An old woman sat propped up against the trunk of a date palm, her wrinkles deep, folding in on themselves. Her black eyes were unfocused and watery. She was weak.

And not alone.

Someone was crouched over her, a man with waves of black hair and perfect, beautiful skin. He held a cup to the old woman’s lips and water dribbled down her chin. She coughed again, startling me.

His obsidian eyes flicked to mine, and something flashed behind them. Something I did not know or understand.

The woman followed his gaze and focused on me. Her stare pinned me to the ground as her eyes widened, the whites showing around her irises. The man placed a calming hand on her shoulder, then stared back at me.

I felt a roll of sickness deep in my belly and doubled over. Red swirled at the edges of my vision. My head swam. I gulped for air and slowly, slowly rose.

The woman began to tremble and whisper. The man—surprised, curious, but not afraid—leaned his head in to hear her. Without realizing it, I took a step nearer too.

She whispered louder and louder. It was the same word, just one word, that she repeated over and over again. Her frail arm rose, her finger pointed at me like an accusation.

“Mara,” she whispered, again and again and again. And then she began to scream.

25

MARA,” A VOICE SAID, WARMING MY SKIN.

My eyes opened, but the trees were gone. The sunlight had vanished. There was only darkness.

And Noah, next to me, his fingers resting on my cheek.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare. I let out a slow breath and then smiled, relieved, until I realized we weren’t in bed.

We were standing by the guest room door. I had opened it—my hand rested on the knob.

“Where are you going?” Noah asked softly.

The last thing I remembered was falling asleep beside him, even though I shouldn’t have. My house was tainted, but in Noah’s arms, I felt safe.

But I left them during the night. I left him.

I had been sleepwalking.

The details of the dream hung low in my mind, thick as smoke. But they didn’t fade with consciousness. I didn’t know where I was going in my sleep or why, but now that I was awake, I needed to see something before I forgot to look.

“My bedroom,” I answered him, my voice clear.

I needed to see that doll.

I pulled Noah along behind me and we crept silently to my room. Noah helped me unpack the doll from the box I had entombed it in, no questions asked. I said nothing as I looked it over, my skin feeling tight as I held it.

Its black smile was a little faded—from wear or washing, I didn’t know—and the dress it wore was newer, but still crude. Definitely handmade. Otherwise? Otherwise it was eerily similar to the doll in my dream.

Maybe more than similar.

I remembered something then.

There was a spot of red on the underside of its arm, where she held it.

I lifted up the doll’s sleeve.

“What is that red?” I had asked the older girl.

“Oh,” she said, and handed me the doll. She examined her finger. “I pricked myself.”

Looking at the doll now, I saw a dark brownish red spot on the underside of its arm. Where its wrist would have been.

My flesh felt dead where my skin met the doll’s. I didn’t know what the dream meant, if anything, but I didn’t care. I was starting to hate this thing and wanted to get rid of it.

“I’m throwing it out,” I whispered to Noah. He looked confused. I’d explain in the morning. We couldn’t get caught, and the more we talked, the more we risked it.

He watched as I slipped on shoes, went outside, and threw the doll on top of the swollen garbage bags in the bin my father had already brought out to the curb. It would be taken away soon, and then I wouldn’t think about it or dream about it or be tortured with it by Jude again.

We went back to Noah’s bed; the doll and the nightmare made me uneasy, and I didn’t want to sleep alone. I rested my head against his shoulder and my eyes closed, lulled by the feel of his silent, even breathing beneath my hands. When I woke again, it was still dark. But Noah was still next to me, and we were still in bed.

I was tired but relieved. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Noah said, but his voice wasn’t thick with sleep.

I drew back to look at him. “Were you awake?”

He pretended to stretch. “What? No.”

I rolled over onto my side and smiled. “You totally were. You were watching me sleep.”

“No. That would be creepy. And boring. Watching you shower, perhaps . . .”

I punched him in the arm, then snuggled deeper under the covers.

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Noah said, as he rolled over me, leaning on his arms, “and believe me, I am,” he added, looking down into my eyes as a mischievous smile formed on his lips, “I’m afraid you have to go.”

I shook my head. He nodded.

“It’s still dark.” I pouted.

“Fishing. With Joseph. You have to get back to your room before he wakes up.”

I sighed dramatically.

“I know,” he said, his smile growing wider. “I wouldn’t want to sleep without me either.”

I rolled my eyes and scooted out from beneath him. “Now you’ve ruined it.”

“Just as I intended,” he said, leaning back against the pillows. His eyes followed me to the door.

Torture. I pulled it open.

“Mara?”

“Noah?”

“Do wear those pajamas again.”

“Ass,” I said, grinning. Then left. I padded to my room, passing the French doors in the hallway, the night still black beyond them. I quickened my pace, hating to be reminded of what I couldn’t see.

Of who I couldn’t see.

It was nearly dawn, though. Jude wouldn’t risk breaking in so close to daylight. The thought reassured me and I slipped into my bed, my parents none the wiser. I closed my eyes. I had no trouble falling asleep.

The trouble began when I woke up.

At around eight, my father knocked on the door to make sure I was awake. I poured myself out of bed and over to my dresser to pick out clothes for Horizons.

But when I opened my underwear drawer, my grandmother’s doll was inside.

It was all I could do not to scream. I backed away from the dresser and locked myself in the bathroom, sliding down the tiled wall to the cold tiled floor. I pressed a fist against my mouth.

Was Jude watching me last night? Did he see me throw it away? And then put it back in my room while I was asleep in Noah’s?

Goose bumps pebbled my flesh and my skin was slick with sweat. But I couldn’t let my father know anything was wrong. I had to dress and look and act like everything was normal. Like I was healthy and Jude was dead and none of this was happening.

