“And you think the sea wants me.” My voice sounds funny to my own ears. Like it belongs to somebody else. Somebody who believes in ghosts.

Or at least somebody who isn’t so sure anymore.

Cole nods. “It wants me, too. It’s wanted me my entire life. I’ve always felt those cold fingers, pulling at me.” I shiver in my T-shirt. “But there’s no way in hell I’m going to let it take you, Avril. I promise.”

“What about you?” I ask him. Because I’m starting to suspect that Cole Culver’s compass rose tattoo won’t do him any good against whatever dark tide is pulling him out to sea. But he doesn’t answer. And the look in his eyes scares me even more than what happened last night. There’s so much sadness. A hopelessness that makes me afraid for him. For both of us. “Why did you show me this?” I need to know why he was waiting on my porch first thing this morning. Why he dragged me here when I should have been at breakfast with Lex and Val and Jude.

Cole takes a step closer. The darkness in his eyes lifts a little. But they’re still deep gray, like the ocean in a storm.

“Because I need you to believe me. I need you to know you aren’t safe here.” He’s searching my eyes, and I remember the two of us in the amphitheater. Watching that paper burn. I feel the heat of that in my cheeks. The flame of it low in my stomach. Being with Cole always leaves me reeling.

Uncertain.

I’m starting to feel dizzy. Overwhelmed by those red letters. The pressure of Cole’s fingers. His eyes. And the brightness of the sun.

“I need to get to class,” I tell him, and I take a step backward. I’m suddenly cold again. “I’ll see you at rehearsal tonight.”

I pick my way through the junk and head back toward the farmhouse. I slip into the library just as the morning workshop is starting, and I’m grateful to Lex for saving me a seat.

“Where were you at breakfast?” he whispers, but just then, Cole crosses the lawn. I stare at him through the tall library window, and it leaves me with almost the same feeling as seeing my mother dressed in moonlight, dancing in that empty field.