“No.” He sounds so certain. “I wasn’t there. And I’ve never seen that part of it. The shadow of it. Or the memory. So I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.” He reaches for me, but I back away.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Cole.” Because now that I’ve said it, I know it must be true. What would Willa Culver have done for a chance to become extraordinary? What would she have taken? Who would she have thrown away to get it? Or to keep it?

Cole freezes. He puts a finger to his lips. “Do you smell that?” he whispers. And it feels like déjà vu. But this isn’t the smell of horses. Or pigs.

It isn’t the smell of the past that’s filling up our noses.

This is the smell of gasoline. Here. In the present.

“We need to get out of here,” I whisper. “Now.”

Just then I hear voices below us. Laughing. A boy and a girl. Cole takes my hand in his, and we creep back down the stairs.

A video is playing on the TV. Little Cole and little April are giggling at the edge of the cliff. Dusk is falling. It’s almost dark. “Careful.” It’s Glory’s voice from behind the camera. She’s always nervous. Always cautious. “Don’t get too close,” she warns. “It’s dangerous.” She grabs Cole by the hand when he strays too far from her side. Then she pans over to the right, and Willa stands at the edge of the cliff. Her long, dark hair is blowing wildly in the wind. She holds a flashlight in one hand, and I stand in her living room, transfixed, as she pulls a handful of sea glass from her pocket. She tosses it into the darkness and hits it with the flashlight beam.

“Look at the stars!” she tells us, and we squeal with joy.

Me. Cole. Glory. Because Willa is pure magic.

The smell of gas burns my nose.

“Your mother taught you that trick,” I whisper. And Cole nods. “It was her that was there that night. Not you. Not your father. Not George. Not Glory.”

It was Willa.

“Cole!”

We both whirl around, and Willa glares at us from the kitchen doorway.

Cole takes a step in her direction but I reach out to grab his arm and stop him. Because I see the matches in her hand.

And the room is drenched in gasoline.

“She won’t hurt you,” Cole says. But I don’t know if he’s talking to me. Or to his mother.

If he’s talking to me, I know he’s wrong. Because Willa Culver murdered me once before. And there’s nothing to stop her from doing it again.

“Get out, Cole,” Willa says. But Cole doesn’t move.

“Mom.”

“I said get out!” Willa hisses.