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dark
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    hair had fallen over one shoulder and to the side of her face, blocking out the smile I knew was there.
    I'd glanced next door then to see if Caleb was outside, waiting for her. I didn't see him but knew he was. He'd probably crouched behind a bush--out of sight, per Justine's wishes--for hours, just waiting for a glimpse of her. I'd thought that that must be a very nice feeling, to know so certainly that someone waited for you.
    It was one I could've used right then.
    I glanced in the rearview mirror when a burst of light flashed behind me. Seeing nothing but our duck-shaped mailbox and a bunch of trees, I turned in my seat to look through the back window.
    Silly Nessa. Imagining things before the sun's even set?
    I turned back at the sound of Justine's voice darting through my head.
    "Time to find Caleb," I said loudly, opening the door.
    I had one sneaker in the dirt when my eyes landed on the folded newspaper lying in the driveway. It was the Winter Harbor Herald , a free weekly that mainly served as a guide of restaurants and shops for tourists. The Herald tended to break one major news story every summer, when the cover article wasn't about the most romantic sunset spots or the best places to get a true Winter Harbor meal--usually something about underage drinkers or lobster-cage robbers. Those stories generally came toward the end of the summer, when everyone had already eaten and shopped and could apparently handle a taste of Winter Harbor's underbelly.
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    This summer, the bad news couldn't wait.
    Winter Harbor Tragedy: Girl, 18, Falls to Death at Start of Peak Season .
    I stared at the headline, its seriousness emphasized by the large, black font. Directly underneath was Justine's senior portrait. Despite the reason for her picture being on the front page, I was still struck by her beauty. Her dark hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, her eyes were bright, and her smile was warm and friendly.
    I thought of my own senior portrait, which I was supposed to have taken at the end of the summer. It would never be as striking as Justine's, since everything about my appearance fell somewhere in the middle: my long hair wasn't quite blonde or brown; my eyes weren't quite blue or green; my skin could look creamy or pasty, depending on the light. The only thing that didn't was my smile, which, though it occurred only rarely, always brightened the rest of my face ... but with my main source of happiness gone, I might as well pose for the picture with my back to the camera.
    I picked up the newspaper as I got out of the car. I didn't want to read about Justine, but I also couldn't leave her in the driveway. I folded the paper and slid it in the back pocket of my jeans.
    I walked the short distance to the Carmichaels', jogged up the porch steps, and rang the doorbell. As the low notes sounded inside the house, I stepped back and waited.
    Caleb didn't answer. Neither did Mrs. Carmichael, who
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    usually flung open the door with a smile and arms outstretched. There wasn't even the sound of footsteps moving through the house and toward the door.
    I waited a minute and rang again.
    Nothing.
    Holding one hand to the glass, I peered through a window into the living room. Then I crossed the porch and tried the kitchen window. The counters were clear, the table wasn't littered with comic books and copies of Scientific American , and the sink was free of dirty dishes.
    The inside of the Carmichaels' house suggested the same thing the outside of ours did: abandonment.
    They'll be back , I told myself as I headed down the porch steps. They're just at work. Or running errands. They'll return by dinner, at the latest .
    If that was true, I had about five hours to kill. All alone.
    I wasn't about to sit in our house by myself for that long, so I took my time going back. I wandered across the Carmichaels' backyard, which had become as familiar as our own over the years. After thousands of games of hide-and-seek, I knew the