“Dad isn’t allowed to have opinions. My mom’s the one who dropped the cash for the house. And the view. And the whole damn theatre, actually. It’s all in her name. Officially, she owns Whisper Cove outright, at least on paper. My dad doesn’t own shit.” I’m not sure what he’s getting at, but he lays it out for me. “My mom comes from money. A lot of money. When they met, my dad was a broke off-off-Broadway director with this crazy dream of running a big summer theatre on the shore, but no capital to make it happen. And my mom was a rich girl with big dreams of being famous for something besides being rich.” He shrugs again. “So that’s the bargain they struck.”

“But they must have loved each other,” I say. “Right?” And Cole looks at me like I’m being naive.

“I mean, maybe. I’m here, so there’s proof they did at least spend time in the same room at one point. But growing up in that house, I can promise you, there’s not much love left there, if there ever was any to start with.” He looks at me. “What about your mom? What do you remember about her?”

“Nothing,” I say, and I feel the hurt of that. I pull my hand away from Cole’s and dig the old green notebook out of my bag. “But Glory gave me a couple of things today. Stuff that belonged to my mom. And that helps.” I pluck the photograph of me and Cole from its hiding spot between the pages and hand it to him. He stares at it for a long time. I feel the warmth of his body next to mine on the bench.

He radiates heat. And I’m so sick to death of being cold.

“I was lying,” he finally admits. “When I said didn’t remember you.” He touches the little boy in the photograph. That younger, half-hidden version of himself. “I don’t remember much, but I remember that we played together.”

“I remember you, too,” I tell him. “At least kind of. I didn’t realize it was you until I saw this photograph. But I remember playing hide-and-seek in the library.”

He’s studying my face. And he’s right there. I can feel his breath against my cheek. I let myself reach out and run my fingers over his tattoo. That compass rose on the soft inside of his wrist. The mark of safety in rough waters. I see him shiver at my touch. And I shiver, too. He’s looking at me so intently.

“I’m not making up stories,” he tells me. “About the whispering. And the sea.” His jaw is clenched so tight he has to work to get the words out. “And I’m not crazy.” He looks down at the photo, then back up to me.