Dream On

PROLOGUE

Care for breakfast? Devin’s deep voice caresses my body, rumbling through the dark like the intoxicating purr of an engine.

I blink open my eyes and stretch my arms above my head until my knuckles brush the smooth headboard. Devin’s smiling at me from beside the bed, dressed in the same fitted jeans and navy polo from last night. Soft morning light creeps through the hotel room’s translucent curtains, casting his normally coal-brown hair in a mahogany glow.

Are you referring to food or yourself? I say. Curling onto my side to face him, I pull the crisp white sheet up to my chest.

The mattress dips as he sits next to me, dark eyes twinkling. Take your pick. Brushing a lock of hair from my face, he presses his lips against mine in a lingering kiss. My chest expands, filling with joy until I’m sure it will crack.

After years of putting love on the back burner to focus on school and career, I can’t believe I’ve finally found someone. We’ve only been together a few months—three, I think—but this is the real deal. I can sense our soul-deep connection in my marrow. I have that overwhelming you-complete-me feeling I’d only hoped I’d find with someone someday. And guess what? He feels the same way about me.

How in the world did I get so lucky?

Devin graces me with a heart-melting smile. I brought your favorite. He reaches behind him, and from out of nowhere proffers a piece of strawberry-covered cheesecake on a gleaming white plate.

I grin as he hands it to me. Dessert for breakfast? How decadent. I take a bite, and immediately wrinkle my nose. The taste is off. Rather than creamy, tart deliciousness, something stale and plasticky fills my mouth. I take another bite, just to be sure, and somehow manage to shove the fork down my throat. Pain sears my esophagus and the urge to gag overwhelms me. A burst of dazzling light fills the room, blurring Devin’s edges like watercolors.

My heart beats faster. Something’s not right.

Gripping the sheet, I tug it to my chin as I shrink against the pillows. Above me, the ceiling recedes into an endlessly blue sky. And it’s filled with flying kittens. Tiny, feathered wings flap as they dip here and there, playing oversized violins like furry, fluffy cherubs. One of them, a tabby with green-golden eyes, winks at me as he draws his bow across the strings, causing a shower of effervescent sparks to rain down on Devin and me.

Welp… guess I’m dreaming. At least Devin’s in my dream too, which means it’s a Very Good Dream.

I realize now that my body feels like it’s floating in the ocean; I’m in that twilight space between awake and asleep—aware that this is a dream, but still not quite conscious. This hotel room, the cheesecake: they’re from the weekend trip to the lake that Devin surprised me with last month. Maybe if I don’t think too hard about waking up, I’ll stay asleep. Maybe I can make the dream change… call up another favorite memory…

A thick blanket of clouds passes overhead, but the sky is as bright as ever and I squint. A pair of strong arms snakes beneath me, lifting me against a firm, familiar chest. Devin…

"Cassidy…" A faint voice echoes from far away, no louder than a reverberation from a church bell. It’s easy to ignore, so I do.

The dream shifts. I’m no longer lying in bed, but standing in the center of a dimly lit restaurant, clothed in a knee-length burgundy silk dress. Devin’s wearing a white button-down with a red scarf, and we’re dancing—just like on our first date. Soft music curls around us. I’m vaguely aware that people are staring, but I don’t care. I cling to Devin so tightly my body melds with his and our souls tangle together. We’re complete.

"Cass, come back to us," a distant voice echoes, louder this time.

Time to go. Devin’s deep voice rumbles in his chest.

I sigh into his neck and grasp him tighter. I want to stay here with you.

Gently disentangling himself from me, he steps back until he’s an arm’s length away. I smooth my dress over my stomach. Rather than lush, soft fabric, my gown is oddly thin and scratchy. I frown. A truck beeps somewhere in the distance, a steady, rhythmic sound. Devin takes my hand, but his palm is no longer rough. It’s small and smooth, and long nails prick my skin.

Cass… he whispers, his form blurring.

"Cass… can… hear me?" says a higher-pitched voice.

The dream turns fuzzy. No, not yet. I don’t want to wake up. But Devin’s form swirls and dissolves like smoke.

