“Casey.” Jake puts his hands up in a halting gesture. “First of all, I didn’t do any of those things. Will did—if he did them at all.” I’m about to retort, but he stops me. “But now that we’ve met, and based on the feelings I’ve had all my life, I don’t think that’s right. Will was a kind soul. He loved Becky. He would have died for her. It’s the same way I feel about you.”

  I bark out a laugh. “You don’t even know me!” Likely story he didn’t know that Will was the cause of Becky’s death. Convenient that he didn’t remember Will pouncing on her.

  But also: Did Jake just say he loved me?

  “I feel like I do know you,” Jake says in a small voice. “Every time we’ve talked, the time we’ve spent together . . .” He clears his throat awkwardly. “And the way we kissed . . .”

  I hold up a hand. “Do not bring that up.”

  “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t felt it, too?” Jake whispers. “This . . . connection? Why did you come looking for me? Why did you call me the minute you felt in danger?”

  I look away.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened?” Jake asks quietly. “Why did they go off that bridge that day? What led them there? Why did they have to die?”

  I point to his messenger bag. “Your news story says it all. Will lost control of his car. He was so furious Becky was marrying someone else that he flew of a bridge in a blind rage.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. I think there’s more. Things we don’t know.”

  “Of course you do! You think you’re Will, and you don’t want Will to be a bad guy.” I turn to leave. “I’m glad I figured this out. It’s a real turning point. I can forget Will for real, now. I can heal.”

  Jake catches my arm. “Casey. Come with me—just to see.”

  I laugh bitterly. “See what?”

  “The bridge. Where they crashed. We . . . we could go together. It might . . . spark something. The truth.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “You don’t have to speak to me for the rest of your life after this. I’ll leave you alone. And I’ll take full responsibility if Will really did cause that crash in a blind rage. But I think there’s more, Casey. I think that’s why these two souls are hanging around the earth—why they’ve nestled in us. They want us to right what’s wrong. And also, think about this. If Becky was real, if she’s . . . reincarnated, in you, then maybe she isn’t some evil force making you do terrible things. Because I don’t want to think that’s true at all. I don’t think you caused your mother’s death because of some . . . spirit or abnormality.”

  I stare at the floor, not wanting to answer, but the pressure builds inside me. “I don’t want to believe that, either,” I say through gritted teeth. “I hate it with every ounce of my being.”

  “Then you shouldn’t. You know yourself best, Casey.”

  “But I don’t. Everyone else knows this . . . this other side of me,” I protest. “A side I can’t control.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s hard to admit that what we’re considering—reincarnation—is possible. But maybe it is. And maybe if we untangle this—what happened to Becky, why she’s within you, all of it—then maybe we can figure out what happened with your mom. Or what didn’t happen. I’m sure you don’t want to go around your whole life feeling guilty for your mom’s death. Or at least we can explain why you felt like you needed to do it.”

  “I would have never hurt my mom,” I whisper. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’m not saying that figuring out Becky’s story will definitely solve that,” Jake says. “But don’t you want to see if it can?”

  I don’t move for a long beat. My head is pounding.

  “Come to the bridge with me. I’ve asked this facility about you traveling. You’re checked in voluntarily. You can also check yourself out for the day.”

  “You asked about me?” I sputter. “You asked the nurses?”

  He puts his hands together. “You can trust me. If I don’t bring you back, if there’s ever a moment you don’t feel safe, you can call the police. Seriously.” He peers at me intensely. “You don’t think I don’t find this hard, too? Seeing these . . . visions? This ongoing sense that there’s someone else, someone wanting something, taking up space in my head, preventing me from doing things? You’re the only person I can talk to about this, Casey. The only person who understands.”

  I cross my arms. “Go on Reddit. I’m sure there are chat rooms of people who think they’ve lived past lives—if you’re even telling the truth.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to talk to them. I want to talk to you.”

  Tingles go through me. I can’t help it.

  Jake holds up a finger. “A few hours. Just to see the bridge. Please?”

  Snow has begun to fall again. We’re safe under the awning, but I feel the chill in my bones. I need to get back inside before I get frostbite.

  But I can feel Jake waiting. Every instinct in my body is telling me to turn him down. This still could be some elaborate pick-up line. Worse, it could be some elaborate scheme to hurt me.

  I want to resist the little voice inside me nudging me to go. I hate how the news story lines up too eerily close with the visions I’ve seen. I hate, too, that when Jake said he thinks there’s something more to Becky and Will’s crash—and the crash with my mom—there’s part of me that wants to believe him. But then, of course I do. I don’t want to ever think I randomly steered my mom to her death. I’d rather it be a terrible freak accident then something I made happen.

  I hate most of all that I’ve so quickly bought into Becky again. But I’m not believing I’m her, I tell myself. Maybe this is just another step in figuring out why I adopted the Becky persona to begin with. Maybe this last trip with Jake was putting the whole thing behind me.

  It’s the only explanation that straddles both worlds.

  My body shudders from the cold. I let out a groan as the air seeps from my lungs.

  “Fine,” I say to Jake. “One day. And then it’s goodbye forever.”

