He pulls away. “What?”

Oh, how can I explain it without hurting him? When Justin kisses me, his tongue probes my mouth, so I rarely get a chance to kiss back. And his hands are so big and pawlike, they don’t touch me in a way that elicits shivers. The words “Justin” and “romantic” are opposites. I don’t know if the stuff from romance novels is real, if it can be real to have a guy who is caring and who makes me feel weak in the knees. Justin is smart, sweet, and stable, which are all good things. He’ll never be the one to make me swoon, but some things are more important than romance.

I ask between kisses, “Um, why this sudden interest in making out?”

He nibbles on my ear. “The adrenaline. It’s killer.”

“But I’m hungry,” I say, pushing him away gently. “And sleepy.”

He pulls away, his eyes searching mine for a moment. Then he says, “Right. Sorry. You’ve had a crazy day. You should get your sleep.”

I wrap my arms around him and give him a big kiss on the lips. “Will you stay with me?”

As an answer, he pulls me closer. That night, we share my plate of chicken, though he lets me have most of it. I try to come up with a poem about my trip down the river but end up writing only three words in my notebook, words said to me by a figment of my imagination: It’s too dangerous. Then I fall asleep in Justin’s arms, with the sound of the hockey game in the background. With his arms around me, I’m almost unafraid to close my eyes. But I know there’s little he can do to protect me from the things he cannot see. And he can’t protect me from myself.

Chapter Eleven

The early sunlight glows orange through the trees. When I wake, the house is so silent I can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen echoing through the open-floor-plan space. It’s still quite dark outside; the trees are a single black-green mass against the orange background. I sit up and pry Justin’s heavy arm off my body, but he doesn’t stir, just pushes the side of his face deeper into the pillow.

Downstairs, Hugo and Angela are still sleeping, their bodies wrapped together in such a way that I’m almost ashamed to look, even though they’re fully clothed. I shudder. Angela, Angela, Angela. I may be going crazy, but I’d never be so insane as to think that Hugo was someone I’d want to be that close to.

I check through the kitchen cabinets and find some whole coffee beans, but I have no clue how to grind them. Then I remember that the Outfitters had some coffee. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me bumming a cup. After all, I’m the miracle girl. I’ll just have to avoid any reporters.

Reporters and … unsavory and possibly imaginary characters, I think as I step out into the chilly morning. It’s actually warmer than yesterday, and now the sun is starting to peek through the trees more. I jog down the driveway and across the highway, avoiding the river. The sound of my running shoes on the gravel effectively drowns out the gentle hum of the current. I don’t stop until I’m in the Outfitters. But as I’m pulling open the door, I catch sight of that photo in the glass case, and I hear it.

What the devil is that?

“Don’t you start, Uncle Robert,” I mutter as I step inside.

It’s just as busy as yesterday. A new group of adventurers is suiting up for the river. Some faces look familiar, but most are strange. They don’t know that I’m the one. That’s a good thing. A guy who is standing at the door looks at me growling to nobody and assumes I’m talking to him. He scoots aside, apologizing so effusively for being in my way that I feel bad. I blush and try to explain that I wasn’t talking to him, but stop. Maybe it’s for the best that he think I was talking to him. Better to be a bitch than a nutcase.

“Hey! Ice Girl!” a voice calls. It’s Spiffy. He’s wearing what I think is the same outfit he had on yesterday, and looking like he slept in a tree. “How are you? Ready for Round Two?”

I blush more, embarrassed. So they really are calling me that. “Um, not in a million years, thanks. I came for the coffee.”

He laughs and points to the kitchenette. “Just made a fresh pot.”

I inhale the heavenly scent of the beans as I start to cross the room, but freeze when I see who is there, pouring himself a cup. He has his back to me but the thick strap of his camera is wrapped around his neck, so I know it’s him. I curse and turn around quickly. Spiffy notices, so I say, “I don’t want that guy to see me. He wants to do a story on me for the Herald.”

Spiffy watches him. “Don’t worry. You’re old news. He has a better scoop.”

“Really?” I exhale and loosen, wondering how that could’ve happened so quickly. I know news moves fast, but this is kind of ridiculous. “Which is?”

“When they were combing the river looking for you, they found another body.”

I put my hands over my mouth. They must have found Uncle Robert. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs, a bewildered look on his face. “They just found some bones. That’s all they know right now.”

“Oh! I thought … I mean, I thought it was your uncle.”

He stares at me. “No. He’s hiking the Trail.” Then he eyes me with mock suspicion. “Unless you know something we all don’t.”

“No, I just … um, nothing,” I say, hurrying to the kitchenette. By the time I get there, my cheeks and the back of my neck are burning. I pour the coffee and immediately try to take a sip, but it scalds my tongue. I stand there, inhaling the aroma, trying to wake up so I can spare myself any more awkward exchanges like that. Spiffy must think I’m insane enough already. And he’ll think it all the more when they discover that those bones are his uncle Robert. This I know, just as well as I know my own name. But they don’t need to hear it from me. I’m already Ice Girl. I don’t need to be Oracle Girl, too.

It’s getting pretty crowded and the room is buzzing with adrenaline-pumped adventure seekers, so I quickly make my exit, wrapping my hands around the Styrofoam cup to keep them warm. Immediately the waves start to whisper.

“Why can I hear you, Uncle Robert?” I mutter in the general direction of the river.

“The river only talks to people worth talking to.”

As I whirl around, hot coffee froths from the top of the cup, spraying my hands. I wince at the pain, steady the cup, and bite my sore tongue.

Because standing in front of me is Jack McCabe.

Chapter Twelve

I squeeze my eyes shut. I push hard against my eyeballs with my thumb and forefinger. I chant, “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.”

I’m going to continue on. I’m going to push past him and get back to my boyfriend, then never leave Justin’s side again. I try to move, but it’s not fast enough.

All the while, Jack is very near. He doesn’t float; his footsteps are soft, but they’re there. I can feel his breath on my neck. I can feel his smooth fingertips prying my hand from my face, lacing his fingers with my own. Something touches my cheek; it is cold as ice, yet it sends a white-hot shock down to my toes. The icy-hot sensation trails toward my mouth. His lips. He presses them against mine, not really delivering the kiss, just … lingering, until I have this overwhelming urge to finish it, to pull him hard to me, to beg him to feed his tongue into me. But suddenly the force is gone, and the cold breeze that slips between us, warm compared to his lips, is like a slap on my face.

I open my eyes. He is still there. It’s just me and him, on the path. From here I can see the Outfitters, and the cabin, and yet I am helplessly alone with him. Whatever he is.