He leans forward. “I won’t hurt you. Unless you want me to.”

I stare at him.

He grins. “I’m joking. I am not out to hurt you.”

“Why were you practically dragging me across the river this morning, then?”

“I was only helping. You’re being lured to the water. You wanted to go across, but you’re afraid. And you needn’t be. Once you’re over there, you’ll see.”

I eye him suspiciously. “You didn’t have to drag me. Anyway, I thought it’s Trey’s job to take me across. Not yours.”

He laughs. “And I’m not allowed to help the kingdom out?”

“You almost killed me,” I mutter.

His face is grave, regretful. “Do not say that. I am not some kind of monster. Trey has good reason to hate me, though, I suppose. He’s thinking of something that happened a long time ago.”

“What happened a long time ago?”

“You’ve heard how he died, yes?” he asks. “Your friends told those horribly inaccurate ghost stories around the campfire a few nights ago. Were you listening?”

“How could I not? And I saw it, as it was happening. I saw him fall into the water. I saw him drown.”

“Ah. Your powers allow you to see those things.” He presses his lips together. “You didn’t see who killed him, though.”

“No, I couldn’t see that. Two boys killed him, I think.”

“Or so the story goes,” he says with a shrug. “But the truth is, Trey was killed by only one person. And you’re looking at him.”

Chapter Eighteen

My mind whirls with all the visions I’ve seen and fragments of the story Justin told. The blade slashing at Trey’s arm. The cold water bubbling over his head. The desperate attempt to break the surface, to breathe. That’s the one. Get him. “No. No,” I say, “There were two. Someone told someone … to get—”

“I don’t know what your visions are, but I assure you, I was there. I was the only one there.”

I pull my knees to my chest and press myself against the tree trunk, as far away from him as I can get without leaving my position. “Trey was killed because he turned in a murderer. He saw a murder. Who else did you—”

He grabs my hand, immediately sending a chill up to my elbow. Only when my hand is in his do I realize how violently it has been shaking. He looks into my eyes and I feel dizzy and breathless from the weight of his stare. “I am not a monster. I do not like to talk about my time among the living. I squandered it. I made mistakes. Mistakes I wish I could undo. But I can’t.”

For some reason, I think of Justin. He’d said kissing Angela was a mistake, too. Back then, I didn’t want to, couldn’t believe that mistakes were possible. But though Jack’s sin is so much more damnable, looking into his eyes, I am surprised at how easily I’d be willing to believe he has changed. “But you’ve changed?” I whisper, hoping that the answer is yes.

He doesn’t have to say a thing. I’m his servant. As this thought flickers in my mind, it brings a moment of clarity. Servant! What am I doing? What is wrong with— But by then he is so near that I can feel the curve of his body pressing against mine, so cold that even though we are separated by clothing, his skin sears my flesh. He holds up my hand and presses his palm flat against mine, and all I can do is marvel at how perfectly and seamlessly they seem to go together. His face is so near to me that his breathing tickles my chin. “Sometimes we get caught in a whirlpool. No matter what we do to escape, we can’t avoid being pulled under. Kiandra, I’m still in the whirlpool.”

“You don’t have to be. There’s always a way out.”

“Perhaps I haven’t found it yet,” he whispers, as though he’s already dismissed the idea. His eyes are on my lips, which are waiting for him, trembling.

The thought of Justin flickers dimly in the back of my mind, a dying light among a thousand brilliant stars. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than this, now. The anticipation is painful. “Kiss me,” I murmur, and fully surrendering to my role as his own, I manage a “please” with the last of my breath.

He moves forward an almost imperceptible distance; then, in insult to my waiting mouth, his lips spread into a smile. He pulls away and stands. “If you don’t want to help us, why don’t you go back to the living? Why are you wasting our time?”

I open my eyes, momentarily bewildered and shamed. My mouth opens but words will not come out.

“If you want to help us, you need to go across,” he snaps. “Now.”

“I want …,” I begin, but I don’t know what I want. Ten minutes ago, what I would have wanted was to be anywhere but with him. He frightened me. And yet something has changed, and now I want to help him. I want it more than anything. Now, having him here, so near, I realize that what’s right for me and what simply feels right are two different things, and I can’t trust myself to know the difference. Maybe I am in the whirlpool, too. He leans over me until his lips are once again right before mine. And then he does it, he kisses me. It’s not like kissing Justin, not at all, because the taste of Jack is something foul, sour, like mold and rotten things, and still I push against him, my mouth moving against his, wanting more. I wrap my arms around him, pulling myself to him, lacing my fingers in his hair, every inch of me burning until I realize that my fingers are kneading through something wet and spongy, and that pieces of it are coming off in my hands.

I open my eyes and there is nothing there, only the quiet outlines of the trees, still in the bright moonlight. I’m crouched on my hands and knees on the ground, in a puddle of mud. My hands and most of my arms are painted black with muddy leaves.

I’m not sure how I manage to get up and stumble through the woods, toward the cabin. I don’t hear the sound of my feet hitting the ground. My breath billows in a cloud in front of me, and I blow through it. My hands feel sticky and wet and yet most of my body is numb, as if it has fallen into a deep sleep. Everything in the world seems asleep; there are no people, no sounds, not even the rush of the water I’ve come to expect. I stop for a moment and hold my hands in front of me. Yes, blood. So much blood. By now I can see the lights of the cabin. I rush across the highway, not bothering to stop. I must get home. I must get help.

I somehow get inside, and the heat is so intense my face feels like it’s on fire. Justin is standing under the giant moose antlers, clutching his head in both hands like he’s trying to lift it from his body. Angela is on the couch, chewing on her thumbnail, something she always does when she’s nervous. I expect them to both react when they see me coming, but they don’t. Justin continues to squeeze his head like his hands are a vise, and Angela stares off at the fireplace, even though there isn’t a fire there. I’m about to shout for help when Justin throws down his arms.

“I am such an idiot. I screwed everything up,” he says miserably.

“Oh, stop,” Angela says.

“It’s my fault she ran away. And now who knows what could happen to her? She’s not thinking clear. I really screwed it up,” he mumbles.

I stop for a moment, glad to hear him admit his guilt, then rush forward. “I’m here,” I say, holding out my hands.

I expect them to turn toward me. I expect to see their faces contort in horror. I expect Angela to launch into Florence Nightingale mode, ushering me to the couch, and Justin to whip out his cell and call an ambulance. None of these things happens. Well, not at first. After a long pause, Justin reaches into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulls out his phone. “I need to call,” he says. But he’s not looking at me.

I move forward, into the room. “Justin,” I say to him.