ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

DEDICATION

To my grandparents, who encouraged me to dream,
and to Alex, who helped those dreams come true

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Half the school came to Graham’s eighteenth birthday party. People were everywhere—crowded around the pool, crawling all over the patio, and crammed onto the sofa in the family room. Even though they were within plain sight of my mother, almost everyone had added a little something to their Coke—or replaced the contents of the can altogether.

That afternoon I was watching from a safe distance at the kitchen window, a whole story above the fray. I told myself I was up there to help keep the refreshments flowing, but truth be told, no one would note my absence. Even my friends were so focused on blending into Graham’s crowd, they’d probably forgotten I existed. After all, I wasn’t memorable in my own right. I was just Graham Overholt’s little sister—no different from his many other accessories. Something halfway between a lacrosse stick and a football helmet.

I opened the sliding glass door and leaned on the deck railing outside the kitchen—one of the few places where I could watch my brother holding court without being seen. His height and shock of messy gold hair made him easy to spot. The group around him was laughing hard at something he’d said.

At moments like that, it blew my mind that we were related. But maybe he’d have felt the same way if he had looked up just then, to see me peering out at the party from behind Mom’s potted geraniums like some senile old hermit. It was ironic that I got nervous at parties, given that I shared a gene pool with the most popular person on the planet. Then again, trying to live up to Graham’s legacy was what usually triggered the diamond-crushing pressure behind my eyes.

It was pretty much impossible to say or do anything that wasn’t somehow eclipsed by or attributed to Graham. By the time I’d hit high school, I had gotten tired of trying.

While I stood there playing Peeping Tom, Graham’s best friend, Tucker Halloway, snuck up behind me and pinched my arm. Hard. Then he took a long step forward and leaned on the railing right at my side. I turned my head, just enough that I could smell his breath.

“What if my mom catches you?” I wrinkled my nose and glanced down at the silver flask dangling loosely in his grasp. “You’re screwed. She’ll absolutely call Colette.”

“Can’t.” Tuck gave me a smug smile. “Colette has a migraine. She’s at the spa.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “Again? What’s this—her third time this week?”

“Fifth,” Tuck said.

Colette, Tucker’s mom, was from another planet. France, specifically. She was exotic, glamorous, and the only person I knew whose parties required cocktail attire. Or were catered, for that matter.

Tuck never had food in the fridge, but he always had designer clothes on his back—his appearance was the one thing about him that held Colette’s interest. But that was no surprise. Tuck made pretty much every female pause and smooth down her hair.

I had to resist the urge to do it myself as I turned to look him straight in those impassive gray eyes. I never could tell what he was thinking, even after knowing him my entire life. “Still, though, my mom will totally tell Colette,” I repeated lamely.

Tuck grinned. That famous wicked smile. “Is that really supposed to scare me?” He put his arm around my shoulders and leaned in. I staggered a step to keep my balance. “Where do you think we got this in the first place? Colette sent me over here with a bottle of thirty-year-old scotch for Graham with, I quote, her compliments.”

I had to admit that was a bit shocking, even for Colette. “Her compliments on what, exactly? Your ability to talk your way out of anything? My mom won’t let it slide this time. And don’t pretend her opinion doesn’t matter to you.”

“True,” he conceded, sliding the flask into his back pocket. “But your opinion matters to me even more.” His tone was as silky smooth as his words, but I wasn’t taken in for a second. Well, maybe for a second—the exact second he turned to meet my gaze, a mere six inches from my face. When I looked at him that closely, at those white teeth framed by that deceptively innocent smile, I knew why Tucker Halloway excelled at getting whatever he wanted—especially from girls.

And I couldn’t fathom why he was wasting that particular talent on me when bullying and mockery had always been the accepted currency between the two of us.

“What do you want?” I asked, instantly wary. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the party?”

His smile curled up at one corner, proof positive he was up to no good.

But then he did something weird. He just shrugged and stood there, looking back down at the party without saying anything at all. After a minute like that, his silence was more unnerving than his usual fast talk. Anyone who looked up at us then could definitely get the wrong idea.

I glanced down toward the pool, half expecting to see an army of girls watching me, planning their revenge.

“Are you leaning on me because you’re drunk?” I choked out, once the silence had stretched itself so far and thin it was fine dust coating my throat. Then I grasped for the only logical explanation. “If you’re trying to make some girl down there jealous, you should cozy up to someone else. No one would ever see me as a threat.”

“Why do you say that?” His grin reappeared, settling in and preparing to stay for a while. And marking the return to familiar footing. The muscles in my shoulder started to uncoil.

“Because of who I am.” Freshman year, Graham had thrown a boy out of a party for ignoring my polite hints. And he had interpreted my one-time plea for help as an open-door invitation into my love life. Or lack thereof, thanks to his constant interference. I wasn’t supposed to know that my touch carried a social stigma second only to leprosy, but word gets back to you eventually.

