Dumbfounded by his words, Violet sat there. She let them sink in, waiting until her brain had sorted them through, making them find a place in the puzzle that was growing more complicated with each passing minute. “Was she”—she lifted her eyes to his—“like you?”

“No. I mean . . . I didn’t think so, but I guess I don’t really know. She never said anything. Sara never said anything.” And then his lips tightened. “I’m sure Sara doesn’t know anything about this.” Violet wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her . . . or himself now. “She’d never have kept a secret like this, not from me.”

“No,” Violet agreed. “You’re right, I don’t think she would.” Her eyes widened as she reached for him again, this time clutching him like a lifeline. And he was, in a way. He was the only thing standing between Dr. Lee and her family’s safety. “Rafe, he told me not to tell anyone. Ever.” Her voice wavered. “I’m afraid of him, of what he’ll do if he finds out you know.”

Unflinchingly, Rafe nodded, making her a vow. “He won’t find out. I won’t tell anyone. Not even Sara.”

Violet’s grip on him eased. She reached out and pulled her milk shake closer and took her first taste of the creamy concoction, letting the peanut butter ice cream melt over her tongue as she thought about what she’d just done and about what Rafe had revealed. The shake was cold and sweet, but did little to calm her churning stomach. “So how will we find out what he’s up to . . . if we can’t talk to Sara about him?” she asked at last.

Rafe leaned back now, looking more like himself again, like he belonged in a place like this, his leather jacket making him look like he was one of the props. He could definitely give James Dean a run for his money. “I don’t know exactly,” he said, lifting his own straw to his lips as he rested his arm over the back of the bench seat and studied her. “But give me some time and I’ll come up with a plan that’ll blow old Dr. Lee outta the water.”

Violet smiled, wishing she felt half as cocky as Rafe did—or at least half as cocky as he appeared. “So basically you have no idea.”

He lifted his chin and grinned at her. “Exactly.”

Since they were already in trouble for ditching school, Violet suggested they might as well go back to her house after finishing their shakes so she could show Rafe her grandmother’s journals.

He’d been at her house a few times before, but having him at her house then wasn’t the same as having him in her bedroom now.

She’d been in his bedroom once. And like that time, when she’d seen the place where he slept, and where he spent most of his downtime, it felt too personal. Sharing this part of herself made her feel exposed.

Rafe’s eyes moved over her patchwork quilt, which suddenly seemed more girly now that she was looking at it from his point of view. He surveyed her oversized corkboard, the one plastered with ticket stubs, birthday cards, ribbons she’d collected from spelling bees and sack races, photo booth strips—all depicting her, Chelsea, Claire, and Jules crammed into the tight space and vying for the camera’s attention—along with other mementos she’d accumulated over the years.

It was like a scrapbook of her life, hanging right there on the wall . . . in plain sight.

“They’re over here,” Violet said, trying to draw Rafe’s attention away from the collection of memorabilia. Knowing what he could do—his ability to glean information from a simple touch, especially from items of importance or with sentimental value—made her uneasy about his being in the presence of such intimate details of her life. Like he might uncover her most personal thoughts and feelings and secrets.

“I never realized you were so talented with your tongue.” His voice was subdued, but she heard a hint of amusement.

“Excuse me?”

He reached out and tapped one of the pictures. In it, Violet and Chelsea were flanking Jules, squishing her between them, and each of them had their tongues sticking all the way out, as if, at any moment, they were planning to assault her by licking her cheeks. Jules, on the other hand, looked typically bored by their antics, and Claire was crammed all the way to the back of the booth so that only her hair was visible behind the rest of them.

Violet grinned, puckering one side of her lips. “You don’t know all my tricks.”

He rolled his eyes and came over to inspect the box of journals she’d set on her bed for him.

He watched thoughtfully as she reached inside and handed him a single diary. “Here,” she told him. “Maybe you can figure something out.”

Rafe took it, his expression uncertain. “What about the rest?”

Violet wasn’t ready to part with all of them, not now that she’d just gotten to know her grandmother . . . really know her. Besides, he only needed the one that had entries about the Circle of Seven . . . it was the only one that was relevant. She still didn’t know what happened beyond that last entry she’d read, the one in which Muriel had died. “I’ll give them to you after I’m finished.”

He hesitated, and then his eyes shifted, as if searching for something. Violet followed his gaze until it landed on the ivory music box on her bedside table. “She loved that song, you know?” he told Violet. “She bought it for your mother . . . when she was just a baby.”

A lump formed in Violet’s throat. “How could you . . . ? You didn’t even touch it—” She stopped herself, because the answer was so obvious. “It—it doesn’t say that in there.” She pointed to the book in his hand, still amazed by what he could do, and knowing that one thing didn’t have to have anything to do with the other. Rafe’s ability was about “reading” things that were important, and the journal must have triggered something for him . . . something about the music box. “It’s just that easy for you, huh?” she said instead.