I surface to consciousness like a creature emerging from the deep. I’m vaguely aware that I’m lying in a bed that’s not mine, and something’s beeping. An alarm clock? I open my eyes. A fluorescent light blinds me and I blink sluggishly. My eyelids are heavier than dumbbells. Someone squeezes my hand so hard it aches, and the blurry but familiar form of my best friend fills my vision. Her blond hair is pinned in a messy bun, her face a mask of concern. Brie? My voice is a raspy whisper and I cough.

Oh my God, Cass! You’re awake! She squeezes my hand again. Behind her delicate, round gold glasses, her honey-brown eyes are as wide as hubcaps.

Where am I? I ask.

In the hospital. You had an accident.

My vision clears, and I realize that I am, in fact, lying in a hospital bed, wearing a thin patterned gown with a stiff white blanket pulled up to my waist. A heart monitor beeps steadily from the corner. Brie’s here, but where’s Devin? He must have stepped out.

Where—

Hold on. Mel… Melanie! she shouts over her shoulder. Rapid footsteps approach and my mother appears beside Brie. Dark circles ring her eyes, and her normally shiny hair is limp. She’s only forty-two—she had me at seventeen—but she looks at least fifty today. My stomach tightens as she smooths a lock of damp hair from my forehead. Cass, is that you? Can you hear me?

I clear my throat. Yeah, Mom, I hear you. You’re shouting. I attempt to scoot higher in bed, but pain blasts through every cell of my body and I wince.

Shhh, don’t try to move. You were in a car accident, honey. You’ve been in a coma. We weren’t sure if you… Mom’s chest heaves and a sob rips through her. Oh God, Mom never cries. Brie curls an arm around her shoulder while she struggles to regain her normally unflappable composure.

Wait, a coma? The heart rate monitor beeps faster. How long was I—

Out? Brie finishes. Gnawing her lip, she takes a deep breath. I don’t know how to break it to you, but… the year is 2041, and the robots have taken over. I’m sorry. I hope you’re ready for the apocalypse. Her lips twist in an obvious attempt to suppress a smile. I blink.

Mom slaps Brie’s arm. "Brielle Owens."

What? The opportunity was too good to pass up. I couldn’t help myself.

Warmth fills my chest. Brie’s always known how to make me smile.

Mom shakes her head. It’s August 4. You’ve been out for six days.

I glance around the hospital room, at the blue vinyl chair pulled out into a bed in the corner, the open bag sitting on top of the twisted sheet, the lunch tray of half-eaten food on the rolling table. It looks like Mom, or Brie, or both, have been staying with me. Maybe they’ve been taking turns with Devin to visit. Hey, can you—

Someone’s up, I see. A rosy-faced nurse bustles into the room, and a swell of activity ensues. The nurse calls in a doctor, who examines me and asks what feels like a million questions. "Do you know your name? What year is it? Who’s the president?" Half an hour later, a specialist arrives and introduces herself as Dr. Holloway, a neurologist. She studies my chart as the nurse inclines my bed.

I could use some caffeine, announces Brie. Can I get you a coffee, Mel?

Yes please. Two creams, one sugar. Thanks, Brie, says Mom.

You got it. I’ll be right back. She flashes me a reassuring smile as she leaves the room.

Adjusting her laptop, the doctor peers at me over her tortoiseshell glasses. Tell me, Cass, what’s the last thing you remember before waking up today?

I— I cough, and Mom hands me a paper cup of ice chips. I slurp one into my mouth. The chilled liquid feels good against my abraded throat. Apparently I was on a ventilator until two days ago, when I began demonstrating bouts of wakefulness—of which I remember nothing—but my throat still feels like someone shoved a red-hot poker down there. I remember taking the bar exam.

Mmm-hmm. And what about after that? the doctor asks.

I think back. I recall the last day of the two-day, soul-sucking exam, how I felt elated and exhausted when I left the test center in Columbus, and then… Nothing.

She types for several long seconds before shutting the lid of the laptop. The good news is it looks like there’s no brain damage.

Across the room, my mother slumps in relief. Oh, thank God.

But she has a long road of recovery ahead. We were able to relieve the swelling on her brain with an emergency craniotomy, but it’s possible she may experience lingering adverse effects.

I automatically finger the thick bandage behind my ear.

What kind of adverse effects? asks Mom.

Possible trouble with coordination, short-term memory loss. We won’t know until we run further tests. And with two cracked ribs and a fractured tibia, I’m recommending she be moved to a rehabilitation center…

I close my eyes while the doctor explains my recovery plan. The back of my neck tingles, and a memory lumbers to the surface. Wait, I say, opening my eyes. I do remember something. Before driving home after the bar exam, I had dinner with Devin.