“I meant, why play games? I get by just fine on looks alone.” His smile was blinding, driving his point home.

“Don’t forget your charming personality,” I said, and my stomach flipped when his grin widened at my words. Making Tucker laugh was the best kind of rush. “I hear modesty is quite the aphrodisiac,” I added.

“Listen to you.” He lifted those gray eyes to meet mine. “Graham would die if he heard sweet little Ellie use a word like that. And die all over again if he thought you knew what it meant.”

“Lucky he’s not here,” I said.

“Lucky indeed,” he said slowly. “For more than one reason.”

His smile was so pretty, I almost sighed out loud. Fortunately, that was all it took to remind me of the manifold dangers of dropping my guard around Tuck. Because he was softening me up. It was a dance I knew all too well, even if he usually preferred a more direct assault with me.

“What do you want?” I repeated.

“Time with you,” he said sweetly. “Your undivided attention.”

“Cut the crap, Tuck.”

“Isn’t that the right answer?” he asked, all false innocence. Tipped with sarcasm. “Seems to me that’s what most girls want to hear.”

“For the record, insincere compliments work better when you don’t point them out,” I said. “And I’m not most girls.”

“Duly noted,” Tuck muttered before rallying and changing tactics. “I came to the right place, since you’re such a wise woman, seeing through all my subterfuge. I know you’ll be my savior.”

Apparently his plan was to exasperate me into submission. “For the third and final time, what do you want, Tucker Halloway?”

“Last name too? Bad sign. But here goes.” He leaned closer, knowing full well how destabilizing his proximity could be. Before I could help it, I was batting my eyelashes right back at him. A reflex as involuntary as the knee-jerk test at the doctor’s office.

“Hypothetically speaking, if a person urgently needed the key to the cabinet in the china hutch, what would that person need to do to acquire it?”

“Mug my mother,” I told him. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.” I held up one hand when he started to object. “You have a flask. That should keep you busy for the afternoon. I’m not helping you steal more alcohol.”

“Not everyone drinks scotch,” he said with a wink. “And Graham put me in charge of fun. Plus, I’ve already taken care of the hard part. We only need to put this back before anyone notices.” He held up a small glass bottle of gin that he pulled right out from the tangled green leaves of the geraniums. So that’s why he was really here, loitering around with me. He’d come to retrieve the bottle and was fortunate enough to find me standing here, a potential minion to do his dirty work. “You’ll be righting a wrong, so to speak,” he added. “Very noble of you, by the way.”

“Impressive,” I said, and I meant it. “It’s not easy to get around my mother’s radar.”

“Thank you, Ells,” he said. “It’s nice to be appreciated. Graham would have flipped. You, on the other hand, always understand.”

“Graham doesn’t know?” As far as I knew, Tuck never kept secrets from Graham. I’d assumed Graham had sent him to me for damage control.

“We don’t want to ruin his birthday with unnecessary stress,” Tuck said. “We owe it to him to handle this ourselves.”

I wasn’t sure how Tuck’s problem had suddenly turned into a “we” situation. But no one was more persuasive than Tuck when he was in the zone like this. His smile. The sweet, beseeching look in his eyes. Like I really was the only girl on the planet who could give him what he needed. I couldn’t believe I was falling for it.

Too many other girls had shown me where this particular road dead-ended.

“Fine. I’ll make sure it’s unlocked tonight,” I heard myself say. “Just put it all back by morning, or we’ll both be screwed.” Then I wiggled free of his arm, ashamed when I immediately missed it. But it was pointless to let myself pretend he was there for any reason other than covering up his typically Tuckish crime.

I expected him to leave now that his mission was a fait accompli. But he stood there a second longer, elbows propped on the railing, like he too needed a moment to catch his breath before plunging back downstairs.

“What are you two doing up here?” Graham asked. We both jumped and turned in unison, a little too fast.

Somehow Graham had extracted himself from his entourage and made his way up the deck stairs without either of us noticing. He looked at me, then at Tuck, and his eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

I squirmed, uncomfortable he’d found us like that—locked in private conversation when the whole world was downstairs. Especially since Tuck and I now shared a secret.

“I could smell you five feet away,” Graham said, glancing at me, but then dismissing the thought as he zeroed in on Tuck. “Is that why you’re hiding up here? Seriously—lay off the scotch.” He made a grab for the flask, but Tuck was slippery as an eel. “If you’re hung over during practice, I’m not covering for you again—I don’t care if you throw up.” But his smile told a different story.

“Oh, I would never do anything to compromise my athletic career,” Tuck said, parroting the serious, grown-up voice Graham saved for teachers and college interviews. Graham made a valiant effort to stay annoyed, but it was too late. He grinned and ran one hand through his hair. Only Tuck could manage him like that.

