September 20, 1960

It was a mistake. I knew it almost immediately. I could see it in his eyes, the way the spark that was always there, just for me, flickered and then faded away, dying completely. His expression went blank as I tried to explain—about the bodies I could find, about the colors I would see and the smells I would smell. About the smell I could smell on him. No, he didn’t go blank exactly—he went cold. Cold as ice. I wanted to go back in time, to do it over and not say anything, but it was too late. I’d already said the words. It’s been three days now and I haven’t seen him once. Not at school, not at the river where we used to meet in secret, and not at his house when I ride my bike past. Now he’s the one avoiding me.

September 23, 1960

The whispers follow me everywhere, even into the stalls of the girls’ room when I think I’m alone, hiding, trying to find some peace and quiet. But there is no peace for me. Everyone knows now. Everyone at school believes the same things my parents do, the same thing that Ian does. That I’m touched.

October 11, 1960

My mother says we’re moving again. My own father no longer speaks to me. He can’t even look me in the eye. I know he’ll get over it, but for now, when I feel like I need my parents the most, the frosty look that passes over his face whenever I enter the room cuts worse than any blade ever could. My mother’s not much better. She resents me and has a hard time hiding it. I’d rather have the silent treatment from her than listen to her offhanded comments about the friends she’ll be leaving behind and the church groups she’ll miss when we’re gone. As if I haven’t lost anything.

I’ve lost everything.

The first diary entries ended there, the rest of the pages in the book Violet was holding were blank, as if her grandmother had given up on her journal when she’d given up her secret. Violet tried to imagine what that must have been like for her, tried to reconcile the grandmother she knew—the one with quick-smiling eyes that could never decide whether they were blue or green—with the lonely girl in the pages of the diary. She must have been, what, fifteen . . . sixteen at the time? Young. And with no one to turn to.

Violet had no idea what that would be like; she’d always been able to count on her parents, and her aunt and uncle. She had Jay too.

She set the journal aside and climbed on her bed, bringing the music box with her and setting it on her nightstand. It was pretty, and it reminded her of her grandmother. It reminded her that her life wasn’t so lonely.

She flipped it over and wound the silver key, opening the lid and listening to the sound of her grandmother’s lullaby.

CHAPTER 4

“DID I MENTION I’M GLAD IT’S FRIDAY?” ROLLING over, Violet tried to ignore the protesting groan of springs whenever either she or Jay moved, making it sound like they were using his bed as a trampoline. She leaned up on her elbows and stared down at him, her lips curving into a lazy smile as she took in his disheveled hair and the uneven grin that met her. “I wish you didn’t have to work tomorrow. You could go to the lake with us.” She’d meant with Chelsea, Jules, and Claire, and probably everyone else from school who would be soaking up these last few days of summer.

Jay reached up and parted Violet’s curls, moving them away from her face so he could study her, the way he always did—gazing into her eyes and making her feel like he could see inside of her, before finally settling on her lips. He looked at them too, making her stomach feel fluttery as her face flushed in anticipation. “You won’t even notice I’m not there,” he teased, his mouth almost to hers. “Did I mention how glad I am you suggested hanging out here tonight instead of at your house?” The low timbre of his voice made Violet’s heart hammer against her chest as she leaned just the tiniest bit closer, so that his breath lingered with hers. “I mean, nothing against your parents, Vi, but this is way better than having your mom follow us around, asking if we need anything every five seconds. She might as well just say she doesn’t want us messing around instead of trying to spy on us all the time.”

Violet smiled back at him, but didn’t disagree with his assessment. She must’ve asked her mom a hundred times to back off . . . just a little. She’d come to terms with the “no bedroom” rule where Jay was concerned, but her mother’s constant hovering had reached the point that they had no space at all when they were at her house. It was impossible to even get through a movie without her mom offering to pop popcorn for them, or scoop them some ice cream, or order pizza, any excuse she could find to check in on the two of them.

“I thought things would get better once I turned seventeen, but I swear it’s gotten worse. Worse than worse. She’s making me feel like a prisoner on suicide watch.”

“What’d you expect, Vi?” he asked, pulling her down so she was nestled against him. The scent of his soap, crisp and fresh, filled her nose as she rested her head against his shoulder. His bed creaked again and Violet wondered what his mom must think. Then she realized that Ann Heaton wasn’t like her mom. She wouldn’t barge in on them, and probably didn’t have her ear pressed against the other side of the door. “After everything that’s happened? Your folks are just worried, that’s all.” His voice rumbled against her ear.

Violet reached up to find his hand at her shoulder. Her fingers danced and laced and moved through his, never settling in one place, and all the while his thumb traced her palm, her wrist, her pulse. She was amazed how such innocent gestures could make her hot and restless. “But that’s the thing. I don’t see how what you and I are—or aren’t—doing has to do with . . . that. . . .” She faltered over the words. It was one thing to be aware of what had happened to her—the abduction, the fact that she’d had to kill the man who’d kidnapped her so she could escape—but it was another altogether to actually talk about it . . . even all these months later. She still struggled with that part. Even now, lying here with Jay, she could hear the constant reminder of what she’d done. “I just don’t see how those two things are related at all. It’s not like you were responsible for what happened to me. They can’t possibly blame you—you weren’t even there.”