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The following day brought a summer storm, blown in from the east with a hurricane’s fury. Thomas spent the morning holed up in the guest room, poring over the results of yet another aptitude test. He’d taken dozens over the past several weeks. Tests for language and vocabulary, numbers and data. Pattern recognition and reading comprehension and mechanical reasoning.

None of it told him who he was, or what he was supposed to be.

Once, when he was eleven, his uncle took him on a hike to the top of Melrose Rock. Thrilled at the prospect of adventure, Thomas had packed his prized compass. He’d cradled it the whole walk, watching the needle wobble without stopping—growing increasingly furious when it didn’t point due north.

It’s the magnet , his uncle finally told him. It’s not strong enough.

Frustrated, he’d dashed it against a rock, and then felt immediately terrible. It had been a Christmas gift from his mother—one she’d likely saved to buy. He’d fought tears the whole way home, the shattered compass sitting heavy as a boulder in his pocket.

Maybe that was all he was—a broken compass, doomed to wobble in place. Maybe he didn’t know how to find due north. Maybe he’d wander, directionless, until he was old and bitter and angry at the world, just like his father.

He opened his laptop and found another email waiting for him.

Thomas,

This is kind of a strange ask, but could you give me a call? I’ve got a question for you. It’s important. I’ll explain on the phone. I’ve left my number below.

—C

Intrigued by what the Priory’s president could possibly need from him, he reached for his phone. As he did, a text came through. The contact flickered across his screen: Princess. He slid it open, his stomach tying itself into a knot.

Princess

Don’t make me late.

Thomas

Wouldn’t dream of it.

The email forgotten, he headed off to shower and change.

The ride to New Haven was silent as usual, save for the hiss of rain against the glass and the rhythmic screech of windshield wipers. They didn’t discuss the restaurant, or the way he’d found her clutching her own throat, or how small and cold her hand had felt in his.

Upon arrival, she snatched the sole umbrella and dashed into the studio, leaving Thomas behind to brave the elements alone. Soaked through to the bone, he sat in the lobby and watched her piece together a dance through the cracked open door.

When she finally emerged, bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, it was to the sound of a severe thunderstorm warning buzzing on their phones. The skies raged as they stood side by side in the empty lobby, their hands hanging loose between them. As lightning forked across the sky, he felt the faintest brush of her pinkie against his knuckle.

He thought maybe he was going just a little bit insane.

They began a new and disconcerting ritual in the following days. Every night after the Farrows finished their dinner, he slumped onto the living room couch to watch TV. Every night, Vivienne appeared like clockwork—drowning in a sweatshirt four sizes too big, her hair in damp braids. She’d curl onto the adjacent cushion, tailed by the dogs. Thomas spent the next hour pretending to watch a show, hyperaware of every shift and sigh. Most nights, Vivienne fell asleep. He’d shut off the television and drape her in a blanket, then leave as quietly as he could.

On the fourth night, he made a mistake. He hadn’t meant to do it—it was only that he’d been so tired, and the flicker of the television lulled him into a daze. Before he knew it, he woke to the distinct snap of fingers directly beneath his nose. He came to slowly and then all at once, becoming aware of two horrible things in immediate succession.

First, Vivienne was draped across him, her head on his chest, his arm around her waist.

Second—and worse—Amelia Farrow was standing over them. She was dressed in silver sequins, her eyes puffy from crying. Out in the foyer, Philip Farrow’s office door slammed shut. Something heavy shattered against the wall.

Vivienne knifed upright at the sound, wild and bleary-eyed. Thomas took the opportunity to extricate himself from the couch. For a single, tense moment, no one said a thing.

It was Amelia who broke the silence. “Vivienne, go up to your room.”

Vivienne didn’t move.

“Vivienne.” Her name cracked out of her mother like a whip. “Now. Before Philip sees.”

With no small amount of venom in her stare, Vivienne crept from the living room and headed upstairs. The dogs followed her out in a sorry, single-file line. Thomas and Amelia were left alone. On the television, a great white shark slid through a crush of endless blue.

“I’m sure you’re aware how utterly inappropriate that was,” said Amelia.

“Yes, ma’am.” Thomas’s heart was a cold, wet rock. It sat heavy in his stomach.

