I head to the gym lobby, eyes darting to the bathroom door. I need Ben, but I can’t go in there, so I head back into the dance, scanning for Amber, Bronte, anyone I can trust. But I don’t see them.

Buzz.

Another text. I snatch up my phone, with shaking hands, and open it to find a demand blinking in sans serif:

Meet at the pool during the song. You’ll know the one. Don’t tell anyone. Come alone.

And I turn off the screen, shove the phone into my purse. Someone’s fucking with me. I’ll find a spot on the dance floor, like Ben asked. I don’t even know what song they mean.

Then I hear the warbling horns, building slowly but surely. A baritone, somehow smooth and scratchy at the same time, comes in, singing about seasons. I recognize it immediately. This is the song. The bass vibrates my bones; the DJ has turned it up. He’s shouting over the crowd, at everyone: “Come in at the chorus!”

Before I can think, I’m shoving my way through tangled, sweaty bodies, tripping toward the back egress, the one I know leads straight to the pool.

Come alone, the note said, and still I peer around for Ben. This is a terrible idea. But I have to go. I need to know who it is.

The chorus hits, the name muffled swiftly as the door shuts behind me. Sweet Caroline. I hesitate at the head of the stairs for a second. Then I rocket down them, something inside me sure I must be at the pool when the next chorus hits. Just like in the book.

I ease off the stairs onto the pool deck, and it’s déjà vu. Like last week. Same door, same rippling reflection of water on the faded tiles, same pool.

But no body.

And I’m alone. There’s no bogeyman stepping out the shadows to greet me.

My brain catches up with my body. I’m standing here like a fool, Neil Diamond pounding through the ceiling. Surely this wasn’t one of Natalie’s favorites. Morgan made the playlist, and—

Morgan made the playlist.

“You bitch,” I mutter to my presumed audience. Morgan, pissed at me for the wake, reminding me I don’t belong. Putting this goddamn song on, the one from my grandmother’s book, the winking reference to her great-aunt.

“It’s a shit prank without a fake body!” My voice echoes, almost musical. And because maybe I’m losing my mind, I think, Fuck it, and come in on the chorus, shout-sing about that sweet Caroline at the top of my lungs.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I shriek, nearly drop it. Then again and again, new texts.

I have a better song for you.

Oh, Cecelia. I’m down on my knees. Begging you, please.

Welcome home.