“Who doesn’t have a name?” Lena whispers, so low only I can hear. A chill goes through me and I’m not sure I can blame the lake. What have I gotten us into?

“Hello!” Pascal calls toward the tent in English. It’s so still it’s hard to believe anyone is inside. “I have brought my dear friends to meet you! It is an honor!”

For him or for us? I want to ask.

A cool breeze ripples through the trees, and I’m painfully aware of just how wet my dress is. I’m barefoot against the grass, my boots abandoned somewhere near the water.

I reach out my hand to take Oliver’s, but he’s just a breath too far away and he doesn’t notice me reaching for him, so I tuck my hand back to my side, alone and untethered. I take a step forward.

Just then, the entrance to the tent moves. The white canvas is pulled back by a hand, sure and quick; it sweeps the fabric aside.

A person, a boy, strides out onto the small porch.

I blink against the sun, as the ground tilts underneath me.

Because it can’t be. He’s gone. He’s a ghost.

But the boy in front of me is not a ghost.

He’s older, his hair a little longer, with a shadow of stubble along his sharp jawline.

But I would know him anywhere, in any time. I would know him in hell. And I certainly know him here.

My old friend. My brother’s killer. No longer haunting me in my head, but here, solid and real and awful.

Finn D’Arcy.

CHAPTER NINE

I stumble back and clap my hand over my mouth in shock. A sound like a swarm of bees roars in my head.

Finn’s impassive face cracks for the briefest moment, revealing something, pain, maybe, except I don’t believe Finn feels pain, not like normal people do.

In the space of a stuttering heartbeat, I take him in. This is a familiar daydream, Finn with his broad shoulders and awful hands. His fine face dappled with fluttering sunlight, surrounded by trees. His golden curls cascade across his forehead and he looks like an angel, even with the bruise-dark circles under his eyes.

But these are not our woods.

This is not my Finn.

My Finn. I scoff at the concept. My Finn was a construction in my own head, a character he played. My Finn never existed.

And this is not a dream. It’s achingly real, and it hurts right down to the soles of my feet to see him standing in front of me.

It’s as if time is frozen, like infinity exists in the single gasp we both take at the sight of each other.

“We’re leaving,” Maxine declares, clear and decisive. She turns and Lena follows, shock and anger falling over her beautiful face.