Amelia swayed just a little, visibly wine-drunk. “You’re lucky it was me that found the two of you, and not my husband.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She frowned up at him, her eyes glassy. Backlit by the television, she looked extremely frail. Not like something delicate enough to be broken, but like something that had already been snapped in two.

“Is that all you know how to say,” she asked with a hiccup, “ ‘yes, ma’am’ ?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, and winced.

“I care about my daughter.” She sounded defensive, as though he’d accused her otherwise. “I don’t want you to hurt her.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

“You already are.” The words came out jagged. The look on her face was one of complete disdain. “The next time I find you alone with her when you shouldn’t be, you’re fired.”

With that, she staggered out of the room, leaving him alone.

···

The next day was Saturday. The start of his weekend off. The sun broke through the trees as he tossed his duffle bag into the rusted bed of his beaten old Ford. He’d just managed to slam the tailgate shut when a sleek silver convertible pulled to a stop behind him. The man that climbed out looked only a few years his senior, dressed for a day of sailing in boat shoes and chinos.

“Nice ride,” he said, lifting his sunglasses to examine the truck. “?’07?”

“?’06,” said Thomas.

“You fix it up yourself?”

“With my uncle.”

The man made a sound of approval and stuck out his hand. “I’m Bryce,” he said. “Bryce Donahue.”

“Thomas,” said Thomas, and left it at that.

“Ah, you must be the interpreter. Vivienne’s mother mentioned you at dinner the other night.” Bryce affixed his sunglasses to the collar of his shirt. “Are you fishing with us today, Thomas?”

“I didn’t get the invite.”

“No? Next time, then.” He leaned in as though sharing a secret. “My plans with Vivienne today don’t involve an interpreter, if you catch my drift.”

Ugliness twisted Thomas’s insides. “I don’t,” he said coldly.

At the ice in his tone, some of Bryce’s friendliness faded. He glanced up at the house and then back at Thomas. “Sweet gig you landed for yourself this summer. You live in the house with Vivienne? Must be pretty close quarters.”

“It’s a big house,” said Thomas.

“Not that big,” argued Bryce.

Before Thomas could ask what, exactly, Donahue was implying, the front door opened and Philip emerged, a drink in hand and his face shaded under a braid hat.

“Donahue! Fashionably late, as usual. I see you’ve met Walsh.” His smile was friendly, yet uninviting. “Walsh was just heading out, weren’t you, son?”

Thomas knew how to take a hint. “Sure.”

“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you around,” said Bryce, heading for the house. “We’ll talk shop.”

“Looking forward to it,” lied Thomas, just as the front door swung shut. He stood rooted to the spot, nursing a red, inexpressibe anger, until a flash of pink on a second-story balcony drew his gaze. He glanced up just in time to see Vivienne wrench the curtains shut.

She didn’t reappear.

He arrived home three hours later to find the fridge stocked—surprising—and the kitchen table stacked with mail—unsurprising. His sister was out—most likely working as a counselor at the day camp down the street. He spent some time sorting through bills, separating the piles into what he thought could be ignored and what couldn’t. When that was done, he went upstairs to see his mother.

He hated going into her room. It felt more like a living tomb these days. She used to sleep with the curtains open, determined to wake with the sun—pretending to be surprised when Thomas and Tessa crawled into bed with her before the dawn. She’d click on a cartoon and lift up her covers, let them snuggle in close for a few extra minutes of rest.

Now, the television was on, but his mother was asleep. He wasn’t surprised. Her energy came in transient bursts. The fridge being full meant she’d gone grocery shopping this week. Outings like that often brought on a physical crash. The last time she’d gone into town on her own, she hadn’t come home. He’d found her asleep in her car, groceries spoiling in the trunk.

He took a seat in the rocking chair by her bed—the one that used to be in his nursery, back when he was still small enough to be rocked to sleep. It creaked beneath him as he settled in to watch the movie she’d chosen. It was hours before she woke. She came to slowly, as though emerging from a hypersleep. At the sight of Thomas sitting there, her face lit up in a heart-aching smile.

“I was dreaming about you,” she said, falling into her usual sign-supported speech. “I was wondering when you’d come home.”