“Get up,” I whispered to myself. I stayed on the floor for one more second, then stood. I turned the faucet on, cupped my hand under the stream of water and brought it to my lips, glancing at my reflection in the mirror as I straightened.

I froze. The contours of my face seemed strange. Subtly unfamiliar. My cheekbones were sharper, my lips were swollen as if I’d been kissing, my cheeks were flushed, and my hair stuck to the back of my neck like paste.

I was transfixed. The water slipped through my fingers.

The sound of it hitting the porcelain sink brought me back. My throat ached—I turned the faucet back on and cupped another handful of water and greedily drank it from my palm. It cooled me from the inside out. I looked in the mirror again.

I still looked different, but I felt a little better. I was tired and scared and angry and frustrated and obviously stressed out. Maybe I was getting sick, too. Maybe that’s why I looked strange. I rolled my neck, stretched my arms above my head, and then drank again. My skin prickled, as if I was being watched.

I glanced at my dresser. The doll was still inside.

“Almost ready?” Dad called out from the hallway.

“Yeah,” I yelled back. I turned away from the mirror and put on clothes. I threw one last look at my dresser before I left my room.

The doll had to go.

26

GOOD MORNING,” MY FATHER SAID WHEN I FINALLY appeared in the kitchen.

“Morning.” I grabbed two granola bars and a bottle of water from the pantry, gulping half of it down while Dad finished his coffee. We headed for the car together.

He rolled down the windows once we were inside. It was unusually gorgeous out—blue and cloudless and not hot yet at all, but the inside of my skin burned, anyway.

“How’re you feeling, kid?”

I shot him a glance. “Why?”

“You look a little tired.”

“Thanks . . .”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Hey, you know what movie I rented?”

“Um . . . no?”

He paused meaningfully. “Free Willy,” he said with a giant smile.

“Okay . . .”

“You loved that movie—we used to watch it all the time, remember?”

Like when I was six.

“And Joseph is up in arms about the plight of orcas now, so I thought we could watch it together, as a family,” he said. Then added, “I bet Noah would like it.”

I couldn’t help but smile. He was clearly making an effort. “Okay, Dad.”

“It’s uplifting.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Transformational—”

“Okay, Dad.”

He grinned and turned on the classic rock station and the two of us sat in silence. But being back in his car again, I found myself reflexively glancing back in the side mirror. I was looking for the truck, I realized.

I was looking for Jude.

I spent the whole drive to Horizons worrying I would see him behind us, but I didn’t. Dad dropped me off and I was warmly welcomed by Brooke, who introduced me to the art therapist I’d be working with a few days a week. She had me draw a house, a tree, and my family—some kind of test, definitely—and once I did so to her satisfaction, it was time for Group. Half of the students had to share their fears.

I was very glad to be in the other half.

Phoebe kept her distance from me that day, and Jamie made me laugh the way he always did. The hours passed unremarkably but I found myself sneaking glances outside at every opportunity, waiting for the white truck to appear in the parking lot.

It never did.

When my father and I pulled up to the house that afternoon, Mom’s car was already in the driveway. More importantly, so was Noah’s.

I felt a burst of relief. I needed to tell him about the doll in my room this morning, about Jude in my room last night while we slept. I nearly dove out of the car while it was still moving.

“Tell your mom I’m off to work on her list,” Dad said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

I nodded and shut the door. He didn’t drive away until I was inside the house.

Machine gun fire erupted from our family room, and I entered it to find Noah and Joseph slouched on the floor with controllers in their hands, their eyes glued to the TV.

Our conversation would have to wait.

“How was fishing?” I asked, in a casual voice that did not suit my mood. I walked through the archway into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I was hungry, but nothing looked good.

“We did not, in fact, go fishing,” Noah answered, still squinting at the screen.

“What? Why?”

Joseph rocked forward, gripping his controller fiercely. He didn’t speak.

“Joseph didn’t want to kill any fish, though he seems to have no problem killing—you bastard.”

Something exploded loudly and my brother dropped the controller, raising both hands in the air. “The champion is undefeated.” He flashed an obnoxious smirk at Noah.

“Good for you,” I said.

Noah shot me a look. “Where’s the loyalty?”

“I meant about the fish, but for the game, too.” I high-fived my brother and then I flashed an obnoxious smirk of my own. “Blood over boys.”

“You’re both evil.”

“I’m going to be a vegetarian,” Joseph told me.

“Mom will think I put you up to it.” I hadn’t eaten meat since the Santeria birthday show; every time I looked at it, I tasted blood in my mouth.

I dropped onto the couch. “So what did you guys do if you didn’t fish?”

“We went out on the boat and watched for dolphins,” Joseph said.

“Jealous. Did you see any?”

Noah nodded. “A small pod. We had to go out pretty far.”

“The boat was so cool,” Joseph said. “You can come with us next time.”

I grinned. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Well,” Noah said, standing up and stretching. His fingers touched the ceiling. “I don’t know about you, but after letting your brother win, I’m quite famished.”

Joseph slit his eyes at Noah. “Liar.”

“Prove it,” Noah shot back.

“I can prove it.”

“All right,” I said, “this rivalry is getting a little intense. Yes, Noah, I’m hungry.”

“Then if you’ll pardon me, nemesis,” he said to Joseph. “We will rematch another day.”

“You’ll still lose.”

The corner of Noah’s mouth lifted as he walked to the kitchen. I joined him and watched him rummage in the refrigerator.

“Fancy a . . . cucumber?” he said, holding one up.

“You’re not very good at this.”

“Right, then. Takeout it is.”

I looked behind us, toward the hallway. “Where’s my mother?”