“I’m a dowser,” I say. This is the first time I’ve said it to anyone but the Grays, and I thought it would come out sounding weak or ridiculous, but it feels solid in my mouth. “It means I find things that other people can’t.”

Haven looks less sickly than she did the last time I saw her, some of the purple swept away from beneath her eyes. They skitter up and down the length of the dowsing rod. It’s still pointing at her. I lower it slightly. “You’re looking for my sister, aren’t you?”

I check all around us, like admitting it in front of the wrong person might be dangerous. But we’re alone. “I need to find her.”

Haven sinks against her locker as if she’s melting. “Why do you want her?”

It’s a good question. One I’ve asked myself a dozen times, always finding a different answer. Because our friends are in trouble. Because it’s in my nature to find things. Because I want to kiss her maybe-ex-girlfriend. “If I was missing, that’s what I’d want someone to do for me.”

Haven looks up at me, her dark eyes unnaturally calm. When I stare too long, I unbury the feelings she’s hiding from everyone. The turmoil of losing someone she’s known all her life, the loneliness of going through it with those parents. The guilt of not being able to fix things. I want to tell her I’m feeling the same guilt, but I’m afraid she’ll run, like a deer scared off by the touch of headlights.

“You were nice to me,” Haven says. “So I’ll tell you the truth.”

“About what happened to Imogen?” I ask, my chest filling with hopeful static. Maybe that’s why the dowsing rod led me here. Maybe Haven knows where her sister is. Maybe she really did run away.

“No.” Haven narrows her eyes. Even her freckles pinch. “You don’t know her.”

“I’m learning fast,” I say.

Haven hunches her shoulders so hard, it looks like she might fold in half. “You believe what the Grays tell you,” she says. “But I’m her sister.”

Haven and Imogen: Four Years Ago

Sitting on the bank of the Eel River, Haven felt as uncomfortable as if a hornet were buzzing around her, refusing to go away, refusing to sting.

“I’m a witch, I’m a witch,” Imogen sang.

“Stop it,” Haven said, curling her knees tight to her chest.

“Why should I?” Imogen asked, kicking through the water in a slow circle. “It’s who I am. You can’t just stop being who you are.”

Haven very, very much wanted to disagree. She also didn’t want to start a fight. So she stared down at the pale-mint water. She stared up at a canyon of sky between the treetops on both sides of the Eel River.