“I have the weekend off.” He bent in to kiss her cheek, signing as he did. “I’ll mow the lawn while I’m here.”

“Your uncle has been mowing the lawn.”

“Uncle has his own things to take care of. I’ll do it, it’s no problem. And that front step is wobbling again; I’ll fix that while I’m here so you and Tess don’t twist an ankle.” He paused and then added, “And I’m going to set up a weekly grocery delivery.”

“Tommy.” She signed the family’s name for him, pressing a T to her heart. “I can do that on my own.”

Can you? he wanted to ask, but he bit his tongue. He didn’t want to get in a fight. Not when they had so little time. She shifted, propping up her pillow so she could face him head-on. Her hair hung in a long braid, blonde shot through with gray. For several minutes, she smiled over at him.

He fidgeted under her stare. “What?”

“You’re too big for that chair.”

“It’s not a very big chair.”

“It’s just that you used to look so small in it.” It was a thing she did, waxing nostalgic about the past, back when he and Tess were little and she was still master of her own body. It was easy to do—she kept everything. His father used to call her a pack rat, a moniker she vehemently denied. I’m a memory keeper , she told him once. It’s the most important job a mother can have, once her little ones are too grown for cuddles.

Now, she yawned. “I wish you didn’t have to go so far.”

“It’s a good job. I couldn’t pass it up.”

“It’s not your responsibility to take care of us, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

But if he didn’t, who would? His father was never coming back. His mother was never getting better. Neurological , the doctors called her hard-won diagnosis. Lifelong. Chronic . It had come on out of nowhere. One winter, three ugly years before they buried his father, she came down with pneumonia. Her coughing fits lasted for days. And then those days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. She stopped getting out of bed. She slept long hours. She turned brittle and gray, when she’d always been all color. There were treatments for the management of her symptoms. Management, not a cure. But treatments were expensive.

On the bed, his mom was watching him with a too-keen stare. “Your sister has some interesting theories about what you’ve been doing down there in Connecticut.”

He kicked his feet onto the edge of the bed and raised his brows.

“You know how Tessa can be,” she added.

He drew his fingers from his temple. “Imaginative?”

“That’s a very nice way of putting it.”

He could tell she was waiting for more information. It wasn’t like his mother to pry, but then it wasn’t like Thomas to have a secret. He didn’t want to talk about Vivienne. He didn’t know how to explain her. Not in a way his mother would understand.

“How about I make lasagna for dinner?” he asked instead.

Her smile widened, and just like that, she let it go. “Have you taken up cooking at your new mystery job?”

“Not exactly,” he signed, returning her smile. “I saw a box in the freezer.”

···

The following morning was Sunday. He woke to a cat on his chest, the familiar sight of his converted garage bedroom and his shelves of things. It didn’t settle him the way he’d thought it might. He got up slowly, heading to the kitchen to rustle up breakfast. He was midway through a bowl of cereal when his sister dropped onto the stool across from him and slapped a newspaper onto the counter.

“Read it and weep,” she said. “Your sister is a local hero. Some camper was choking on a grape at mess hall yesterday and I, Tessa Rose Walsh, delivered the Heimlich maneuver so efficiently that he almost took out the eye of the kid sitting across from him.”

“Nice,” said Thomas.

“Check it out.” She nudged the paper toward him. “Page eight. Bottom article. There’s even a picture.”

He set down his bowl and reached for the paper, pausing as his eyes caught on the leading headline.

Business Mogul’s Son Suffers Cardiac Arrest at Sea

His stomach sank. “This is today’s paper?”

“Yes.” Tessa was out of patience, bouncing on her stool. “Can’t you read? Just open it.”

She reached across the countertop to do it for him but he held her at bay with a hand to the face, scanning the attached article until he found what he was looking for.

Donahue, twenty-two, was airlifted to the nearest hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival. Sources close to the recent college graduate say Donahue, a competitive oarsman, suffered no underlying conditions. He’d been in good health at the start of the day, when he’d headed out for a fishing trip with several friends of the family.

He set the paper down. “I have to go.”

