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“SO WHAT DO you think?” Ash said, materializing next to her.

Willow startled. “Ash! You scared me!”

Ash had a college boy in tow. She nodded at him proudly and said, “Willow, this is Conrad Baines. I was telling you about his tech background...” She frowned at Willow.

“You remember none of this? For real?” She gave Conrad an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, my sister has a tendency to space out. Willow, Conrad founded VisionaryNet.”

Conrad smiled, revealing a piece of spinach between his front teeth. He stepped closer, bobbing his head too eagerly. “I did, yeah. Nice to meet you, Willow.”

Based on the flush rising on his cheeks, Conrad was taken with Willow. Most boys were. And Conrad, like the others, was as dull as mud, if only because he was hopelessly, unbearably human. But that wasn’t his fault, Willow reminded herself. “VisionaryNet? That’s... impressive.”

“It’s a tech start-up,” Ash added, her words too clipped. She, too, had noticed Conrad’s interest in Willow.

Willow didn’t blame her. Ash had done the work of striking up a conversation with this guy, and yet here he was, staring only at Willow.

But Willow didn’t want him. Ash could have him.

Ash could have all the Conrad Baines and bacon-wrapped dates her heart desired.

She just shouldn’t drag a boy over to meet Willow and then get pissy if the boy didn’t behave in the way Ash wanted him to.

Unless... was it a litmus test? Oh, God. How horrible if introducing boys to Willow was a way for Ash to weed out the ones she might not have a chance with.

“So... you work with computers?” Willow asked. She tried to sound boring and dumb.

There was more eager head bobbing. “We’re laying the groundwork for a new digital future,” Conrad said. “One day, and you can quote me on this, everyone will have a phone in their pocket. No cords. No landlines.”

“Amazing,” Ash said.

“And let’s not forget the video component,” Conrad went on. “Think of it. In the not-too-distant future, you’ll be able to see the person you’re talking to, like something out of The Jetsons .”

“A handheld video phone?” Ash said. “That would be incredible.”

“Would it?” Willow asked. “Do you really think people want to look at each other when they talk on the phone?”

Conrad faltered for half a second before recovering. “We have other projects in the works as well. Real-time tracking. Location services. Parents could know where their kids were every minute of the day—imagine what peace of mind that would bring!”

Not for the kid, it wouldn’t. Not if the kid did something the parents found alarming. Willow flashed to her cinder-block room at Mountain Crest and shuddered. There was surely a limit to how much power even the best parents should have over their kids’ lives.

Ash leaned in. “How are you building out the tracking systems? Are we talking satellite triangulation? Proprietary algorithms?”

“We’re experimenting with GPS integrations, developing encrypted networks for seamless connectivity. Once the infrastructure’s in place, people will always know where you are and who you’re with. It’s revolutionary.”

“Or dystopian,” Willow said, earning her a glare from Ash.

Juniper, wearing a pink tulle skirt that screamed Delia’s clearance rack, veered toward them with a tray of cheese wedges and olives. She must have picked up on the tension between Willow and Ash because she just as quickly swerved away.

Willow wished she could swerve away with her.

As she listened to Conrad Baines drone on about a future where she’d be hemmed in and tracked like a pet with a microchip, her stomach turned.

What if, with every year that passed, the world got smaller and the trap drew tighter until Willow was permanently sealed inside it—just another polished girl with manicured nails and dead eyes?

A chime rang out over the clatter of glass and conversation. Willow’s breath caught, and she turned her head. There , at the far end of the hall. A woman. The woman, the one who’d pinned Willow with her gaze before vanishing into the black-barked trees.

The woman shimmered now just as she’d shimmered then, draped in a gown of gossamer. Her long black hair fell past her shoulders, crowned with a circlet of silver and thorns. She didn’t speak, but Willow felt her question even so.

Will you stay, then? Stuck in this world forever?

The room tilted, and Willow was a child again, staring at something no one else could see.

A clumsy shoulder clipped hers, jolting her sideways. Something cold and sticky splashed her arm.

“Oh! Sorry, doll, I didn’t see you!” A man brayed a laugh, breath thick with whiskey. He clapped her shoulder in rough apology.

Willow twisted away, scanning the room, but the woman was gone.

~

“There you are,” came a voice behind her. Her father. Grant Braselton.

He was smiling, but only barely. His hand closed around Willow’s elbow—not hard, but firm enough to make his meaning clear.