  I have to admit, I’m curious about seeing the bridge where Rebecca and Will died. Still, I’m shaky as I sign my release forms. Now that I’m eighteen, they can’t legally report my release to anyone. I’m an adult. And I should feel okay because Fran is in Boston—at least for a little while. Still, I have no idea how much she checks on me. What if she regularly calls the facility? What would she do if they said I was gone? I need some sort of alibi.

  And so, once again, I recruit Pippa.

  It’s a dangerous move. I know she didn’t mean to work against me with Fran, but I’m not certain she won’t tell Fran exactly what I’m up to again. On the other hand, Jake reached out to her—and she believed him, even took his side. She told him about my theories about Becky. I want to know why. It might be a bargaining chip.

  “Casey,” Pippa gushes when I get her on the phone during calling hours later that night. “I’m so happy you called. How is it there? How are you feeling? How was your birthday?” She pauses awkwardly at that one. How good could my birthday have been in a hospital? “Did Jake come see you?” she adds. Then she rushes on before I can even reply. “I wrote you to say he reached out—did you get it? There’s something about him that’s so earnest. I hope I didn’t make a mistake—”

  I cut her off. “First you tell on me to Fran and Marcus. But then you tell Jake all about my ideas about Becky?”

  Pippa is quiet. “I didn’t tell on you. I was only going on what your stepmother asked. But look, I heard how dazzled you were about Jake on the phone. Should I not have told Jake where you were so he could visit you?”

  “I mean, aside from the fact that Fran specifically told me to stay away from him . . .”

  Pippa gasps. “She did? Why?”

  I sigh. “I guess she sees him as part of the problem. And maybe he is. He’s trying to convince me that Becky is real. He has this . . . this article, about a car crash off a bridge and two people named Becky Kinkaid and Will Woodson dying.”

  Pippa breathes in sharply. “Isn’t that what you saw in your vision?”

  “Yeah. No. Maybe.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “He wants me to leave the hospital for a little bit. Visit the bridge. See if it jogs any memories.”

  Pippa pauses a moment. “And are you okay with that?”

  I have no idea. It’s why I’ve called Pippa.

  I explain to her that I’m going to sign out on a day pass with the hospital for us to visit together. I need Pippa as an alibi because Fran trusts her, and the last thing I need is Fran hightailing it back from Boston and my father’s treatment to check on me. Meanwhile, I’ll be visiting that bridge with Jake . . . which hopefully will be uneventful.

  “But I want you to keep your phone handy,” I tell her. “If I don’t check in at certain times, I need you to sound the alarm.”

  “But you don’t think Jake is dangerous, do you?”

  “I need backup, that’s all. This is something I need to do.”

  I wonder if Pippa is considering whether I’m having another Becky episode. Am I? Is this any different than the other times I’ve run off to Avon Shores in search of something?

  “I’ll do whatever you ask,” Pippa says quietly. “That seems really smart. Level-headed.” She swallows. “I know you have some disordered thinking or whatever. But from my perspective, I never saw it. I’m serious.”

  I assure her it’s okay. That she has nothing to feel guilty about. I got that sense from Marcus, too—and even Jake—that they all thought they should have seen this coming. “Just say you’ll help me,” I add.

  “Of course I’ll help you,” Pippa says immediately. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  The drive south is tense. There’s snow on the roads, and Jake needs to concentrate hard in order not to crash. His station wagon is old and rattly. Who knows how old the tires are. I also still hate being in a car, despite the work I’ve done with John over the past few weeks. Aversions can’t be cured overnight, I guess.

  I’m also deeply paranoid about leaving. I cast nervous glances out the window at every car that passes, afraid I’ll see someone I know, someone checking up on me. I keep telling myself I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s not like I’ve just broken out of prison. But what if Fran finds out?

  “So does your mom think she was someone in a past life, too?” I break the silence.

  Jake’s hands are easy on the wheel. He’s been careful with me since he picked me up in the parking lot, overly polite, vigilant about whether I’m comfortable enough, if the car’s cabin is too hot or cold, if I need to stop to use the bathroom. This is the first time we’ve talked about anything real on the drive.

  “She doesn’t,” he says. “At least not that she knows of. I don’t think it’s something that runs in families.”

  “And when did you first think you felt you’d been someone else?”

  “I’m not really sure. Three years old? Four? What about you?”

  I shrug. There’s no way I’m talking about my Becky experiences.

  Then I turn and look at him. “You know, if you felt like you had a past life, why didn’t you say something when Fran ambushed me at the hotel?”

  Jake looks guilty. “I was like a deer in headlights. I felt bombarded. Blown away. But I should have. I didn’t defend you at all. I’m sorry for that.”

  We drive in silence for a while. Road signs sweep past. There are boarded-up farm stands, probably lively in the summer.

  “So your stepmother’s a piece of work,” Jake says. “She’s really controlling, huh?”

  “I guess it’s for my own good. It’s not like my dad can help out much.”

  “I saw him go into the motel as I was leaving. He seemed weak. What’s the prognosis?”

