That was the first time she’d spoken his name to her parents since the day after the funeral. Their faces went slightly rigid, as if there was no way any real emotion was going to get to the surface, ever. Seeing that made Skye’s heart ache for them, but she wasn’t going to pull back, not now. It was time to talk about this. Eventually, when they learned she could still speak to Dakota, they’d be so grateful.

“His sister died when he was about my age,” she said. “So he understood about Dakota. About how—how you try to push the person you lost away, but you can’t. You have to hold on to them, on to how much you loved them. Because you don’t lose someone when they die. You only lose them when you forget the love you had together.”

There was a moment of silence before her father briskly folded his glasses and tucked them in a case. “It’s a relief to hear that nothing problematic is going on,” he said. “We always thought you were far too sensible to get mixed up in anything like that.”

“I told you we should have stayed in Albany,” her mother said to him, and he shrugged, like, Score one for you.

And that was it. They hadn’t even acknowledged that she’d said anything about Dakota. They were sorry they’d come home for her at all.

“Dad. Mom. Come on.” Skye felt sure she could get through to them. Okay, so it would take a little work. She couldn’t expect them to change completely in an instant. “Aren’t we ever going to talk about Dakota again?”

Sharply, her mother said, “Nobody’s forgotten your brother, Skye. But we all handle things in our own ways. We’ve tried to respect your grief; you have to respect ours.”

When had they ever tried to respect her grief? When had they ever done anything but expect her to handle this the same way they did—by pushing her brother into the darkness of the past?

Dozens of images from the past year flickered in Skye’s mind, illuminated differently than they had been before, and finally in true focus: Her father glancing away from the photos of Dakota in her room—away from Skye herself—until the day she gave up and put them in the drawer, away from sight. How they’d gone about business as usual the afternoon following the funeral, and how Skye had felt bad for crying when they could be so “brave.”

How they’d expected her to care for herself from now on, leaving her alone day and night to bury themselves in work. How she’d accepted that absurdity as something she could do for them. And for a month or two, maybe that wouldn’t have been so wrong. They had come home tonight, after all; it wasn’t as if they didn’t love her. Skye knew perfectly well that they did.

But now—now she realized her parents were so deep in denial that they would never get out.

And they expected her to go on denying her brother’s death with them, forever, even though that also meant denying his life.

Skye slowly rose from the couch. Neither of her parents looked up; Mom already had her phone back in hand. She said, “I’ve had a long day.” Which was putting it lightly. “I’m going to go up to bed.”

Her father gave her a distant sort of smile. “You’re a good girl, Skye.” We’re so pleased with you for dropping the subject. See how easy denial can be? “Sweet dreams.”

Once she was alone in her room again, Skye started work.

She pulled out her largest suitcase, stared at it for a minute, then put it back up and grabbed a pack for long horse trips instead. Into it she tucked only a couple changes of clothing, a few toiletries, and the picture of Dakota and her on their white-water rafting trip.

Then she saw her phone, still sitting where she’d dropped it hours ago. Balthazar’s text messages were all hours old by now, but there were several from Clem: R U there?

OK, I know u r busy but srsly txt me back. I’m freaking here.

Skye?

Quickly Skye sent a few words back: I’m safe—but barely. Will tell u the rest l8r. She paused before adding, Luv u. That was kind of sappy for her and Clementine, but tonight Skye felt like she’d rather say too much than not enough. Like Dakota had told her, you could never say those words too often.

She glanced around her room, saw an equestrian trophy, and snapped a photo of it with her phone before tucking the phone into her coat pocket. At least that way she could still look at it.

Then she stood at her bedroom window, knowing that the light would silhouette her to anyone watching from the darkness.

To Balthazar.

Skye turned off the lights and waited. Within a few moments, she heard scraping on the bark of the tree outside, which made her breath come a little faster just in case it wasn’t—but it was. Balthazar appeared outside her window, clinging to the tree branch with unearthly grace, and she slid the pane upward to allow him to climb in.

He whispered, “Downstairs, the lights are still on.”

“They’re probably talking with their cronies at the state house, finding out how the vote is going.” Skye didn’t bother to whisper. Even if they could hear, they weren’t listening. “Balthazar, you were right. I have to leave Darby Glen.”

He studied her for a moment, no doubt weighing how serious she was about this. She knew that he understood her; he would see right away that she meant it. But he asked, “Your parents didn’t believe you?”

“I never got as far as telling them the truth. The minute I started speaking about Dakota, they just … shut down, same as always.” Disappointment welled up inside her, but she fought back the urge to cry. She’d been through too much tonight to give in to it now. “If I’m ever going to find the courage to learn how to deal with this gift I have, and be able to find Dakota again—I’m going to have to do it on my own. I can’t do it while I’m with them. They won’t let me.”