“A word,” he said.

He pulled her a few steps away. The room swirled around them—men in sport coats, women in heels, the clink of glasses—but suddenly it felt very quiet.

“What was that performance with Conrad Baines?” he asked. “You do realize who that was, don’t you?”

Willow tried to swallow down the sinking sensation she so often felt when her father addressed her. “Ash said he started some company...”

“VisionaryNet,” her father filled in. “That young man is going places, and Ash was doing a damn good job of impressing him. You, on the other hand... I don’t know what you told him, but from the way his face fell, I’d say it wasn’t good.”

“Dad. I didn’t know—”

“Exactly,” he cut in. “You didn’t know. Because you didn’t try. You stood there looking bored, making sarcastic remarks like it was a game.”

Willow looked down, her stomach twisting with the same old shame.

“You’re not a child anymore,” her father went on. “You’re an adult, and you need to figure out how to act like one.”

“I know, Dad. I’m trying.”

“Are you? You’re no strategist like Ash. You don’t have Juniper’s way with people. Not only do you have no plan for the future, you’ve got no plan to make a plan.”

Willow shrank inward.

Her father dragged his hand down his face. When he spoke, his eyes didn’t quite land on her. “Last year, what transpired between you and Mr. Chapman, I know it must have been confusing.”

Willow flinched as if he’d struck her. Then her pulse roared in her ears because why?

Why was he bringing this up now, at a party where they were surrounded by dozens of people?

Not once had he broached the subject when it was just the two of them.

He’d had an entire year to do so, if he’d wanted to.

An entire year when he could have come to her, father to daughter, to talk things out.

To hear Willow’s version of the story. To consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, his dear darling daughter wasn’t the liar Mr. Chapman had made her out to be.

Unless . . .

Willow felt lightheaded. Had her father chosen this moment to broach the subject because they were surrounded by dozens of people? Because he knew she wouldn’t make a scene in the middle of his fancy, important party?

She took a step away from him, eyes wide. This—whatever was transpiring between Willow and her father right here and now—was confusing. What transpired between her and Mr. Chapman? No. Willow’s memory of that night was painfully clear, with zero room for confusion.

“You can’t wallow forever, that’s all I’m saying,” her father said. “It’s time to let go of the past and move forward.”

Willow’s eyes stung with furious tears.

Upon seeing her tears, her father tightened his jaw. “Just... try,” he said. “This is your life, Willow. You’re the only one with the power to change it.”

As she struggled with how to respond, a ripple passed through the room.

Heads turned. Conversations stuttered, then resumed as a new guest entered.

She wore no makeup or jewelry, and her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled into a loose chignon.

Her black dress was simple. Her black flats were practical.

The only stylish thing about her was the gray shawl draped over her shoulders.

It was the softest-looking thing Willow had ever seen, and she had to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

“Miriam Candler,” her father told her under his breath, as if filling Willow in to make sure she didn’t embarrass him. “Brilliant. Unpredictable. Half the city thinks she’s a genius. The other half thinks she’s a fraud. Both might be right.”

“What do you mean?” Willow asked.

“She’s a folklorist,” he said. “Spends her life collecting oral histories from nutjobs in the mountains of North Carolina.”

Nutjobs. Why did he have to say it like that? Nutjobs who belonged in the nuthouse. Bye, now! Take those shoes off, you hear?

“You mean where Mom grew up?” she asked with a wooden smile.

“No, Willow, not where your mother grew up. Good grief. I’m talking about true society holdouts.

Old-timers who’ve cordoned themselves off in the mountains, who put stock in black magic and who knows what other superstitious nonsense.

” He shot Willow a look of warning. “Don’t bring up your mother, and don’t say anything strange. ”

Miriam headed straight for Willow and her father, bypassing conversations as if swishing cleanly through tall grass. She gave Willow a nod, then turned to Grant. The two exchanged pleasantries, and then Miriam got to the point.

“Grant, I can’t stay long,” she said. “But before I leave, I’m hoping to take you up on the offer to see your library. Might that be a possibility?”

“Of course,” replied Willow’s father.

“Oh, wonderful,” Miriam said, bringing her hands together. “Does your wife keep any of her mother’s journals there by chance?”

Grant’s smile froze. “I’m sure she doesn’t. I don’t think her mother’s journals are in her possession.”

“No?”