“I could be.” He was right; I wasn’t. Dancing felt too uncontrolled and vulnerable, and I felt like a fool when I tried. Mom used to dance. All the time. She was constantly turning up the radio, then picking me up and whirling me around the kitchen. I loved it. Maybe that was why I hated dancing so much now. It was just another thing that died with Mom.

God, that was pathetic.

“But you’re not. So what’s the real reason we’re going to igNight?”

I beamed. “Does that mean you’ll go?”

He zipped his duffel and stood, looping the strap over one shoulder. He raised his eyebrows at me like he was waiting for my response.

“Okay. Don’t get mad.” He rolled his eyes, still wordless. “Luna—”

“No way.” He started out the door.

“No, listen,” I said, following him.

“No.”

He was limping a little, giving me a chance to catch up as he loped across the parking lot. “I have to—”

“It’s not happening,” he said over his shoulder.

I stopped. “I’m going with or without you. I’d rather it be with, but it’s your choice. I’m not giving up this time, Chris. As long as she’s out there, I’m not safe. Maybe you can ignore that, but I can’t.”

He stopped, a few feet ahead of me. He let his bag drop to the ground and sighed loudly. Finally, he turned. “So where does the club come in?”

“Vee told me that Shelby Gray has been hanging out at igNight a lot. She broke up with Gibson and is acting super sketchy, and if I were a betting woman, I would bet that she’s going there to meet up with a certain psychotic friend of hers. It’s worth a shot, anyway. I can’t let this go, Chris. And the old Chris would have totally gotten that.”

He seemed to think this over, his jaw working. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I get it.”

“Good. Meet me there at ten.”

15

IGNIGHT WAS PACKED. Like, wall-to-wall, elbow-to-elbow, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip packed. A DJ worked in a high booth, buzzing techno music at us so loud you could feel it vibrate through the soles of your feet. Everything was black light and neon and sleek. Leather couches in the corners, high-top tables scattered everywhere, a long bar that stretched the perimeter of the entire room, an ornate hookah placed on it every two feet or so. It was hazy and loud and hot. Condensation ran down the windows, and our shoes felt squeaky and slick against the tile. People didn’t dance so much as writhe, mixing sweat and smoke and breath.

I didn’t know how I was ever going to find Shelby in there.