“I’m being serious,” Graham said, carefully avoiding the responsible voice. “I’m outta here at the end of the summer. And I’m telling you, senior year is harder—with college applications. You’ve gotta pull yourself together.”

“There’s gratitude for you,” Tuck said, catching my eye. “Without people like me for contrast, no one would recognize how perfect you are.”

Graham shifted impatiently on his feet, but Tuck kept right on talking, paving over his transgressions with a solid foot of bullshit. I tuned out until something caught my ear. “I already talked to Colette,” Tuck was saying. “She got me a ticket to visit for two weeks.”

That was hardly a surprise. “Visit Graham at Stanford?” I confirmed. Graham would be leaving for college at the end of the summer, but Tuck was a year younger than Graham and a year older than me. Which meant Tuck and I would be left behind together. Or, more accurately, Tuck would be left with the half of his friends who were also his age. It wasn’t like Tucker Halloway would hang out in our house every night once Graham was gone.

“Nope.” Tuck grinned first at me, then at Graham. “Norway.” Tuck was aglow with the good news, whereas I felt a bit queasy.

“You’re coming to Norway?” I asked in a very small voice.

He nodded.

That summer our mother was ushering a group of rowdy college students through a summer art history program in Italy, as part of her ongoing battle for tenure at UCLA. And we were being shipped off to Grandmother Hilda’s house in the country—eight full hours from Oslo.

“I thought I was getting away from you. At least for the summer.” It came out louder than I’d planned, like someone had turned on a hidden microphone. “When did this happen?” As much as I wouldn’t admit it, especially not to Tuck, it wasn’t actually unwelcome news. The tiny town we’d be trapped in could get slow after a week, much less two months.

“A couple of weeks ago,” Graham replied, shrugging.

“Fantastic.” I frowned, even though the addition of Tuck would probably be a good thing—no one was more fun than Tuck when he wanted to be. Still, I was annoyed to be finding out like this. It was another example of Graham not telling me things. Like I wasn’t a person who deserved common courtesy, but just one more planet that should slip obediently into orbit around him.

“Tell me what you really think,” Tuck said drily. “Really, don’t spare my feelings. You’re far too sweet.”

“Play nice,” Graham said to us both. “Next year I won’t be around to mediate.”

But the momentary lull in the universal battle for Graham’s attention was over.

A football whizzed through the air toward the side of Graham’s head. Without taking his eyes off me, he caught it in one hand and threw a perfect spiral back in the general direction of his friends, somehow still hitting one of them squarely in the chest. “It’ll be fun,” Graham told me. “You two can use this summer to practice world peace. You know. Get along.”

A deep voice called Graham’s name, and a girl shrieked with laughter so loud it could be heard above the music.

Graham’s attention snapped back to the party. My ten seconds were over. Duty called.

“C’mon. Tuck,” Graham said. “Everyone’s asking for you. And I’m not leaving you alone with Ellie and a flask of mystery liquid.”

“Mystery liquid?” Tuck waved his flask in the air. “This is thirty-year-old scotch!”

“Shh,” Graham and I hissed in unison.

“You realize the scotch is old enough to legally drink? I’m pretty sure that gives me some kind of immunity to local statutes.” He nudged my shoulder. “C’mon, Ells, you’ve got to start somewhere, and I promise it doesn’t get any better than this.”

Graham’s smile faded as Tuck slipped the flask between my fingers.

“She doesn’t want to,” Graham said. “You know she’s too young.”

It didn’t matter that he was right about the first part. It only mattered that once again he was speaking for me. And being a huge hypocrite. Everyone knew that he and Tuck had been up to far worse when they were my age—Tuck was barely eleven months older than me. Plus, it wasn’t like he was legally old enough to drink either.

But before I could object, Graham had already charged forward, disappearing down the stairs. His golden head was a periscope marking his progress as he submerged into the sea of people below.

Tuck slipped the flask into his back pocket and started to follow, but hesitated on the second step.

“You coming?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” he said. “If he was actually paying attention, Graham would realize how much he hates that dress.”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” I demanded, flushing pink at the thought that maybe I’d looked ridiculous all day, especially during the two hours I’d greeted pretty much everyone at the door.

“Nothing,” he said, flashing me a grin that I felt ten feet below my toes. “Let’s just say I won’t be the only guy who finds himself stopping to chat longer than he’d expected.”

I had no idea what to say to that.

Fortunately, Tucker never gave anyone the chance to sneak in the last word. He was in motion before the words had even left his lips, slipping down the stairs and into Graham’s wake.

I retreated back through the sliding glass doors and into the cool shadows of the kitchen. From the windows overlooking the pool, I could watch Tuck weave his way through the party. Sure enough, a senior girl latched onto him like a tick. I was disappointed when he leaned in close and whispered something in her ear. Whatever he said made her laugh so hard that her face pinched up until she almost looked less pretty. Almost.

