Having found the perfect opportunity to watch me scarf down a full plate of food, while putting Damen on the stand so she can totally grill him. "Well, that sounds great and all except that Miles's play is on Friday." I fight to keep my voice steady and sure. "And then there's supposed to be an after party—and that'll probably run pretty late—so..." She nods, her eyes right on mine, her gaze so uncanny and knowing it's making me sweat. "So it's probably not going to work," I finish, knowing I'll have to go through with it eventually, but hoping for later rather than sooner. I mean, I love Sabine, and I love Damen, I'm just not sure I'm going to love them together, especially once the interrogation begins.

She looks at me for a moment, then nods and turns away. And just when I'm able to exhale, she glances over her shoulder to say, "Well, Friday's clearly out, but that still leaves Saturday. Why don't you tell Damen to be here at eight?"

Chapter Three

Even though I oversleep, I still manage to get out the door and over to Miles's on time. I guess because it doesn't take me nearly as long to get ready now that Riley's no longer around to distract me. And even though it used to bug me the way she'd perch on my dresser wearing one of her crazy Halloween costumes while grilling me about boyfriends and making fun of my clothes, ever since I convinced her to move on, to cross the bridge to where our parents and our dog Buttercup were waiting, I haven't been able to see her.

Which pretty much means she was right. I can only see the souls who've stayed behind, not the ones who've crossed over.

And like always when I think about Riley, my throat constricts and my eyes start to sting, and I wonder if I'll ever get used to the fact that she's gone. I mean, permanently and irreversibly gone. But I guess by now I should know enough about loss to realize that you never really stop missing someone—you just learn to live around the huge gaping hole of their absence. I wipe my eyes and pull into Miles's drive, remembering Riley's promise, that she'd send me a sign, something to show she's okay. But even though I've been holding tight to her pledge, staying alert, and searching vigilantly for some indication of her presence—so far I've got nothing.

Miles opens the door and just as I start to say hi, he holds up his hand and says, "Don't speak. Just look at my face and tell me what you see. What's the very first thing you notice? And don't lie."

"Your beautiful brown eyes," I say, hearing the thoughts in his head and wishing, not for the first time, that I could show my friends how to shield their thoughts and keep all their private stuff private. But that would mean divulging my mind-reading, aura-seeing, psychic-sensing secrets, and that I can't do. Miles shakes his head and climbs inside, yanking down on the mirrored visor and inspecting his chin.

"You're such a liar. Look, it's right there! Like a shining red beacon you can't possibly miss, so don't even try to pretend you don't see it." I glance at him as I back out of the drive, seeing the zit that dared sprout on his face, though it's his bright pink nail polish that steals my attention. "Nice nails." I laugh.

"It's for the play." He smirks, still zit gazing. "I can't even believe this! It's like I'm totally falling apart just when everything was going so perfect. Rehearsals have been great, I know all of my lines as well as everyone else's... I thought I was totally and completely ready, and now this! " He jabs at his face.

"It's just nerves," I say, glancing at him as the light turns green.

"Exactly!" He nods. "Which just proves what an amateur I am. Because professionals, real professionals, they don't get nervous. They just go into their creative zone and... create. Maybe I'm not cut out for this?" He looks at me, his face tense with worry. "Maybe it's just a fluke that I got the lead." I glance at him, remembering how Drina claimed to climb inside the director's head and sway him toward Miles. But even if that's true, that doesn't mean hecan't handle it, doesn't mean he wasn't the best.

"That's ridiculous." I shake my head. "Tons of actors get nervous, suffer from stage fright or whatever. Seriously. You wouldn't believe some of the stories Riley used to—" I stop, eyes wide, mouth open, knowing I can never finish that sentence. Can never divulge the stories gleaned from my dead little sister who used to enjoy spying on the Hollywood elite. "Anyway, don't you wear, like, a ton of heavy pancake makeup?"

He glances at me. "Yeah. So. What's your point? The play's Friday, which, for your information, happens to be tomorrow. This will never be gone by then."

"Maybe." I shrug. "But what I meant was, can't you use the makeup to cover it?"

Miles rolls his eyes and scowls. "Oh, so I can sport a huge flesh-colored beacon instead? Would you look at this thing? There's no disguising it. It's got its own DNA! It's casting shadows!" I pull into the school parking lot, claiming my usual space, the one right next to Damen's shiny black BMW.

And when I look at Miles again, for some reason I feel compelled to touch his lace. As though my index finger is inexplicably drawn to the zit on hischin.

"What're you doing?" he asks, cringing and pulling away.

"Just—just be still," I whisper, having no idea whatI'm doing, or why I'm even doing it. All I know is my finger has a definite destination in mind.