One of the most popular local urban legends was one in which an orphanage near Vermilion had reputedly burned down with all the children inside. The ruins of the house were said to be haunted and that if you went there at midnight—especially on Halloween—you could hear the children screaming. Finley was a sucker for weird attractions and urban myths, so they’d all piled into her car to go looking for the remains of Gore Orphanage.

Willa laughs. “How can I forget? I was smashed in the back seat between Owen and Brady, and all the while she was driving in the wrong direction.”

“At least you didn’t get poison ivy.” Taylor had gone home that night with an itchy red rash circling both her ankles and, in places, climbing up her shins. She still has a faint scar from where she’d scratched herself raw.

“Ouch.” Willa’s nose crinkles as she winces. “True.”

They fall silent, and in that long moment Taylor misses Finley with a longing so fierce it steals her breath. She doesn’t want to cry anymore, but she doesn’t know how to keep the tears from coming. “I wish we had to figure out how to fit three of us on this boat.”

“Yeah.” There’s a note of wistfulness in Willa’s sigh. “Me too.”

Finley would have offered Taylor a hug, but Willa has always been the opposite of touchy-feely. Prickly-resisty. So Taylor ends up wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her T-shirt. By the time her brother returns with a large kraft paper box, it almost looks as though she hasn’t been crying at all.

“We need to do this before Mom gets back.” Campbell pulls out his phone and cues up a video of Finley wearing her blue Coraline wig. Taylor and Willa lean in as he clicks play.

“Two years ago, we bought an old boat and made a plan to sail to Key West,” Finley begins, and Taylor covers her mouth to hold back a sob. She remembers this Finley from their last sleepover, before the Donoghues brought in a hospital bed and a round-the-clock hospice nurse. That night they’d watched a Doctor Who marathon and made Belgian waffles at two in the morning. By the time the short video is over, tears are streaming down Taylor’s face and Willa’s fingers are threaded tightly through hers.

“Where is the list?” Taylor demands. “Why did Finley give it to you?”

“Because I’m Switzerland . . . and she wanted you to work together.” Cam points a look at their linked hands before working open the lid of the box. Willa lets go.

“Just give us the list,” Taylor says.

“Relax. There’s an order to this.”