Mom frowns at me. Who’s Devin, honey?

I blink. You know, Devin Bloom. The guy I’ve been seeing.

You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.

I did, you’ve just been working too hard, I mumble. So wait, he hasn’t come to visit me? Disappointment swells in my chest like a cresting wave.

No one’s been here except me, your stepdad, and your brothers. They came by yesterday after you were moved out of the ICU. And Brie, of course. She jumped in the car and drove up as soon as she heard about your accident.

Maybe the hospital only allowed family to visit? No, that couldn’t be, because Brie’s here and she’s not family. Wait. Maybe Devin didn’t even know I was in an accident. Panic constricts my lungs. I look around automatically for my phone, but it’s not on the nightstand. Where’s my phone? I need to call Devin and tell him I’m okay. He must be worried sick.

Mom frowns. Your phone was destroyed in the accident.

The door opens and Brie returns, holding two cups of coffee. She passes one to my mom and takes a sip from the other.

Brie, can I borrow your phone? I need to call Devin.

She splutters. Huh? Who now?

I let out an exasperated huff. What the hell is wrong with everyone? Come on, Brie. Devin, my boyfriend. We talk every week, so I know I’ve told you all about him. At her blank stare, I continue. We met at a bar in April, hit it off, and we’ve been dating ever since? He grew up in Cleveland and he helps run his family’s business? You haven’t met him yet, but I’m sure you’ve seen pictures. He’s six two, dark brown hair, brown eyes. You know—Devin Bloom.

Brie’s cheeks pale as she slowly sets her coffee on the nightstand. The doctor looks between me, Brie, and my mother, opens her laptop, and begins typing. Dread slithers into the pit of my stomach, coalescing into a writhing ball.

Brie stares at me with wide, confused eyes. Who the hell is Devin Bloom?

Life with a head injury is nothing like the movies.

A bandit gets conked on the forehead with an iron and, minutes later, shakes it off and continues his scheme to burglarize a young boy’s booby-trapped home. No, fool, you should be in the hospital with a blow to the head like that! Or a woman runs into a metal pole only to wake up in a world where every gorgeous man wants her. Ha, I wish. Film characters fall off subway platforms, step on rakes, and absorb knockout punches, banging their skulls so often you could stitch the scenes together and make the concussion noises play The Star-Spangled Banner. Then they simply pick themselves up and continue with their lives like nothing happened. In reality, a head injury is a hell of a lot more life-altering—and in my case—strange.

Crawling across the crumb-strewn back seat of my mom’s minivan, I scoop out the cardboard box I’ve carefully stashed on the floor. Cassidy Closet is printed neatly in big, innocent letters. As I wiggle back through the open door, I glance out the window and catch sight of a trash can sitting on the curb.

Guilt needles my stomach. I should have thrown away what’s inside this box months ago. Not the various knickknacks or get-well cards from my law school classmates—I mean the other thing. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it for reasons I don’t want to explore.

Rolling my neck, I stand and lift the box out of the car.

Where do you want this? one of the movers calls from the double-parked moving truck. Broad-shouldered and bald, he’s pulling my dresser on a red dolly behind him. I blink at his T-shirt, which features an eight-bit kitten riding a rainbow and the words Call me Mr. Cat Daddy scrawled beneath it.

In the— I begin, but a familiar song blares from the radio on the porch and the back of my neck tingles. Oh no. It’s happening again. There’s nothing about Sonny and Cher’s I Got You, Babe that should inspire this level of dread-soaked anticipation (unless you’re Bill Murray in Groundhog Day), but I’m not exactly normal. The opening lyrics drill into my brain, and I squeeze my eyes shut as an unwanted memory flickers to life.

No, not a memory.

In my mind’s eye, I’m no longer standing on a tree-lined street in Cleveland on a cool June day. I’m swaying on a dim stage in a beer-soaked karaoke bar, microphone in hand. And he’s there—Devin Bloom. He’s smiling at me, cheekbones illuminated by a spotlight, dark eyes crinkling as he changes the lyrics so the chorus includes my name: "I got you, Cass." I clutch the cardboard box so tightly its contents threaten to rattle.

