There are a dozen little closets in my parents’ big old Georgian. But Jules doesn’t know about this one on the third floor. She’s been too scared, ever since our menacing little sister, Kate—who’s currently halfway across the world and missing this stomach-turning development, the lucky duck—made up a ghost story when we were kids about the third floor that terrified my twin.

If Jules comes up here at all, it will be a desperate last resort, and she definitely won’t be alone.

The broom closet is halfway down the hall of the third floor and blends into the three-quarter wood paneling. But if you have an eye for detail—and I do—you notice the seam along the wood. That’s how I found it twenty years ago.

Pressing softly, I feel the door give, then quietly drag it shut behind me. A tiny plug-in night-light bathes the small space in a faint glow. It smells like lemon furniture polish and sachets of citrus potpourri that Mom nestles into the house’s many nooks and crannies “to keep the place fresh” when they’re gone, which is often. My parents love to travel and spend lots of the year exploring warm corners of the world. They passed that wanderlust on to Kate, who hasn’t been home for longer than a few weeks since the day she graduated college. What I’d give to be in her shoes right now—thousands of miles away from this nonsense.

I mean, engaged. After three months. I know I sound like a cranky old biddy, but come on. Three months!

Taking off my mask, I shut my eyes as I settle onto a box of toilet paper, then hike up my dress so I can spread my legs. It’s too quiet in here. I like ambient quiet—a gentle breeze, the rhythmic crash of ocean waves. But this quiet is empty and painful. The kind of quiet that leaves nothing for me to hear but my too-fast breathing and my pounding heart.

Juliet’s engaged. I rub my hand over my aching chest. It feels cracked open, like there’s no glue to fix it.

Just as the first flood of tears fills my eyes, footsteps tread down the hallway. Soft and steady. They stop right outside the door, and my ears perk at the sound of a hand smoothing over the wood. Seriously? This can’t be happening. No one should have found this.

The door pops open, then slides shut. The closet now brims with the tall, lean form of the last person I expected or wanted to see.

Jamie.

He spins and slaps a hand to his chest when he sees me. “Christ,” he hisses, shutting his eyes. Backing away, he bumps into the built-in shelves, causing an audible thunk.

“Shh,” I whisper-yell. “If you’re going to crash my hiding place, at least be quiet. How did you find this anyway?”