“Anya says that nobody can save anybody else,” I remind him.

He pulls me against him, and it feels good to be wrapped up in his arms. But there is so much sadness in his voice. His words are thick with it. “We can’t, in the end. But maybe we can save each other in little moments, like you did for me tonight. And maybe that has to be good enough.”

“I love you.”

I don’t mean to say it. It just slips out. And I’m not even sure exactly what I mean by it. Because I’m feeling so many different things right now. I just know that it feels true. And that seems so weird, because it’s only been two weeks. But then I remind myself that I’ve known Cole Culver almost all my life.

I just didn’t remember it.

“I love you, too,” he tells me. “I’m pretty sure I always have.”

“You mean since we were five,” I tease him, but he shakes his head.

“I mean always.” He looks at me for a few seconds. I can’t resist reaching up to run my fingers over the stubble along his jaw. I want to feel all of him. So I can remember him this time. I don’t ever want to forget again.

“My father didn’t kill your mother, Avril. It doesn’t make sense. He’s fucking spineless. He would never have had the guts.”

I’m almost sure he’s wrong. My memories of that night are so clear now. There are gaps. Pieces missing. But everything points to Brody Culver.

“Cole—”

“We have two weeks left,” he tells me. “There’s still time to figure it all out.”

I don’t tell him that it’s actually less than two weeks. The performance is eleven days away. And the day after that, everyone will leave Whisper Cove.

Everyone except for Cole. He never gets to leave.

Eleven days.

That’s not much time to untangle twelve years’ worth of secrets. Or to figure out who my mother really was.

To become whoever it is I’m meant to be.

But maybe Cole is right. Maybe there’s something I’m missing.

I want there to be another answer. Because the thought of losing Cole and Willa is almost too much to bear. And I don’t see how it can go any other way, if I’m right about what Brody Culver did that night.

The wind changes direction then, and goose bumps break out all along my arms. The hair on my neck stands up. The overwhelming scent of lavender is drifting on the night breeze.

“Cole?” I whisper. “Can you smell that?”

“It’s lavender,” he says.

“I think my mother loved lavender,” I tell him. “It reminds me of her.”