Most people wake up from a coma with memory loss. I woke up with memory surplus—specifically, countless memories of a man named Devin Bloom.

Except Devin isn’t real. He’s a figment of my coma-rattled imagination.

At first, I didn’t believe it. But the cloud revealed the truth: I didn’t have any photos of Devin, any text history, or even a contact labeled Devin. There was absolutely, positively no evidence that Devin Bloom, my supposed boyfriend of three months, was a real person. No one in my life had met him, knew him, or heard of him. Googling and obsessively searching social media revealed nada as well.

There have been cases before of coma patients waking up with false or conflated memories, but waking up with a full-on imaginary boyfriend? The doctors called it a medical anomaly. I call it a heart transplant without the heart and an unnecessary distraction from getting my life back on track.

Not that I feel sorry for myself or anything. In fact, I have a lot to be grateful for: I’m thinking, walking, talking, and back to my normal self—mostly. I could have died in that car accident. Or never recovered at all from the coma. If an imaginary boyfriend is the worst thing I have to deal with, I’m lucky. Shutting my eyes, I take a deep, reassuring breath.

I’m here. I’m real. He’s not real, I mutter my therapist’s mantra to myself.

Oh, I’m real, honey, says a deep voice.

My eyes pop open. The mover, Mr. Cat Daddy, is still staring at me, bushy eyebrows raised. Dresser? he asks.

My cheeks flame. Upstairs bedroom. First door on the right.

Want me to take that up too? He nods at my box.

I hug it tighter to my chest. No, thanks.

Shrugging one massive shoulder, Mr. Cat Daddy pulls the dolly up the cracked stone stairs leading to the century-old Ohio City Victorian that’s officially my new home. Just before he reaches the porch, he steals a wary glance at me over his shoulder. Irritation bursts through my nostalgia, burning away the last fragments of imagined memory like smoke.

I’m not crazy, I call after him.

Whatever you say, lady. He disappears through the front door.

With a huff, I march up the steps toward the house. The soles of my white Adidas thud against the porch as I stride over to the radio. Balancing the box on my hip, I switch the station. I Got You, Babe cuts out and a jaunty, bass-heavy pop song takes its place. I nod.

Much better. This is a day for new beginnings.

The cobalt-painted front door is already propped open and I step inside. But before I can climb the stairs to deposit the box in my bedroom, Brie strides into the foyer. My heart lightens automatically. Ever since I met Brie on the first day of seventh grade and we swapped lunches—her nanny-prepared ham and Gruyère for my generic PB and J—we’ve been best friends. Now we’re twenty-six, and we’re finally, finally moving in together now that I’ve more-or-less fully recovered from the accident and her last roommate moved out.

Her gold glasses sparkle, highlighting her light brown eyes. "Cass, there you are! Can you please tell your mother to chill out? Marcus stopped by a few minutes ago to drop off your key, and she’s been haranguing him ever since. For a landlord, he has the patience of a saint, but I can practically see him contemplating tearing up our lease."

An ear-splitting squawk steals my attention, and I register the African gray parrot perched on Brie’s shoulder. I take a hasty step back out of habit. I didn’t know Xerxes was here. I thought you said he was living with your parents.

Xerxes rustles his gray wings and edges sideways along Brie’s shoulder, long red tail feathers twitching. "Squawk! Damn it, Char. Damn it, Char. Screw you, Bill. Screw you. Screw you. Squaaaawk!"

She winces. He was. Reaching into the front pocket of her vintage overalls, she pulls out a sunflower seed. Xerxes nibbles it gently. I liberated him last month. I told you, remember?

I— I swallow hard. Did she tell me? I can’t remember. Before the accident, my memory was airtight. I could rattle off case law like LexisNexis and recite my grocery list by heart. Now, if I don’t write something down—tasks, appointments, reminders, names—it poofs out of my head like a cloud of steam wafting from a hot shower. I blame Devin. Maybe if he wasn’t taking up space where he doesn’t belong, my brain could function normally again.

I shove my short-term memory issues out of my mind before my stomach twists itself into knots.

You know what? Brie smacks her forehead, her voice overly bright. I didn’t tell you. I was going to, then some work stuff came up and it slipped my mind. I’m so sorry, that’s my bad. She shifts her weight from one sneakered foot to the other.

I sigh. You definitely told me, didn’t you?

