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long, as far as I’m liable.” Then, to soften it, “What I really mean is, I’m not here to tell you what to do.”
    He smiled. “Cool. We’re gonna get along just fine.” Then, out of nowhere, “Do you believe in your soul mate?”
    “Sticky question. Define soul mate.”
    “A person you feel like you knew in another life. You ever make that kind of connection to someone else?”
    Annoyingly, all I could picture was Sean Ryan. How for three giddy months, I hadn’t cared about myself except as I existed through his eyes. Like if my hair was shiny enough or if my fingernails were buffed clean or if I smelled irresistible whenever he leaned over my shoulder to look at my ChemDraw printouts.
    Milo was motionless, watching me. Did he know my secret? A secret that I hadn’t even told Maggie? Could he tell I was the type of girl who’d be dumb enough to get semi-seduced (and then fully rejected) by her barely-out-of-school-himself science teacher?
    What I didn’t want was for Milo to think I was a goopy girl on a quest for summer love.
    “Who cares if I have a soul mate? This is my summer to disconnect,” I said.
    “I care,” he said. “I think someone’s out there. For each of us.”
    He sounded so much like Maggie, it was actually comforting. I looked him in the eye and said to him what I would have said to her. “How adorable. Do you also believe in Santa Claus? Or is it just looking at stars that makes you want to talk in clichés?”
    He blinked. I’d hurt him. Then he laughed. “Screw you, Jersey Girl.”
    One thing I hate is when people take a free jab at New Jersey. As if it’s the last word in tacky wasteland. I especially disliked it coming from this self-entitled rich kid. Leading me on with his silly poetic thoughts, then reverting to some easy joke about New Jersey when I didn’t act all enraptured. Maybe I would find my soul mate this summer, on this island. It wasn’t the craziest idea. But if I did, I wouldn’t be gunning to go tell Milo McRae all about it.
    Meantime, I did my best to act unbothered. Leaning back and stretching my arms over my head. “Put out your cancer stick,” I told him. “Forcing me to breathe in your secondhand is illegal. Even in New Jersey.”

FIVE
    They arrived in spite of the deadening effects of my sleeping pill. I’d hoped they wouldn’t follow me to Little Bly. I’d even considered not taking anything. But then I popped it on the decent chance it was a muscle relaxer. My grab-bag game always held an element of risk, and the only pill I didn’t want was one of Mom’s weaker antihistamines. Okay by day, but too thin a blanket for night.
    Earlier, I’d knelt by the bookcase and rolled the pill in my fingers. I was tired. Did I really need a send-off? Shouldn’t the act of falling asleep be somewhat effortless?
    As a compromise, I bit it in half. Sleeping pill. Fifteen minutes later, I was out.
    They’d been waiting. Hank was facing me on the small chair by the vanity. Uncle Jim was closer, cross-legged on the duvet I’d pushed to the foot of the bed. The steady pressure of his kneecap against my foot had caused me to wake up, although I’d tried, in my twilit state, to ignore him.
    Go away.
    My vision adjusted. Hank was slumped in his seat the way I imagine he used to watch television: his arms hanging over the sides and his chin doubled, his gaze lifted. They were distant as twin moons, my dependable companions, visible and yet far out of reach as always.
    “You don’t have to watch over me,” I whispered, sitting up. “I think I’ll be okay here. Mom was right. I needed the change.”
    Silence. That’s always how it was with Hank and Uncle Jim. They didn’t acknowledge our communion. Then I could stare at them all I wanted. That night, like every other night, Uncle Jim wore his too-big navy suit. The rope marks were like tar streaks beneath his collar.
    The way everyone remembered it, Uncle Jim had been cheerful that night, downing a glass