Could it all have been staged? The birth certificate forged? And if so, then WHY? It doesn’t make any sense. But that could have a lot to do with how tired I am. Maybe in the morning I can look at these pictures with fresh eyes. I’ll even take the birth certificate to Rachel to see if she can tell if it’s real.

Satisfied with my plan, I wrap a towel around my head genie-style, then wrap another one around my body. I open the bathroom door. And almost jump out of my skin. Galen is sitting on my bed. I’ve really got to start locking my balcony doors.

He looks mad and happy at the same time. It’s only been twenty-four hours since I’ve seen him, but even sleep deprived and grouchy, I’m excited that he’s back.

“I think your dad was a Half-Breed,” he says. He frowns. “And I never told Rayna I would teach her how to drive.”

24

FRIDAY NIGHT is finally here.

Galen makes the turn down Emma’s road, mentally reviewing the must-do list Rachel gave him for their date tonight. He’s determined to keep Emma engaged all evening; she needs a distraction even more than he does. She’s been hounding him with questions about her father. Galen told her everything the Archives said. She showed him the birth certificate—which Rachel confirmed was either authentic or the best fake she’d ever seen—and her baby pictures. It all just confirms what he’d already concluded—Emma’s father was a descendant of the half-breeds. He had the blond hair and the light skin. Plus, he wore contacts. Emma swears they weren’t color-enhanced, but Galen’s sure they were. They had to be.

There are other coincidences, too. Her father loved the ocean. He adored seafood. He believed Emma when she told him about the catfish saving her. Why would he believe her unless he knew what she was? And as a physician, he had to have known about all her physical abnormalities. How could he not be a Half-Breed?

But Emma resists all of Galen’s reasonings, based on the fact that it doesn’t “feel right.”

Speaking of things that don’t feel right … He pulls his new SUV into her driveway, the excitement sloshing in his stomach like high tide. As he steps out, he notices how much he likes sliding down instead of hoisting himself up from a little compact death trap. He’s almost glad Rayna tied the red car around a tree—except that she and Emma could have gotten hurt. He shakes his head, crunching across the gravel of Emma’s driveway in his suede Timberlands.

Even over that, he hears the thud of his heart. Is it faster than usual? He’s never noticed it before, so he can’t tell. Shrugging it off as paranoia, he knocks on the door then folds his hands in front of him. I shouldn’t be doing this. This is wrong. She could still belong to Grom.

But when Emma answers the door, everything seems right again. Her little purple dress makes the violet in her eyes jump out at him. “Sorry,” she says. “Mom threw a fit when I tried to leave the house in jeans. She’s old-school I guess. You know, ‘Thou must dress up for the movies,’ says the woman who doesn’t even own a dress.”

“She did me a favor,” he says, then shoves his hands in his pockets. More like she did me in.

*   *   *

After they buy their tickets, Emma pulls him to the concession line. “Galen, do you mind?” she says, drawing a distracting circle on his arm with her finger, sending fire pretty much everywhere inside him. He recognizes the mischief in her eyes but not the particular game she’s playing.

“Get whatever you want, Emma,” he tells her. With a coy smile, she orders seventy-five dollars worth of candy, soda, and popcorn. By the cashier’s expression, seventy-five dollars must be a lot. If the game is to spend all his money, she’ll be disappointed. He brought enough cash for five more armfuls of this junk. He helps Emma carry two large fountain drinks, two buckets of popcorn and four boxes of candy to the top row of the half-full theater.

When she’s situated in her seat, she tears into a box and dumps the contents in her hand. “Look, sweet lips, I got your favorite, Lemonheads!” Sweet lips? What the— Before he can turn away, she forces three of them in his mouth.

His instant pucker elicits an evil snicker from her. She pops a straw into one of the cups and hands it to him. “Better drink this,” she whispers. “To take the bite out of the candy.”

He should have known better. The drink is so full of bubbles it burns clear up to his nostrils. Pride keeps him from coughing. Pride, and the Lemonhead lodged in his throat. Several more heaping gulps and he gets it down.

After a few minutes, a sample of greasy popcorn, and the rest of the soda, the lights finally dim, giving Galen a reprieve. While Emma is engrossed in what she calls “stupid previews,” Galen excuses himself to vomit in the bathroom. Emma wins this round.

When he returns to his seat, Emma is gone, her arsenal of food left behind. Doesn’t matter. She already started a war. Since his eyes only adjust to darkness in water, he has to rely on the tingles to find her. She’s sitting a few rows down, on the opposite end of the theater. He takes the empty seat next to her and gives her a quizzical look. The screen brightens enough for him to see her roll her eyes. “We were sitting in front of a bunch of kids,” she whispers. “They talked too much.”

He sighs and wiggles around in his chair to get comfortable—it’s going to be a long night. Watching humans play pretend for two hours doesn’t exactly flip his fin. But he can tell Emma’s getting restless. And so is he.