I run for the top of the hill, keeping my steps quiet, and Ash runs by my side. We crouch down behind a patch of brush that has a good view of my small white house with its black shutters, red door, and Victorian trim. My eyes widen. But it’s not the longing for my house that shakes me—it’s the old silver VW pulling to a stop in my driveway.

“Emily?” I whisper to myself, and I’m flooded with so many emotions that I can’t breathe.

I stand up. I need to run to her, hug her, and tell her how incredibly sorry I am for not saying goodbye. I need her to know that I had no choice in going and that I didn’t willingly disappear. But before I can take a step, Ash pulls me back down into the brush cover.

“Don’t,” he whispers, and his eyes hold a warning.

“But that’s my best…I have to,” I say, desperation in my voice. I yank my arm, but he has a solid grip on me.

“And what if someone is watching your house? If someone is watching Emily?” he whispers back. “Think, November. I can see by your face how much she means to you. Don’t put your friend in danger like I once did.”

I shake my head stubbornly, tears forming in my eyes. I can’t be this close to Emily and do nothing. “If the Lions already knew about Pembrook, why did Conner threaten to kill us if I didn’t tell him where this place was?”

Ash’s expression is serious. “Two possibilities: One, the Lions figured it out and because of the communication delay at the Academy, Conner did not know yet. Or two, Conner wasn’t privy to all the information his Family had. You have no idea what the Lions know and what they don’t know. Are you willing to risk her life on an assumption?”

Emily gets out of her car and I look away from Ash. Her hair is in a high ponytail and she wears red earmuffs, a long peacoat that flares at the waist, and impractical high-heeled winter boots. She rubs her nose with her red-mittened hand and carries a white long-stemmed rose in the other. I clench my jaw, trying to keep my tears at bay.

“These,” Emily says, pointing to a cluster of orchids in the flower shop. “Purple orchids are the prettiest flower, don’t you think? They just scream elegance.”

I glance at the price tag and take a deep breath. “What about roses?” I offer.

“Roses are your thing,” Emily says, like it’s obvious.

“Correction, roses are not my thing. It’s just my middle name,” I say, and immediately regret it. I love roses, and when my mom was alive she kept vases of them in our house all summer long.