She opens her mouth then freezes, her eyes flicking left and right. Brie’s never been a good liar.

Pi, I invoke.

When we were twelve, we made a pinky promise to always tell each other the truth. "But how do I know if you really want to know the truth? Brie had asked. Like sometimes my mom asks my dad how she looks, and even if she looks ‘meh’ she wants him to tell her she looks good."

"What about a code word?" I had suggested.

"Yes! How about ‘pi’?"

"Like, apple or blueberry? Oooh I love blueberry pie. Or is it short for ‘pinky promise?’ "

"I was thinking more like the circumference of a circle divided by its diameter. Pi is always 3.14. It’s constant. You can’t change it—just like you can’t change the truth." Brie’s always been brilliant, with a head for math. No wonder she grew up to be a literal rocket scientist.

"That’s perfect, I’d said. So if one of us says ‘pi,’ the other one has to tell the truth, no matter what?"

No matter what.

Brie’s shoulders slump and Xerxes flaps his wings in indignation at being jostled. I told you about Xerxes.

More than once?

Grimacing, she nods.

Most recently?

Last week.

I blow out a long breath. Damn it.

If you’re not okay with Xerxes being here, I can take him back. I know you two have had your… differences.

I snort. Pi.

Okay. He hates your guts and would love to peck out your liver while you sleep.

Damn, Brie. I didn’t know he hated me that much!

Oh, it’s bad.

We both laugh, but the mirth quickly fades from her face. Seriously though, he doesn’t have to stay. I can give him back to Charlotte. He’s technically hers, after all.

Anchoring the box on my hip, I squeeze her forearm, careful to stay a healthy distance away from Xerxes’s beady glare and razor-sharp beak. He stays. Brie’s always loved that bird with her whole heart. I would never send him packing, let alone back to Brie’s toxic parents. I make a mental note to stock up on Band-Aids the next time I’m at the drugstore. Which means I’ll probably forget. I suppress a groan.

Too bad I can’t text Devin and ask him to remind me. Nope, nope, not going there, no way. I shove any thoughts of Devin down deep until they’re out of sight. Behind us, the movers’ heavy footsteps thud up the stairs as they carry my full-sized mattress to my bedroom.

Cassidy! my mom calls from the living room.

Yeah, Mom? I shout back.

Can you come here and look at this?

See? This is what I’m talking about. Rampage, says Brie.

Brie and I weave through the front dining room. My arms are beginning to ache, so I set the box on the edge of the table. Inside the living room, light filters through the bay widows, illuminating a cascade of dust motes. Mom is standing in front of the hand-carved fireplace, arms crossed over an open wool blazer while my twin six-year-old half brothers chase each other around the overstuffed couch.

My gut twinges. Part of me wishes my mother weren’t here today. She’s the top paralegal at one of the most cutthroat law firms in town and she can be intense. But she insisted on helping me move. Too bad my stepdad, Robert, isn’t here too. He married my mom eight years ago when I was a freshman in college, and he’s particularly adept at mellowing her out. But he’s a real estate agent, which means he works most weekends, including this one. My brother Liam, ever the instigator, cackles with laughter as he holds a foam football out of Jackson’s reach.

Boys, take it outside, please, Mom says over her shoulder.

I ruffle Jackson’s hair as he races past. He blows a raspberry at me. I blow one right back and both boys giggle as they run out of the room. Mom motions me over with an impatient flick of her fingers. Her makeup is impeccable, as usual, and her straight brown hair is cut into a neat bob that highlights her youthful jaw. Her style mirrors her personality: no frills, no nonsense. At least we have that in common—except for the hair. Mine is more chestnut than cinnamon, and decidedly not sleek, thanks to my energetic curls.

Tugging the sleeves of my gray shirt up my forearms, I brace my hands on my hips. What’s up?

She motions vaguely at the fireplace. There’s a draft.

I shrug. Fireplaces are drafty.

And there’s mold on the ceiling. She points directly overhead at an ominous brown spot marring the white plaster.

A shadow in the corner shifts, and for the first time I notice our landlord, Marcus, is in the room too. Marcus Belmont graduated from the same high school as Brie and me, but two years before us, so I don’t know him that well. Brie knows him better than I do—somewhat. He lives directly above us on the third floor, which he converted into a separate, self-contained apartment, so she’s had more occasions to talk to him than me since she moved in nine months ago.

