But enough takes up more and more space, fast.

After the last bell rings on Monday, I avoid the Grays and take out my dowsing rod yet again. I’ve been frantically trying to graduate from babywitch into serious dowser. At first, the decision to search on my own was just practical. But now I want to find Imogen myself. I want to give her to the Grays, like a present. Then I want them to unpack her. To ask their perfect, pretty witch what the hell is going on.

I walk over the lawn and plant myself at the very edge of the soccer field, which is maybe a weird place to start, but it feels neutral to me. No Rush-related longings. I draw the dowsing rod out from my red canvas backpack, which can barely hold any books now that it’s home to an enormous stick lined with a long, delicate raven feather.

I hold out the dowsing rod and think about Imogen. I’ve only seen her a few times, but I remember her as if she’s carved into my brain. Taller than I am by at least four inches, tall enough that it makes her seem older than seventeen. Her body scrolling with endless curves. Her white skin offset by the exclusively black-and-white wardrobe, and a rainbow of chakra stones on her fingers, her wrists, at her neck.

Red curls, everywhere.

My feet start to traipse over fakely green grass and white painted lines. The dowsing rod is tugging me back toward school. There are almost no students left, but the few who are are definitely staring.

I stare back.

I let them see exactly how little I care.

The flame on my life has been turned up, and what I care about boils down to three things: Keep Mom happy. Keep the Grays safe. Find Imogen.

The dowsing rod stops, twitches, turns me around a corner into freshman hall. I see a girl with red hair standing with her forehead resting against a locker, eyes closed, and for a second I think I did it.

“Imogen?” I ask.

She spins fast, her hair slicing the air, eyes panicked. They’re also perfectly clear, without the mist that clouds Imogen’s. This is Haven, Imogen’s sister. I realize I’m standing in the middle of the hall with a dowsing rod in front of me. There’s no hiding the weird right now. Haven swallows so hard that I can hear the dry, painful sound.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I could lie to her. But it seems like she lives in a house where people tell her less than the truth all the time. Or maybe they only tell her the truth according to the Lillys, and that’s nothing like mine.