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ridiculous.
    This house might be strange and foreign, but it’s still a home. It just isn’t my home. It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.
    I look behind me, and there’s nothing there.
    There is no growl, there is no vibration in my ribs, there is nothing but for the dim twilight and the stars aching to burst from behind the clouds.
    The house looms over me and I circle back, only to find myself in front of a large garage with gabled edges.
    There are at least seven garage doors, all closed but one.
    To my surprise, someone walks out of that door.
    A boy.
    A man.
    His pants are dark gray and he’s wearing a hoodie, and he moves with grace. He slides among the shadows with ease, as though he belongs here, as though Whitley is his home too, even though I don’t know him.
    “Hello,” I call out to him.
    He stops moving, freezing in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn his head.
    Something about that puts me on edge and I tense, because what if he’s not supposed to be here?
    “Hello?” I repeat uneasily, and chills run up my spine, goose-bumps forming on my arms once again.
    I back away, first one step, then another.
    I blink,
    And he’s gone.
    I stare at the empty space, and shake my head, blinking hard.
    He’s still gone.
    He must’ve slipped between the buildings, but why?
    I hurry back to my room, too nervous to find out.
    I’m still unsettled as I wash my face, so when I’m finished, I poke my head out into the hall. There’s nothing there.
    With a sigh, I lock my bedroom door and I’m chilled from the wet English air. Glancing at the clock, I find it’s only six thirty. I can rest for a few minutes more, and I’m thankful for that.
    Because clearly, jet lag has made me its bitch.
    I close my eyes.
    It all whirls around.
    I stand in the clouds and spread my arms and spinandspinandspin.
    No one can touch me here.
    It’s not real here, but it is there.
    Down there, it’s cold and wet.
    It’s uncomfortable there, silent and awkward and rigid.
    The eyes are the worst, each of them turned toward me… watching me, waiting for something. For what?
    My skin crawls and I scratch it til it bleeds because I’d rather not have it than let it crawl away.
    They can’t get to me.
    I won’t let them.
    I don’t know them.
    And I don’t want to.

Chapter 5
    D inner at Whitley is a formal , uncomfortable affair.
    I feel horribly underdressed as Eleanor sits at the head of the table in a tailored skirt suit and the same strand of pearls. I’m fidgety, a tell-tale sign that I feel out of place. If anyone knew me here, they’d know.
    “Tell me of your schooling,” Eleanor directs from far down the table. The gleaming table is so long, I feel the need to shout whenever I speak.
    I’m in the middle of explaining public school to her when the doors open at nine minutes past the hour. Eleanor watches in stern disapproval as Dare enters the quiet room.
    Thank you, God, I exhale. It’s like I hold my breath when Dare isn’t with me, and it’s a habit I need to change.
    Tall and elegant, he slides into a place next to me, dressed in slacks and a suit jacket, a cobalt shirt open at the collar. He looks just as at home in the suit as he does in jeans, and a bit of his dark hair drifts down over his eye. He tosses it back as he sits.
    Every tiny piece of my being is relieved that he’s here, and I try to ignore the feeling.
    He’s not my security blanket, not anymore.
    He can’t be.
    “How nice of you to join us,” Eleanor says stiffly, before returning her attention back to me. It’s as though she doesn’t want to be bothered by him, as though he’s an intrusion. But he clearly belongs here all the same.
    I can’t help but steal another glance at him and when I do, I find him staring at me.
    He doesn’t look away, and his eyes are a smoldering midnight sky.
    I swallow hard, and Eleanor notices.
    She clears her throat.
    “Adair, that isn’t your chair. You know your place is across the table.”
    Astonished, I