Before Sawyer heads home for the night, he and I sit together in the dark on the front step of my new house, and he tells me that he found an updated article about the carbon monoxide poisoning. He says the old couple who died were both receiving hospice care, which means that they were already dying. And that the man’s sister is fine now, and her husband is improving and should be okay.

I’m quiet for a moment. And then I say reluctantly, “It doesn’t excuse what Tori did, but I guess that’s a pretty good outcome under the circumstances.”

“You know, there’s a chance that this even spared the old people from a pretty miserable ending to their lives,” Sawyer says. “I mean, I don’t know that for sure. But it’s possible. And maybe it’s okay to think of it that way.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Is there a funeral planned?”

“Just a private memorial service for the family.”

“Well. I guess that’s that.” I draw in a deep breath of the fresh spring nighttime air in my new yard (because I have a yard!) and I blow it out, trying to get rid of all the anger that was stored up inside me. I imagine it escaping my lungs and leaving my fingertips. And it feels like all the negative crap is finally beginning to clear out.

“It’s like a fresh start,” I say, more to myself than to Sawyer. “We have a nice new home. My dad is getting out of bed every day. The parentals are back to work with the meatball truck. I no longer smell like pizza. We experimented with sexy time.”

Sawyer laughs. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Yeah.”

“And let’s not forget that there are no more visions to deal with.”

I smile in the darkness. “Right on,” I say. I squeeze his hand and he squeezes back. And for the briefest of moments, I feel like all is well in the world.

When my phone vibrates, I am reluctant to pull it out of my pocket for fear of disturbing this new perfect universe. And when I see who’s calling, I’m tempted to ignore her. But I don’t. Maybe it’s because the old people were already dying, and maybe it’s because I’m feeling fresh and full of love, and maybe it’s because I know deep down I’ve been too hard on her, but this time I decide to answer.

“Hi, Tori,” I say.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. She’s crying.

“I know. I get it. It’s in the past.”

“No,” she says. “Let me explain—”

I sigh. She needs to say things. She needs to help herself heal. I can handle that. “Go ahead.”

And for the second time in a month, three little words change everything. “Jules,” she says, her voice faltering, “it’s happening again.”

Twenty-Four

My mind doesn’t compute what Tori is saying.

“Hold on,” I say. “I’m putting you on speaker so Sawyer can listen too, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sawyer’s face is a question. I press the button. “Go ahead. Start from where you said ‘It’s happening again.’ ”

“Well, it is. And I’m so sorry—”

“I know you’re sorry,” I say impatiently. “What do you mean—are you seeing the vision again? How is that possible?”

“It’s not the same one,” she says. “It’s a new one now. Totally different.”

“What?” Sawyer covers his face with his hands and shakes his head slowly, swearing under his breath.

“Wait. How are you suddenly allowed to talk to me now?” I demand. “What about your mother?”

“She’s right here—she’s the one who made me call you. I knew you’d be mad, but—and she’s sorry too. She wants me to tell you that.”

I roll my eyes to Jesus in the sky. “Sure. Of course. You’re both sorry now. Little late for that.”

“I know,” she says. “Just please, you have to help us. I promise we’ll do everything right this time. I mean it! My mom says she won’t interfere.”

I stand up and start pacing along the sidewalk. What am I supposed to do here? Say no? I can’t. I’m ethically bound. Personally responsible.

I close my eyes and rub my left temple, where a sudden headache has sprung up.

“Jules?”

“I’m still here,” I say. “I’m just processing.”

“Sorry.”

She needs to stop saying that now too. I take a breath and blow it out, and then sink back to my spot on the step. “Okay. When did this start?”

“Saturday, I guess.”

“Is that why you sent me the apology text message?” My blood starts to boil.

“No, I sent that text on Friday night. I swear. I feel terrible about the people dying. I wish I could go back in time and fix it. I mean it.”

Sawyer pats my knee. “Let it go, Demarco,” he whispers.

I shoot him a look, but I know he’s right.

With a whoosh of air from my lungs, I let it go. “All right. Tell me what’s happening. Sawyer’s going to take notes on his phone, so please try to be very specific about everything.” I glance at Sawyer, who quickly gets his phone out. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay,” she says, and I hear her mom saying something encouraging in the background. “There’s a ship.”

“A ship?” both Sawyer and I exclaim. We look at each other in alarm. “Wait. Where? In Chicago?”