For once, the sky is dark. Starless.

I tear down the road, running toward the pub through the deafening noiselessness and past every closed business, afraid of what I’ll find. My footsteps echo strangely.

The pub has no lights on—not even the amber lamp—and the doors are locked. I bang on the door anyway, as hard as I can, and then stand in the middle of the street and scream for him.

“Cillian!”

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

“Cillian!” I spin in a circle and scream, “Kiera!” Then, finally, “Aimee!”

I realize then that I don’t have my phone. I can’t even try to call anyone.

I run as fast as I can back down the street again, my still-bare feet growing colder against the chilly, slightly damp ground.

I run to Aimee’s house, where so recently there had been a lively party. A party where I had so confidently drifted through the scene as though it could not be stolen from me. What was wrong with me? How had I not hung on to every stupid second like it could be taken away?

This is exactly what it felt like when Aimee died, when I wondered how I had not smothered her with appreciation. How had I not held her and never let her go and loved her all the time?

How had I simply had a cider and walked around chatting like a few days later it might not all be over? I knew it might be. I feared it would be. And yet I kept living.

How dare I?

I know there’s no one there, but I pound on the door anyway. I let my forehead land against it, flatten my palms against the wood, and then turn and look out at empty Avalon.

It may as well be a movie set.

Eventually, I have no choice but to return to my home base.

From the outside, the cottage looks the same as ever, and I feel a moment of hope lift inside me as I go through the swinging fence door and then run up the path to open the door.

It’s locked.

No.

I remember the lockbox and put in the code. Zero, six, one, nine. Easy to remember. June nineteenth was the day of the accident. Right before my birthday.

It opens—more hope—and inside I find the house key.

I fumble with it and then go to the door. My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t open it at first, even dropping the key and having to find it in the grass again before finally fitting it in the lock and opening the door.

My heart nearly stops when I get inside and see my suitcase—my suitcase—in the foyer. My carry-on on the floor beside it.