  I tell him a little about my dad’s illness, his various chemo and radiation protocols, how it’s whittled him from a slightly pudgy middle-aged man to a skeleton. If my mother were still alive, she wouldn’t recognize him, probably. She always said she liked that he had a belly because it made a good pillow. A lovely memory hits me sideways: a fire roaring in our living room, classical music on the stereo, me writing a story in my notebook, and my mother lying on the couch on my father’s belly, looking perfectly content.

  “That sounds nice,” Jake murmurs.

  I glare at him. Had I said that out loud? What is with me and this guy? It’s like I’m a leaky faucet, blurting out any old thing.

  “I shouldn’t even be talking to you. I still have no idea if you’re a good person.”

  “I am, though.”

  “But I’m still pissed. For lying to me, about that first trip to Avon Shores.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jake gives me a sidelong glance. “Though you lied to me, too.”

  I scoff. “About what?”

  He looks shocked. “Preppy guy! Your boyfriend? I looked him up, by the way.” He shifts his jaw. “Marcus Coleman? No wonder you didn’t want to let him go. He’s a real step up.”

  I feel my jaw clench. I’d completely forgotten I hadn’t been truthful about Marcus. I think of all the times I could have told Jake but didn’t.

  “So are you together?” Jake asks, his eyes on the road.

  “No,” I admit. “I mean . . . technically, but . . . I’m going to break it off.”

  Jake’s expression hasn’t changed. “Does he know that?”

  “No.”

  Jake gives me a knowing look. I can feel my cheeks going red. “He has a lot going on in the city. And, okay, I’m kind of scared to do it.”

  “What did he think about finding me in your room?”

  “He wasn’t happy about you. But I don’t think he believed it was legit.”

  Jake’s lips pinch. “Right. Why would I be a threat?”

  “I think it’s more like he can’t believe I’d drop someone like him. No one like me would give up such a good thing.”

  Jake wrinkles his nose. “Arrogant much?”

  “He didn’t say that exactly. But it’s got to be the case. Because . . .” Then I trail off, clamping my mouth shut.

  “Because what?”

  I let out a sigh. I vomit up everything else to this guy, why not this, too? “I mean, why me? Of all the girls in the city. Rich guy? Could have anyone he wanted.”

  He gives me an incredulous look, then shakes his head. “What?” I ask.

  “You really don’t see what a catch you are?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  He smirks, and I smirk, which is astonishing, because I know I’m still supposed to be mad.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly, after a moment. “I should have told you about Marcus.”

  “Guess we both should have been a little more communicative.”

  We take a turn, and I draw in a breath. A bridge stretches in front of us. It spans the waterway with a few well-concealed houses around it on the marshland. The only thing protecting cars from the water is a low guard rail. I know without Jake even having to say anything that this is the bridge of the accident. No wonder a car flipped over this, I think. A person could, easily, just by leaning over a little too far.

  And then it hits me. I know this is the bridge. It’s like . . . inside me, in my brain. I try to tell myself that I’ve talked myself into that notion. From the article.

  Jake maneuvers the car to the side of the road and parks. He gets out quickly, darting around to my side to open the door for me. I duck my head, not wanting to accept his chivalry, but also pleased by it.

  I stare at the bridge before me. Flickers pop at the edges of my mind—but again, I resist them. It’s the article’s fault. But then I turn toward the right side, my eyes searching for something my brain isn’t even sure of yet. My gaze lands on a faded graffiti mark on the concrete that somehow I knew to expect. The drawing is of the planet Saturn. Somehow I know that if I get closer, the inscription inside it will read To the stars.

  You point up to it. “What does it say?”

  “To the stars,” he answers. He has better vision than you do. “Wonder who did it?”

  I swallow hard.

  Jake has walked a few paces toward the bridge. “People like to fish off this thing. I’ve crossed it a million times. Had no idea it was ever related to a past life.”

  “So you’ve gotten no flickers of an accident?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really. I see . . . darkness. That’s it.”

  I look over the guard rail. The marsh underneath us is certainly dark. Could Jake be seeing the plunge into the water? Drowning?

  But then I clamp down on the inside of my cheek. Don’t buy into this.

  “Casey?”

  Jake’s voice pulls me back to earth. I take a ragged breath. He’s standing on the bridge now, but I’m not sure I want to take another step.

  “So?” he asks. “Getting any feelings?”

  I shrug. “No.”

  He walks off the bridge again, and we sit down on a bench nearby. It’s a pretty spot—the water probably glistens in the summer, and the way the bridge is situated, it looks like you’re driving into a total horizon of trees. Across the water, a series of vacant docks gently bob. I bet there are boats all along here in the summer, people sitting on those docks, dogs swimming for tennis balls.

  Zap. A memory breaks through. I try to hold on to it, but it’s like a balloon floating away. Something about a dog? A dock? Was Becky here before other than the crash? She must have been. The news article says she was from a neighboring town. She probably knew all these secret bridges and spots.

  Zap. This time, more light comes in.

  Hands over your eyes. You stumble backward. Someone whispers in your ear, “You’ve been a bad girl.”

  “No,” I whisper. I don’t want to see that memory again.