Yes, he does, I want to say, but I swallow my words.

“Close it.” I cross my arms. “I’m staying.”

Something tells me this is the most stupid choice I could make, but I need answers. I have to know what the three of them have been hiding from me all this time. And if anything about the past nine months was real.

“Are you sure?” Am I just imagining it or was there a hint of respect in Fender’s voice?

“Absolutely certain.”

“Okay.” Fender closes the door. “In that case: welcome aboard.”

Fender

She’s staying.

“Linnea, I…” Kate starts to say something, but Linnea cuts her off.

“I want to know what’s inside that envelope.”

It’s like she’s standing straighter and straighter. There’s nothing left of the Linnea I know, who was always hiding in the background.

“What envelope?” asks Kate.

I hold it up. It’s like throwing a hand grenade into the room. Her eyes grow wide with panic.

“Another delivery from Room Service?”

I nod and open the envelope. All my muscles tense as I take out the paper.

They’re torn-out pages with a cartoonish picture of a mouse on them. The paper looks vaguely familiar.

I feel a stabbing pain in my chest, as if something is trying to claw its way out from inside.

Suddenly I remember where I’ve seen this paper before.

It’s from her diary.

Happy birthday to Kate.

Tomorrow.

I don’t want to go.

I want to pull the covers over my head and pretend I’m sick.

But she’s my best friend and the boys will be there too.

I can’t cancel.

They’ll ask questions I can’t answer.

I’m so scared about how all of this is going to end.

She sometimes used to write in her diary when I was there. I’d lie in bed and she’d sit in the window seat.

It was one of those kids’ diaries, with a little padlock on it, which are so easy to open. But…why would I have done that? We didn’t have any big secrets from each other. She used to tell me the things that mattered.

Or so I thought.

“What is this?” Lucas is looking over my shoulder.

I stare at the letters, which are dancing on the paper. They swirl around, doing pirouettes.

“Th—this is impossible…,” I stammer.

“Did she really write this?” Kate comes and stands with me too.

I nod, but it feels like my head is falling. I point at the mouse.

“I recognize that.”

“What was Isolde talking about?” Kate looks at me. “Why was she dreading my birthday?”

“I don’t know.”

Did she have some kind of premonition? Did she know that day would end so badly?

Why did she never confide in me? It’s like I’m reading about a completely different life, the life of another girl entirely.