As I watch the look of horror grow in Tori’s eyes, I start to shake. “You did this,” I say in a low voice. I look at Mrs. Hayes. “It’s your fault they died.”

They are stunned. “Is that the house you . . . you saw?” Mrs. Hayes asks Tori.

She nods. She won’t look at me.

Mrs. Hayes will, though. “The vision is gone,” she says. “It’s over.”

I want to punch her in the face. “That’s because this happened! There’s no saving anybody now. They’re dead! You both had the power to help stop this, but you didn’t help. You didn’t believe me. You wouldn’t let Tori talk to me.” I stop to breathe, to try to keep my voice low so no one comes in.

“I couldn’t see my phone screen anymore to read your texts or respond,” Tori says, distressed. “Plus, I was so sick from the constant movement. But now it’s gone. No more vision.” It’s like she doesn’t grasp what happened.

“Tori,” I say. “Listen to me. If Sawyer had done what you did—if he hadn’t believed me, or had refused to do anything about what he was seeing, like you did with your vision, you would be dead. You. Would be dead. And ten others in that music room would also be dead. You are alive because Sawyer acted on his vision. These people are dead because you wouldn’t act on yours.” I slap the newspaper. “Do you get it now? Do you?”

Sawyer puts his hand on my shoulder and I stop talking. Tori weeps into her hand, teardrops falling between her fingers onto the newspaper.

Mrs. Hayes at least has the dignity not to kick me out. But I don’t need any encouragement to leave. I’ve had enough. And I think I said enough. Probably just a little too much.

On the way home my anger begins to subside. But there’s still something that infuriates me. Something I can’t let go of.

“Her vision,” I say after a while, “it just went away. Just like it did for us after we risked our lives. Only she didn’t have to risk anything except motion sickness and her mom being mad at her.”

Sawyer nods. He’s worn a thoughtful expression since we left the hospital. “I noticed that. I’m not sure what I think about it either. Like, I should feel relieved, but really I’m kind of pissed off about it.” He drums the steering wheel with his thumb. “It sure might have been easier to just ride it out and pretend like people weren’t dying. If we’d only known . . .”

I look at him. “It wouldn’t have been easier for me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes don’t leave the road. He reaches over and takes my hand.

Twenty-One

I don’t want to go to my aunt Mary’s. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I feel bad that I’m ignoring Trey and Rowan when I know they’re probably reeling from all of this too, but I can’t help it—I need an escape right now. It’s like everything’s closing in on me and I can’t breathe. Sawyer takes me to his cousin Kate’s apartment. She’s not home.

It’s a cute little place near the community college where she goes to school. Two tiny bedrooms and an even tinier bathroom. But a big kitchen. Isn’t that how every home should be?

“Sit,” Sawyer says with an Italian accent, sounding eerily like his grandfather Fortuno, magistrate of the evil Angotti empire. “I cook for you.”

I grin for the first time in days, sit down on the sofa, and relax, reading Kate’s fashion magazines while Sawyer bangs around in the kitchen. I text my mom so she knows where I am. And it occurs to me just how much more freedom I’ve had since the restaurant burned down. Not only because I don’t have to report for my job but also because my parents have had too much stuff on their minds to keep up their reign of terror over us. Our whole family has been forced to adapt, and that part, at least, has been in my favor.

I look up and watch Sawyer cook, and I think how wonderful it is that we have this thing in common. How we learned to feed people from our parents, and they learned from their parents and grandparents, and so on down the line. Sawyer hasn’t spoken about his parents since he moved out. I guess I’ve been hogging all the attention these days.

“Have you seen your parents lately?” I ask.

“I stopped in to see my mom the other day. She’s fine.”

“That’s good. I bet she was glad to see you.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press him on it. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about them.

“So,” Sawyer says after a while, “do you think your father still has visions? Or do you think he had one and it stopped after its tragedy happened, like Tori’s did?”

I’ve been thinking about that. “I guess I don’t know. I mean, I believe he’s had one for sure, obviously. But . . . I don’t know.” I frown, puzzled. Something doesn’t add up.

“Maybe it’s not a repeating vision that’s been driving his depression all this time,” Sawyer says lightly, pulling toasted raviolis from the broiler and plating them with a small bowl of marinara and freshly grated cheese—from here it looks and smells like Pecorino Romano, but I’m not sure. “Maybe it’s the guilt of not having saved people.”

I think about that. And I don’t know. I might never know.

But I do know that I’m hungry and this bad boy in the kitchen can cook.

• • •

When Sawyer drives me home, I invite him to come inside. And he does. He offers a nervous hello when I officially introduce him to Aunt Mary and Uncle Vito, but they greet him with warmth. When my mom comes up to him, he plants a kiss on her cheek, which makes her smile, and my dad doesn’t yell or kick him out. He just leaves. Probably heading to the ash heap to find some more treasures. I still think that’s progress. The Sawyer part, not the treasures part.