A full ten minutes elapsed, and I was still watching Tuck. I swear he talked to every girl there. Which was no small feat.

Clearly, flirting with me, or whatever it had been, was about as noteworthy in his day as breathing and walking upright. Not that I expected anything otherwise. It really should have been a relief. Especially since we’d be in close quarters if he was coming with us to Norway. The last thing we needed was my ridiculous imagination tagging along and making me feel awkward around him.

After loitering in the kitchen long enough that the same person had walked through twice to use the bathroom, I decided to make an attempt to be social. Plus, I knew there was no way Graham was paying attention to the dwindling food situation. I grabbed a tray of sandwiches and made my way down the stairs and into the melee.

“Hold up.” A guy I’d never seen before shifted in front of me. Assuming he was hungry, I extended the tray.

“Want to sit with us?” He motioned toward a group of unfamiliar faces clustered around a table.

“There’s only one chair,” I pointed out, because it was the first thing that popped into my head.

He nodded. Apparently he thought we’d be sharing it.

He had to be from a different school—someone Graham knew from one of the dozen or more after-school activities that had dazzled college admissions officers across the country. From the way that boy smiled at me, he had no idea who I was. Or what Graham would do to him if he tried to sleaze all over me. Not that it necessarily would have stopped someone who had so clearly drowned each and every one of his inhibitions.

“Tempting,” I said. “But I’m busy.”

“What’s the hurry?”

I hesitated. There was no hurry. There was no reason I couldn’t sit and talk to him and his friends. Graham would never know. Except when I turned and finally looked the boy squarely in the face, something in me sagged with disappointment. His eyes were glassy from a day of drinking in the sun, comparing unfavorably to the way Tuck was always sharp, even when you knew he shouldn’t be.

“Want some help with that?” The boy reached for the tray, misreading my hesitation.

“No, thank you,” I said, turning away. “I’ve got it.”

“No, really, let me take it.” He grabbed for the tray again.

Even though he was annoying and harmless, I started to get mad. At myself, for stopping to talk to him. At Graham, for making me second-guess and worry about every little thing I did. And at Tuck, for lighting my nerves on fire in the first place. I could feel my temper snapping, threatening to break free, when the boy’s other hand materialized on my hip.

“Don’t touch me.” My voice was unnecessarily harsh, even to my own ears. I turned to face him, startled by the vehemence of my reaction, by the force of my own anger. But at my words, an odd shadow settled across his face. His eyes were distant and cloudy, like a fog had drifted across his pupils. They weren’t just unfocused like they’d been earlier; instead, they were utterly empty. As I watched, his jaw fell slack and he bobbed on his feet, putting his full weight on my outstretched arm. The same arm that was supporting the tray.

For one terrible moment, I thought he would knock me and all the sandwiches right into the pool. But a steadying hand caught my elbow. The tray was lifted from my grasp. “Can’t take you anywhere,” Tuck said. “Although I guess you had an equally incompetent assistant. Looks like I’m not the only one who appreciated that scotch.”

I shifted my eyes toward the boy, hoping Tuck would catch my plea for help. And of course he did.

Tuck looked at him, a smirk on his face. “Do me a favor and get a water from the cooler over there.”

But the boy just stared at me blankly for a full count of five. There was something unnatural about his lingering, vacant stare; it sent a glacier of ice-cold fear sliding down my spine. Had my rebuff been so harsh that I’d made him catatonic? Or maybe he was slipping into some sort of alcohol-related coma? But just as my panic reached a fever pitch, he snapped back to life, blinking furiously as if waking from a deep sleep.

“Sure,” he said. That boy might not have known who I was, but everyone knew Tucker Halloway. “Be right back,” he added.

“You came down,” Tuck said to me. “Are you staying, or are you catering?” He grabbed a sandwich off the tray. “Thanks, by the way. Famished.”

“Neither,” I said, stepping away and deciding right then to just leave Tuck to deal with the tray of sandwiches if he was gonna be snide.

“Don’t let that jerk chase you away,” Tuck said, following me through the crowd. “I’ll get rid of him.”

“Isn’t that what you just did?” I stopped and turned to face him.

“I mean for good.” The alcohol on his breath was surprisingly sweet, as was the look in his gray eyes. But I wasn’t going to be tricked a second time.

“I don’t want murder on my conscience, if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s not,” Tuck said. “Even I have my limits.”

“Good to know. Tucker Halloway’s limit is just shy of manslaughter,” I said. “Maybe we tie him up and stash him in the pantry instead?”

Tuck laughed. Usually that would make me feel ten thousand feet tall. But even his smile wasn’t enough to shake off what had happened. The memory of the boy’s vacant face had triggered an ominous, jittery feeling in my limbs, and it was building by the second. I wanted more than anything to be alone, away from the party.

