The next day is Sunday. Our last day off at Whisper Cove. It’s supposed to be the calm before our final wild week. I spend the day in the library pouring over my mother’s notebook, but I don’t find much. There are some things in there about her and Glory. Just little notes about the things they did together.

How it felt the first time they kissed.

And I guess that’s why Glory didn’t want me to have it.

There are more notes labeled with those initials, too. B. C. And I still don’t know what they mean. Phrases like love isn’t enough and no promises. And scribbled adjectives like lonely and secretive and passionate. But if my mother was in love with Glory, I can’t figure out who B. C. could be.

I keep waiting for Cole to find me. I want to show him the passages I’ve highlighted. The parts I don’t understand. But he never shows up.

At breakfast on Monday, it hits us all that this really is the beginning of the end. Our last week together. There are no classes or work assignments these last few days. With the curtain going up on Friday night, we’re focusing on the show. And I’m grateful for the fact that I don’t have to spend my afternoons filing invoices with someone who probably murdered my mother.

It’s a busy day of costume fittings and working with the props crew to find the last few things we need. I don’t get much time to talk to Cole, but whenever I have so much as a free minute, I’m looking through that blue notebook for some kind of proof that the cold hand around my wrist belonged to Glory. Because I know I can’t go to the police with evidence like wind chimes and childhood memories. And there’s no way I’m leaving here without writing the final scene.

I’m surprised when my dad calls that evening after dinner. I’m walking down to the barn, and I let Lex and Val and Jude go on ahead so I can have some privacy.

“Hello?” I say, and a few seconds of silence slip by. I almost hang up. I figure it was an accidental call. But then I hear my dad’s voice.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Busy.” I’m trying to figure out why he called. Because he definitely isn’t a chatter.

“Your play is this weekend,” he says.

“Yeah. Friday night.”

“And then you come home. When? The next day?”

“Yeah,” I say again. “I fly home on Saturday morning.”

It’s quiet for a few more seconds.

“It’ll be good to have you home,” he says. And that catches me so off guard that I almost don’t hear the next part. “It’s too quiet here. Tu me manques.”

I miss you.