It’s not mold. It’s a water stain, he says, expression flinty.

Mom raises one arched eyebrow. Are you sure? It looks like mold.

This time, when Marcus lifts his chin to the ceiling, he closes his eyes briefly as though praying for patience.

Don’t worry, Melanie. Brie steps forward. I’ve been living here for months and I feel fine. As if on cue, Brie sneezes. The sound is as tiny as she is. That was unrelated.

I had the property tested last year when I renovated, and I promise there’s no mold, says Marcus. I wouldn’t have been able to get the construction permits otherwise.

Mom frowns at the faded hardwood floors and cracked windowsills before settling her gaze on Marcus. Which rooms have you renovated?

The bathrooms. And I installed a new HVAC system and roof. The kitchen is next on my list.

Mom leans to the side to peer around him through the open door into the kitchen with its cramped layout and ancient appliances. She concedes with a shrug. Stepping closer to me, she lowers her voice. You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m sure you could find someone to sublet your room. You can still change your mind.

Mom— I place my hands on her shoulders. We’re not doing this.

Cass—

No, we’ve discussed it already.

With a huff, Mom paces to the opposite side of the living room. When she turns around, her lips are pressed together so tightly they form a thin line. I simply don’t know why you want to move out when you can live rent-free with me, Rob, and the boys for as long as you want.

Because I can’t live in the suburbs anymore, Mom. My job at Smith & Boone starts tomorrow, and I need to be able to walk there.

If you started driving again you wouldn’t have to walk.

My jaw tightens. "You know that’s not an option."

I still don’t remember the car accident. Or the hours leading up to it. All I know—courtesy of police reports—is that, over ten months ago, I lost control of my car and crashed it into the concrete median on I-71 at ten o’clock the night after finishing the bar exam. But something in my subconscious must remember, because every time I sit behind the wheel of a car, my heart races and I breathe so fast I nearly pass out.

Sweetie, I’m just looking out for you. You’ve been through so much and you’re still not your old self. You need all the support you can get.

Brie places her arm around my shoulders and tucks me against her side. She has me, Mel.

I know. Mom’s smile turns watery as she pats Brie’s cheek. You girls… so eager to be out on your own. Shifting her attention to me, she drops her chin to look me in the eye. But I don’t have to remind you what’s at stake this summer, do I?

Mom. I groan.

Smith & Boone didn’t have to give you another shot. You turned down their offer to start as a first-year associate last fall—

Yeah, because I was still recovering from the accident.

Mom shakes her head. It doesn’t matter. Smith & Boone is a prestigious firm with no shortage of talented young lawyers clamoring to join their ranks. They didn’t have to consider you again, but they were willing to bring you on temporarily this summer as a trial run—to give you a second chance. If you want them to honor their original offer for a permanent position in the fall, you’ll need to show them you’re as sharp as you were before the accident. You’ll have to wow them.

I know, I know. I don’t plan to mess this up, okay? I’m ready.

Her blue-gray eyes search my face. Are you?

Yes.

Something relaxes in her features, and for the first time, I think she actually believes me.

Crash.

Liam! my brother Jackson wails from the other room.

Mom launches toward the commotion. I follow. In the dining room, the twins are squabbling. A cardboard box is on the floor, one side open as though it exploded on impact. All the blood drains from my face. Oh shit. It’s my Cassidy Closet box. I got it. I stumble forward, but Mom is already kneeling among my scattered belongings.

What happened? she asks the boys.

Jackson didn’t catch the football, says Liam.

Jackson punches him in the arm. Liam didn’t throw it good.

Enough. Mom’s voice cuts through the commotion like a gavel. Timeout. Couch. Now.

Brie bustles into the room as the boys shuffle out. Xerxes is no longer on her shoulder and she’s holding a dustpan and broom. Marcus has disappeared; he must have taken the opportunity to gracefully remove himself from our family bickering.

Shoot, Mom mutters, gathering up a handful of loose greeting cards.

I edge around her, heart thundering. Don’t worry about it. Here, let me— But before I can even finish, her gaze snags on the edge of a worn green sketchbook peeking out from under a scarf. Recognition registers and her jaw tightens. I close my eyes briefly, and when I open them again, she’s flipping through the book while Brie peers over her shoulder. My stomach plummets to the cellar.

Devin’s face