“How about we tell him who you are?” Tuck said. “Unless you want an afternoon to be someone else. Graham’s too busy to play dad.”

Ordinarily I might have considered his offer. Or at least paused to ponder what Tuck would exact from me in return. Tuck never sided against Graham.

But I was too confused and distracted to navigate whatever maze Tuck was coaxing me into. I shook my head, looking up to find Tuck watching me closely. Testing and quite possibly trapping me.

“Did you notice anything weird about that guy a minute ago—about his eyes?” I asked.

“No, but I wasn’t the one gazing into them,” Tuck replied. It was my prompt to smile, to play along. And when I missed it, he surveyed me like a surgeon deciding where to cut. “You okay?” Concern creased his forehead. “You look weird right now. Did that guy do something to you?” The edge in his voice was a reminder that as reckless as he sometimes appeared to be, Tuck was every bit as intense as Graham. Protective vibe and all.

“Yes … I mean, no … I’m fine,” I stammered, wanting to get away. For so many reasons. “I—I left the oven on. I have to go.”

“Odd, given that none of the food I’ve seen requires heat.” He arched one eyebrow but let me go without another word. Still, I knew he was following my every move as I wove through the party.

My feet felt far away as they carried me up the deck stairs and into the house. The boy’s white pupils filled my mind. As did the way his face had fallen slack, empty, as he tipped right into me.

Once in the safety of my room, with two inches of solid oak protecting me from the world outside, what had just happened was easier to rationalize. It wasn’t like I’d wanted to join the party in the first place, and while there, all I could do was worry about Graham and whether I’d embarrass him. Or if he’d humiliate me by acting like my parent. Last Friday night, he had dragged me to a party, only to kick me out a half hour before my curfew. In front of everyone.

Either way, it was starting to seem like a good thing that I was leaving for the summer. If I was hiding in my room during the party of the year, and quite possibly hallucinating, it was a sign I needed a break from all the chaos and pressure of Graham’s world. Eight weeks in Skavøpoll, Norway, would give me just that. Graham’s shadow couldn’t possibly reach all the way across the Atlantic—at least not until he arrived and took over that town, too. But I would have a week to myself before he’d join me, while he stayed home to complete the circuit of graduation parties. And even when he did get there, there was only so much excitement he could stir up.

After all, there was no quieter place in the world than Norway. Nothing ever happened there.

2

The trip to Norway was thirteen hours in the air, with a layover in Newark. After a cramped eight hours sandwiched between the tallest person I’d ever seen and the fattest, I arrived in Oslo. There I switched to yet another plane for the short flight to Bergen, where my grandmother would pick me up at the airport. By the time the captain announced our approach and imminent landing, I was dying to get off the plane. Even the rinky-dink town of Skavøpoll would be a welcome sight after that epic bout of confinement.

My grandmother was waiting for me at the baggage claim. At six foot two, she was easy to spot. Even in a country where everyone was astonishingly huge and fair, she was striking. Her bobbed bright white hair was a beacon, guiding me through the sea of heads and right to her side.

“Elsa,” Grandmother said, kissing both cheeks. “You’re getting so tall. Almost as tall as me.” Graham and I took almost completely after her side of the family, resembling not only our father but also his mother, Hilda Overholt—I realized it more and more every time I saw her.

“Well, about four inches shy,” I replied, amazed that my grandmother still looked so young. Despite her white hair and old-lady spectacles, only a handful of wrinkles creased her face, and they were only visible when I searched for them. Grandmother Hilda was gorgeous.

“You’ll get there, sweetling,” she said, linking her elbow through mine. “Taller, that is. Then we’ll see you in those fashion magazines.”

“Right,” I muttered. The last thing I needed was to be even more freakishly tall.

“Or tearing apart Tokyo?” she suggested, towing me through the crowd toward the exit. “Don’t worry, Ellie, Godzilla still has an inch or two on me.” She clucked her tongue. I’d forgotten how she did that when she was teasing. And that she’d always been able to read me too well. I had to laugh, pushing aside my jet-lagged crankiness.

Suddenly, I saw the two months stretching in front of me in a whole new light. Not that it wasn’t always fun to visit her, but last time I’d been here was the summer before I started high school. I’d been just a kid. This time, things could be different. Grandmother Hilda had always been cool. She let me wander through town at all hours, no questions asked. That was never permitted in LA, under my mother’s ever-watchful, all-seeing eyes. Even Graham would have more freedom in Skavøpoll, with the nonexistent drinking age.

That line of thought opened up a whole world of unwelcome anxieties, like whether Graham would loosen up. And how on earth I’d share a roof with Tucker Halloway for two weeks straight. But I knew I’d manage somehow. I always had.

