backstabbing prick! Cole trusted you!" He clambered to stand and tried to rush Lucas once more, but Rayne leaped onto David's back, wrapped her legs around him and tightening a chokehold. Even through the toffee color of his skin, David's face noticeably began to rubricate, turning a deep, dark red.

"Better watch it, princess," Rayne snarled into his ear. She reissued the warning he gave her on their first meeting: "You don't know the mental stability"—she squeezed his neck tighter—"of some people."

David hurled himself backward, slamming Rayne into the wall behind them. The force drove her head into the weathered, wooden planks, and she released him, falling to the floor.'

Lucas called out to her, but David was gasping for air. Spencer shouted, "Stop it! All of you!" Yet Lucas was already on his feet, throwing another punch. Upon impact, David dropped to the floor, and Rayne seemed dizzy as she propped herself up on a shaky arm.

She hollered, "You're an idiot, Sheppard!"

"It doesn't take a genius to get what's going on here, whore."

"Oh, screw you! I'm going with Cole to homecoming!" she yelled, and the look she shot Lucas told him she'd made the decision to do so in that very moment. "There's nothing going on with me and Luke! So why don't you try asking questions before you start throwing fists next time, huh!"

Lucas ran his thumb over his chin, meeting a trail of blood, and realized his lip was busted open. He saw Rayne struggling to keep her balance, wobbling from one leg to the other as she gripped the crown of her skull, but Lucas was reluctant to approach her for fear of making it worse.

Spencer rushed to David's side, and David pushed him away, yelling, "What the hell is this supposed to be then, huh?"

"It's . . ." Lucas trailed off, glancing at Rayne, who was still woozy, and the shadows that scurried around the room as if agitated; He met David's furious glare with his own. Panting, he wiped the blood from his chin and, feeling his chest tighten, said, "It's nothing, David."

Rayne agreed, exhaling. "Yeah. Nothing."

"Lucas, you were on top of her! Stop treating me like a moron!" David stomped toward them and gripped Lucas by the collar of his gray hoodie.

"David, listen!" Lucas blurted. "Do-you-remember-the-shadow-people?" he said in a rush. The words made David freeze with a mix of hostility and confusion.

Rayne shook her head, as if to say, Don't you dare say anything.

"Not this again," David spat, shaking Luke's collar. "The nonsense you were spoutin' that night you got high? What does that have to do with this, Abbott?"

"It's real!" he exclaimed. "Rayne sees them, too! There's something on campus, and if you just—"

"Lucas," Rayne interjected, but he pressed on.

"It's worse at night," Lucas said, breathless. David stared at him like he was a deranged lunatic. "Do you have any idea what it's like to lie down in a room full of people who aren't really there?"

Rayne grumbled, "Lucas."

"For countless shadows to lean over you every night and watch you fall asleep?"

"Lucas!"

"You don't!" he screamed at David. "You have no idea!"

Rayne approached them and placed a hand on David's arm. The boy retracted from her touch like it was hot coal. "David," she insisted, "this—whatever it is you think you walked in on—it helps me fall asleep. Please don't ruin it by telling Cole. He won't understand."

"I don't understand," he scoffed. "I've known you, what, all of two fucking minutes? And you expect me to keep your secret? Just because you pill-poppers think you see a bunch of shadows in the dark?"

Luke's lips parted. Pill-poppers?

David knew he was on meds? How long had he known? Did everyone know?

"David," Spencer whispered, stepping closer. He rubbed his own arms, hugging himself in a reassuring embrace. "David, they're . . . they're telling the truth."

"What did you just say?" David spat, turning toward his boyfriend.

Spencer's orange hair was a mess, and his red-hot cheeks seemed to glow even brighter under the candlelight. He met Rayne's bewildered gaze. "Rayne, how many shadow people are in the room right now?"

She inhaled, and at the same time, she and Lucas both said, "Forty-three."

Spencer nodded. "There's always forty-three." He aimed his index finger to the other corner of the room. "And there's a blonde girl standing outside the window right now."