“What?” Tessa climbed off the stool after him. “Tommy, we barely even got to see you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He dropped his dish in the sink and reached out to ruffle her hair. She ducked out from beneath him, furious. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “I promise.”

···

He returned to find the Farrow estate as silent as he’d left it, only the dogs there to greet him. He fended them off as he searched the house, finding each room empty in turn. If Vivienne was home, she was nowhere to be seen. Not lounging by the pool. Not curled in the living room. Not upstairs in her room, door shut and music playing.

Tailed by the dogs, he made his way to the guest room, a duffel bag stuffed with fresh laundry slung over his shoulder. That was where he found her, seated on the middle of his bed with her knees drawn to her chin. He froze on the threshold, the dogs skidding to ungainly stops against his calves. The commotion drew her gaze to his. She was freshly showered, her hair in braids and her face scrubbed clean. Even so, he could tell she’d been weeping.

“Vivienne?”

She was up immediately. He hardly had time to drop his bag to the floor before she slammed into him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His arms went around her, folding her into an embrace. Her fingers tightened in his shirt and he felt her take a great, shuddering breath.

“I came back as soon as I saw,” he said.

He knew there were questions he ought to ask. Polite questions. Meaningless questions— Are you okay? Were you close? Is there anything I can do?

He didn’t ask. He was too selfish. He didn’t want to know. On top of that, there was a wariness in his chest he couldn’t cull—a creeping sense of wrongness that rooted like ragweed. He thought of her weeping by the pool, the turbulent look in her eyes as he’d picked glass out of her wrist. Philip in the driveway: I didn’t reach out to you by accident.

He felt like he was staring at an optical illusion, the truth just a shifting perspective away.

“I should have been here,” he whispered into the top of her head.

She pulled back far enough to meet his eyes. This close, he could smell the flowery notes of her shampoo, just a hint of coconut. Her eyes were molten in the afternoon light, her cheeks wet with tears. He thumbed them away without thinking. Instantly, something hardened in her stare—a decisiveness he’d come to recognize over the past several weeks.

“I already know what you’re going to say,” he assured her. “Your business is none of my business, I can kick rocks, etcetera. I memorized it all the last time, so you can spare me the—”

She surged onto the tips of her toes and swallowed the rest of his sentence in a kiss. It tasted reckless and impulsive and like coconut lip balm. Every last coherent thought inside his head stuttered to a halt. His hands slid into her hair as he bent over her, kissing her back.

It was one kiss, searing and perfect.

One kiss, and then sense swung into him like a sledgehammer.

He eased her off him, setting her gingerly back onto her heels.

“Vivienne—” His voice came out burned. He had no idea what to say. No idea where to even start. He thought of his mother and the growing stack of bills, his sister’s empty college fund. He couldn’t afford to go crawling back home empty-handed.

Amelia had made the stakes perfectly clear the last time they spoke: Don’t hurt her. Don’t be alone with her. He’d been back for fifteen minutes and he was already doing both.

His thumb was still wet with her tears when he whispered, “I can’t.”

Color bled into her cheeks in bold, angry crimson. She didn’t look at him. She stared into the middle distance, her fingertips hovering over her lips. Sensing the tension, the dogs began to pace.

“Hey.” Thomas tried to duck into her line of sight. “You’re not—We’ve both been— Well, what I mean is—”

He was floundering, and both of them knew it. Her right hand knifed sideways into her open palm in a mercy killing.

Stop.

He shut up at once, lacing his hands over the top of his head. The hard wall of her gaze was solid as rock. He had the faint, horrible sense he could beat himself bloody against it and still never get her to look at him the way she had only minutes prior—with a stare he’d felt in his spine.

I can’t be in here anymore , she signed.

“Wait.” His heart gave a hideous crack. “Vivienne, please just wait a—”

She slipped past him like water, into the hall and out of sight, the dogs trotting in her wake. The moment she was gone, he collapsed into his chair and pressed his hands over his face.

“Fuck!”

He swiped at his desk, sending a pencil holder flying. It hit the wall, pens scattering across the floor. It didn’t make him feel any better. Upstairs, Vivienne’s bedroom door shut with a slam. The sound reverberated all through the house, its message clear.

It felt, to Thomas, like a stone rolled over a tomb.