MY GRANDMOTHER LIVED on the top of a hill a mile outside of town, in an old gray farmhouse nestled at the edge of a pine forest and surrounded by gardens that would put most professional landscapers to shame. A stone fence taller than Graham traced the property line, surrounding all two acres, making it feel almost magical, like we were set apart from the rest of the world. The calm and quiet of her house were so consuming that the day before Graham arrived was really the first time I ventured out for anything other than a morning run through the surrounding fields.

The morning was bright and warm, and after my run, I decided to explore the town. Not much had changed during the two years since I’d last visited Grandma Hilda. Downtown Skavøpoll was still a long row of family-owned shops lining a narrow main street. One side of the road backed into the water, while the other was built along the base of a slope that stretched up behind the town, dotted with homes and farms until it disappeared into the mountain. The stores along the water’s edge were scattered, fading into docks and rickety fishing sheds.

I wandered toward the wharf and waterfront, where the fishing crews were unloading their morning catch. With every step I thought about my grandfather, who had taken me down to those same piers each morning when I was young. We’d buy warm croissants from the bakery and watch as salmon the size of German shepherds were wrestled out of the cargo holds and tossed ashore.

The fishing crews had been up since the early hours of morning, hauling in nets full of fish, and it was amazing to see how much work they’d already done. While the rest of the country was still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the fishermen had already unpacked their wares and were preparing the fish to be frozen and shipped all over the world.

The men patrolling the decks and hauling on ropes and pulleys were every bit as barnacled and battered looking as their weather-beaten boats.

Or so it seemed.

As I leaned forward over the metal railing along the dock, watching the work progress, I felt someone watching me. So I turned. A boy, an older boy, was on the deck of a boat farther down the pier.

Words utterly failed me. Except “wow.”

Disheveled blond locks peeked out from beneath his baseball cap. He grinned when he caught my eye—a flash of pearly white in an otherwise tan face.

I looked down, wondering if I’d been staring or if he had. Even though he’d seen me first, I’d definitely given him more than a casual glance in response.

I started to walk away, down the pier, but I heard a deep voice behind me, slightly out of breath from jogging and saying something incomprehensible. My stomach dropped, but I managed to look composed as I turned to face the blond boy. He smiled expectantly, waiting for me to reply to whatever he’d just said.

“I—I only speak English,” I said, ashamed that most of the Norwegian I’d picked up over the years was food related. I was hardly going to ask that boy to pass the bread.

I finally looked up to meet eyes that were the breezy blue of a sun-drenched tropical sea, which was ironic in such an arctic climate.

“You’re Hilda Overholt’s granddaughter?” It was more of a statement than a question, delivered in flawless English. He could have been a boy from any town back home, with that Wonder Bread smile. Maybe from a small town in the Midwest where they hold their vowels just a second longer.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m here for the summer.”

“I thought so—I saw you running the other day, up in our neighborhood. I’ve been meaning to stop by. I live just down the road.”

I nodded.

“We met once before. But you were about eight years old. You probably don’t remember.”

I shook my head. It was surprising that I could forget a face like his, even if I’d been just a kid.

“You know,” he said, covering for my awkward silence, “you look just like your grandmother did when she was young. At least, in her pictures.”

I felt warm. Once upon a time my grandmother was supermodel caliber. The pictures on her wall made that more than clear. I didn’t really know what to say. But I rarely did when I was talking to boys other than Graham and Tuck—and they hardly counted.

Fortunately he didn’t seem to notice. He extended one hand. “I’m Kjell,” he said, then repeated it, “Ch-ell,” carefully enunciating the first part, since the Norwegian ch sound is harsher than its English counterpart. “I’m here for the summer too.”

“Really.” I was determined not to blow a chance to make a friend. Better yet, a boy who didn’t see me and think of Graham. So I took a deep breath and forced myself to be bold. “And where do you spend the rest of the seasons?”

He laughed. It was a noteworthy event—his teeth were so straight, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he said he’d had braces twice. But his smile was crooked. It was the best possible combination.

“Oslo,” he replied. “At the university. I’m studying medicine, so eventually I’ll work summer shifts at a hospital. But for now, I’m navigator on my father’s boat. There.” He pointed to a newish-looking fishing boat a hundred feet down the pier.

“That’s not at all impressive,” I said. “I mean, I’ve been a doctor since I was twelve. And nautical navigation? Kid stuff.”

His smile took a playful turn. “I’ve heard you Americans mature quickly.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Given our obvious age difference, it triggered an uncomfortable association with the romantic disasters my mother’s art students got into during her summer program in Europe. It seemed that older Italian men also thought that Americans matured quickly. That comment wound away into awkward territory, so rather than replying, I pretended to be interested in the crates being lifted off the boat in front of us.

“Are you free tonight?” Kjell asked rather abruptly. Then, a touch embarrassed, he added, “Some friends are going to a pub. Nothing fancy, but it’s better than sitting around Hilda’s doing nothing.”

