Asher licked his lips. “Not too deep, okay?” He watched her in that way of his, that way that saw down to her marrow, that knew her for sixteen years, loved her for what felt like longer.

Everyone had always whispered that Mia was jealous that Asher had a girlfriend. That he was no longer a lovesick puppy following after her. She’d always said that wasn’t true.

That first night at the bonfire, though, she’d watched Asher’s hand slide under Monroe’s sweatshirt, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. She’d turned to find Lacey watching her with big, sad eyes, and their gazes had locked across the distance.

The ghost of a girl who saw too much, who saw the demons you couldn’t even admit to yourself.

Mia remembered leaning into Cash’s body, remembered that she hadn’t been jealous, only tipsy and amused. But had that been reality? Or just what she wanted to have happened?

The picture in the hallway. Her watching Cash, Asher watching Monroe. But even standing in her mother’s house years later, she’d felt the pinch of something she’d pretended wasn’t there. The boys’ eyes had always been on Monroe.

When Monroe got to the lighthouse, Mia handed her the blade. “It’s like a high. Trust me.”

“It’s just a little cut, right?” Monroe shrugged, silk hair sliding over her shoulder as she sat down beside Asher. Always inserting herself between Mia and him, even now.

“You can do it together,” Mia said, her gaze steady on Monroe. “I brought more.” Also from Lacey. “Look, I’ll go first.”

Before fear could still her fingers, Mia laid the metal blade against her own wrist.

Not too deep, not too deep.

The line she drew was thin, so thin it barely stung. “See.”

As she held it up to show Asher and Monroe, a drop of blood pearled and then slipped over the edge of the cut. They all watched its slow progress until it nestled into the crook of Mia’s elbow.

“My turn.” Asher flashed them a grin, all bravado. But the mask made him cocky, careless, because the blade sank down into his arm, far beyond the thin tip. He dragged it up away from his wrist instead of across, and something about that was so wrong Mia could do nothing but blink.

Not too deep. She’d warned him. Not too deep.

A white fog curled and paced at the edges of Mia’s consciousness as blood soaked into Asher’s jeans. He met her eyes, no longer smiling, and his lips moved. No sound came out.

Mia tried to say something, anything, to warn Monroe, to comfort Asher—she didn’t know. But it was in vain. Her tongue was too thick—heavy and clumsy in her mouth.