"Not on my watch," he whispers, moving his hand from my hair to the scar on my face.

"Don't." I pull away just before he can touch it, watching as his hand falls back to his side.

"What's wrong?" he asks, peering at me.

"I don't want you to catch it," I lie, not wanting to admit to the truth-that the scar is for me, and me only. A constant reminder, ensuring I'll never forget. That's why I refused the plastic surgeon, refused to let him «fix» it. Knowing what happened could never be fixed. It's my fault, my private pain, which is why I hide it under my bangs.

But he just laughs when he says, "I don't get sick."

I close my eyes and shake my head, and when I open them I say, "Oh, so now you don't get sick?"

He shrugs and brings the cup to my lips, urging me to drink. I take a small sip then turn my head and push it away, saying, "So let's see, you don't get sick, you don't get in trouble for truancy, you get straight As despite said truancy, you pick up a paint brush and voila, you make a Picasso better than Picasso. You can cook a meal as good as any five-star chef, you used to model in New York-which was right before you lived in Santa Fe, which came after you lived in London, Romania, Paris, and Egypt; you're unemployed and emancipated, yet you somehow manage to live in a luxuriously decorated multimillion-dollar dream home, you drive an expensive car, and-"

"Rome," he says, giving me a serious look. "What?"

"You said I lived in Romania, when it was actually Rome,"

I roll my eyes. "Whatever, the point is-" I stop, my words caught in my throat.

"Yes?" He leans toward me. "The point is…»

I swallow hard and avert my gaze, my mind grasping the edges of something, something that's been gnawing at me for some time. Something about Damen, something about that almost, otherworldly, quality of his-is he a ghost like Riley? No, that's impossible, everyone can see him.

"Ever," he says, his palm on my cheek, turning my head so I'm facing him again. "Ever, I-"

But before he can finish, I'm off the couch and out of his reach, tossing the throw from my shoulders and refusing to look at him when I say, "Take me home."

Twenty-Six

The second Damen pulls into my drive, I jump out of the car and hit the ground running, racing through the front door and taking the stairs two at a time, hoping and praying that Riley will be there. I need to see her, need to talk to her about all the crazy thoughts that are building inside me. She's the only one I can even begin to explain it to, the only one who just might understand.

I check my den, my bathroom, my balcony, I stand in my room and call out her name, feeling strange, hectic, shaky, panicked in a way that I can't quite explain.

But when she fails to appear, I crumble onto my bed, curl my body into a small tight ball, and relive her loss all over again.

"Ever, honey, are you okay?" Sabine drops her bags and kneels down beside me, her palm cool and sure against my hot clammy skin.

I close my eyes and shake my head, knowing that despite the fainting spell, despite my recent bout of exhaustion, I'm not sick. At least not in the way that she means. It's more complicated than that, and not so easily cured.

I roll onto my side, using the edge of my pillowcase to wipe at my tears, then I turn to her and say, "Sometimes-sometimes it just hits me, you know? And, it's not getting any easier," I choke, my eyes flooding all over again.

She gazes at me, her face softened by sorrow as she says, "I'm not sure that it will. I think you just get used to the feeling, the hollowness, the loss, and somehow learn to live around it." She smiles, removing my tears with her hand.

And when she lies down beside me, I don't pull away. I just close my eyes and allow myself to feel her pain, and my pain, until it's all mixed together, raw and deep with no beginning or end.

And we stay like that, crying and talking and sharing in the way we should've done long ago. If only I'd let her in. If only I hadn't pushed her, away.

And when she finally gets up to make us some dinner, she pilfers through her tote bag and says, "Look what I found in the trunk of my car. I borrowed it ages ago after you first moved here. I didn't realize I had it all this time."

Then she tosses me the peach hoodie. The one I'd forgotten all about.

The one I haven't worn since the first week of school.

The one I was wearing in the picture on Damen's coffee table even though we hadn't yet met.

The next day at school, I drive right past Damen, and that stupid spot he always saves for me, and park in what seems like the other side of the world.

"What the hell?" Miles says, gaping incredulously. "You drove right past it! And now look how far we have to walk!"

I slam my door and storm across the lot, marching right past Damen who's leaning against his car, waiting for me.

"Um, hel-lo! Tall dark and handsome at three o'clock, you walked right by him! What is going on with you?" Miles says, grabbing my arm and looking at me. "Are you guys in a fight?"

But I just shake my head and pull away. "Nothing's going on,"

I say, striding toward the building.

Even though the last time I checked Damen was well behind me when I walk into class and head for my seat, he's already there. So I raise my hood and switch on my iPod, making a point to ignore him, while I wait for Mr. Robins to call roll.

"Ever," Damen whispers, as I stare straight ahead, focusing on Mr. Robins's receding hairline, just waiting for my turn to say "Ever, I know you're upset. But I can explain." I stare straight ahead, pretending not to hear. "Ever: please," Damen begs.

But I just act like he's not even there. And just when Mr. Robins gets to my name, Damen sighs, closes his eyes, and says, "Fine. Just remember, you asked for it."

And the next thing I know; a horrible thwonk! resonates throughout the room, as nineteen heads hit the tops of their desks.

Everyone's head but Damen's and mine.

I gaze all around, mouth gaping, eyes trying to comprehend, and when I finally turn back to Damen, staring accusingly, he just shrugs and says, "This is exactly what I'd hoped to avoid."

"What've you done?" I stare at all the limp bodies, a terrible understanding beginning to emerge. "Omigod, you killed them! You killed everyone!" I shout, my heart pounding so fast I'm sure he can hear it.

But he just shakes his head and says, "Come on, Ever. What do you take me for? Of course, I didn't kill them. They're just taking a little… siesta, that's all."

I scoot to the edge of my seat, my eyes fixed on the door, plotting my escape.

"You can try, but you won't get very far. You see how I beat you to class even though you had a head start?" He crosses his legs and gazes at me, his face calm, voice steady as can be.

"You can read my mind?" I whisper, recalling some of my more embarrassing thoughts, my cheeks growing hot as my fingers grip the edge of my desk.

"Usually." He shrugs. "Well, pretty much always, yes."

"For how long?" I stare at him, part of me wanting to take my chance on escape, while the other part wants to get a few questions answered before my most certain demise.

"Since the first day I saw you," he whispers, his gaze locked on mine, sending a flood of warmth through my body.

"And when was that?" I ask, voice trembling, remembering the photo on his table, and wondering just how long he's been stalking me.

"I'm not stalking you." He laughs. "At least not in the way that you think."

"Why should I believe you?" I glare, knowing better than to trust him, no matter how trivial.

"Because I've never lied to you."

"You're lying now!"

"I've never lied to you about anything important," he says, averting his gaze.