“I don’t know,” I said on reflex. Hanging out with a boy, even in a group, meant wanting it bad enough to fight for it. On the one almost-date I’d had that year, Graham and twenty of his closest friends had miraculously ended up at the same movie. As if my bio lab partner had been plotting for weeks to murder me in the dark.

It took a second for it to sink in that there was no one there to stop me. Graham was five thousand miles away. And what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I felt a smile building inside as I realized I was free to do whatever I wanted. “I don’t usually go out with strangers,” I said, even though I had every intention of doing just that.

“But I’m not a stranger to the rest of your family,” he replied. “Your grandmother used to babysit me.”

Even though it was beginning to sound less like a date and more like my grandmother had nudged him into taking pity on me, I held my smile and said, “Okay.”

He rewarded me with another flash of straight white teeth. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Before I rounded the corner and he disappeared from sight, I glanced back at Kjell. He was already at his father’s boat, easily stepping over the four-foot span of water that separated the deck from the pier.

He was tall, cute, and smart enough to be in medical school. What more could any girl ask for? I paused to imagine what Graham would have done if he’d been there to witness the whole exchange. If he scowled when I was asked out by boys he’d known since kindergarten, I couldn’t imagine what he’d think if a college boy asked me out—a heart-wrenchingly adorable college boy. Graham’s certain disapproval was a point in Kjell’s favor.

But Graham wasn’t there. And until he showed up, I didn’t have to play obedient little sister. Or listen to his comments about boys and their one-track minds. As if he wasn’t one too. For now, I was Ellie Overholt, an American girl in Norway, and I’d finally get to do things my way. Even if I wasn’t sure exactly what that was quite yet.

I just knew that I, for one, couldn’t wait to find out.

I HAD PLANNED to jog back to Grandmother’s house, but after my encounter with Kjell, I decided to prolong my window-shopping, savoring my newfound feeling of freedom. The bakery still had a few fresh croissants displayed in the window when I passed, and even if Grandmother had probably eaten breakfast five hours ago, I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist our favorite treat.

When I pushed the door open, everybody turned and stared. And by everybody, I mean the three old women occupying one of the two café tables, sipping espresso from doll-sized cups, and the two burly fishermen still sporting orange rubber pants misted with seawater. I pretended not to notice how they watched my every move. In a small town, newcomers are endlessly fascinating.

So I wasn’t surprised when one of the old ladies rose and wobbled toward me, her carved birch cane tapping along the checkerboard floor.

The baker leaned forward with a polite, expectant smile. He must have known who I was, because he didn’t bother trying to talk to me in Norwegian. Instead he nodded mutely as I pointed at the croissants and held up two fingers.

The old lady reached me, so I turned and smiled, struggling to remember how to say sixteen in Norwegian, since holding up fingers for my age hadn’t cut it for a while.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her English was thickly accented, and it took a moment for the words to register, even though the malice behind them was unmistakable. “Stay out of our town.”

I took a step back, my eyes flashing to the fishermen for help. Maybe this woman was senile. Or maybe she thought I was someone else. But whoever she thought I was, the fishermen were similarly mistaken. Because they narrowed their eyes in suspicion like they expected me to rob the place.

“I don’t understand,” I said. I truly didn’t. Last time I’d been in Skavøpoll, people had stopped me on the street to ask questions about life in LA, listing celebrities I might have spotted or wondering if I knew their distant cousin who lived in Tennessee. Sure, Grandmother kept to herself, but that didn’t stop the town from being curious about me.

The baker turned, handing me the package of croissants. His voice was sharp as he said something to the woman in Norwegian. I heard my grandmother’s name, but that was all I caught. The old woman scowled back at him. Whatever the baker had said made her even angrier. She muttered something about my grandmother that didn’t sound like a compliment as she lifted her cane and slammed it down on my foot. Hard.

Pain shot up my shin.

The fishermen burst into laughter.

“Stay away. Or you’ll be the next to disappear.”

There was a lump in my throat the size of a croissant as I realized everyone but the baker was rejoicing in my humiliation. They were all in on whatever strange inside joke was unfolding around me.

The old woman turned and waddled back to her friends. The baker’s eyes were apologetic as they returned to me. “Tell Hilda she still has friends. Not all of us believe the rumors.” He shook his head, refusing the money I slid across the counter toward him. “Run home, and don’t pay her any notice.” He inclined his head toward the table of old ladies, who looked like they were contemplating a second assault.

The baker certainly didn’t need to tell me twice. I had no intention of staying to be abused by a crazy old lady. Or mocked by a bunch of rude fishermen. It seemed that even if the town looked the same, some things about Skavøpoll had changed.

