“You’re okay,” says Brent’s voice. “You’re okay.” His voice is a separate thing. Listening to it makes me feel tired. And sleepy.

No. Wait. Something is wrong.

I try to sit up. Time is thick and slow, like a clear gel. I wonder if I’ve been drugged, but the idea itself feels unreal, like something I’ve only dreamed. Then I remember: the Valium, and more drinks than I can count. I never even checked to see how much was in each pill.

The beach is empty. The bonfire has vanished. Not burned out—vanished. There is no trace of it on the beach, no mound of charred logs, no smoke.

And then: a scream. I look around. There’s a dark shape on the water. A rowboat. I know that voice.

Kaycee.

I stumble to my feet. My head feels like a bowling ball about to roll off my neck.

She’s under, she’s under.

She won’t stay down.

Flashlight beams crisscross the water and I see Kaycee, her beautiful hair fanned out over the water, her mouth distorted in a scream.

No. Wait. Not Kaycee. Kaycee ran away.

But someone is in the water. A girl. No—more than one girl. One of them is screaming for help…

I try and shout but I can’t. My vision splits and re-forms like a kaleidoscope.

We have to make sure…

She’s not breathing…

We have to make sure she’s not breathing…

Confusion and horror war within me. I sway on my feet. My arms and legs feel leaden. I try and shout but my voice splinters through my skull. I’m on my knees again.

The girl’s screams echo over the reservoir. She’s going to drown.

They’re going to drown her.

Darkness bubbles up around me, and when I open my mouth to scream again, a wet terror rushes into my lungs like water, and pulls me under.

Chapter Fourteen

Sleep is a heavy blanket I peel back slowly, climbing out beneath a suffocating fog. I stay like that for a moment, suspended between sleeping and waking. For a second, I don’t know where I am. Everything is unfamiliar, down to the suitcase spilling its guts in the corner.

I sit up and a raging headache comes to life; my body is stiff, my heart is palpitating, my mouth feels like cotton, and I’m so nauseous I have to close my eyes and wait for the room to stop swinging. I’ve been hungover before but this feels different: like the hangover is everywhere, in my skin, even.

Finally, the world clicks into place: the suitcase is mine, the stained carpet and wobbly furniture redraw themselves into the silhouette of my rental house. Sun slants hard through the windows—it must be ten or later. My feet are killing me; they’re bleeding. I must have cut them on something, maybe gravel or broken glass. Sweeps of red in the sheets show me running in my sleep.

I try to climb back through the hours, retrace my moves, but all I get is a kind of panic that overwhelms my memories. What happened?