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that night, there was a soft knock at the door. I’d told my grandmother about what had happened at the bakery, and she’d laughed like it was the best joke she’d ever heard. Apparently the old lady was angry about something that happened at last year’s garden show. She’d spread rumors that Grandmother had cheated. Attacking me seemed like an over-the-top reaction, but as Grandmother showed me daily, flowers are important to old ladies.

When I mentioned my plans with Kjell, Grandmother didn’t seem at all surprised. Even though it confirmed my suspicion that Kjell was acting under her coercion, nothing prepared me for her behavior once Kjell finally arrived. She could be a bit abrupt with most people outside our family. Which, come to think of it, might have had something to do with how the rest of the people at the bakery had acted that morning.

Grandmother rushed through the entry hall to greet Kjell before I was even halfway out of my chair. She opened the door and pulled him into a bear hug—which was no small undertaking.

I tried to understand what they were saying but only got the general gist that he’d been back for just a few days and she hadn’t seen him since the holidays. Kjell was clearly a favorite.

I stood there, feeling stupid and silent, until finally my grandmother mercifully switched to English. “I’m so glad you two met,” she said. “And I know you’ll take good care of my Ellie.”

“Of course I will,” Kjell said. “But she seems like the kind of girl who can take care of herself, too.”

His response earned him more than a few points. As did the fact that Kjell looked even better when cleaned up—and far too sophisticated, in his dark slacks and sweater, to be seen with someone like me.

“Ready?” Kjell asked.

“Let me just grab a jacket.”

I ran upstairs and dug through my suitcase for a sweater that would make me look slightly less like a high school girl who had no business hanging out with a cute college boy.

Which was impossible. I finally found a black sweater that Tuck always said made me look like a little old lady. Far from ideal, but at least that meant it made me look older.

When I was halfway down the stairs, I heard Kjell and my grandmother talking in low voices. Something about their tone made me reflexively pause to listen, even though I wouldn’t understand. I strained my ears, but the only words I could pick out were Odin and Valhalla. And only because I recognized them from my grandfather’s bedtime stories.

Whatever Kjell said made my grandmother break into a peal of laughter. Oddly enough, it sounded forced. I wasn’t sure what could be so funny anyway, given that Odin was basically the grim reaper in Norse mythology and Valhalla was his home. From what I remembered, anything involving Odin was pretty creepy and gory.

The step beneath my feet creaked as I shifted, trying to creep closer. Their conversation ended abruptly.

One look at Grandmother’s arched eyebrow as I walked down the stairs told me that my attempt at stealthy eavesdropping had failed, to say the least.

I wouldn’t have given their whole exchange a second thought … well, maybe not a third … if my grandmother hadn’t stood there a moment longer, blocking the door.

“Just be careful, Kjell,” she said, switching to English and snaring my curiosity once and for all.

Kjell nodded, giving Grandmother a loaded smile. “I promise I won’t disappear. I’m too big for the fairies to carry away.”

“Even ridiculous rumors spring from a seed of truth,” Grandmother said.

“What rumors?” I asked. If she didn’t want me to know, she shouldn’t have dangled a big juicy carrot in front of me.

She shook her head and smiled as she tucked my hair behind my ear.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she said.

I turned to go. In the reflection in the window beside the door, I saw Grandmother slip a small velvet envelope into Kjell’s hand, the kind that jewelers use. He upended it, and something silver slipped out onto his palm. Both of them clearly thought I hadn’t seen. But I was tuned into every single thing she did, given the way their conversation had made me reconsider Grandmother’s explanation of what had happened in the bakery. Rumors and disappearances seemed to be the new theme in Skavøpoll, and something told me they had nothing to do with last year’s garden show.

“WE’LL HEAD TO the pub in a bit,” Kjell said as we climbed into his compact European hatchback. “First we have to pick up my friends.”

We drove through town and stopped in front of a narrow alley that snaked uphill, disappearing into an older part of town. I heard the rattling metal under their feet before I saw the two shapes scampering down a fire escape and jumping the last four feet onto the uneven pavement below.

“Look, Elsa, if they—if they say anything strange, just ignore it,” Kjell said. I could see his lips pressed into a thin line. He was nervous. “I’ve known them forever. And they’re great once you get to know them, but ever since I came home, they’ve taken up some, um, strange ideas.”

“No worries,” I said. “I’m sure they’re great.” Out of everyone in the whole world, I was the last person to judge his friends.

It can be hard to find people you can trust, and when you do, you hold on to them, imperfections and all. Most of my supposed friends were wannabe Graham groupies who didn’t make the cut. Even my best friend always flirted like crazy with Graham’s friends. Especially Tuck. I hated how much that bothered me—forcing me to admit things to myself that it was far safer to suppress.

By then, the two shadows had reached us and were cramming themselves into the narrow backseat. One was a girl with a round face framed by chin-length red hair. There was something wholesome and open about her wide brown eyes that made me like her at once. Kjell introduced her as Margit. The boy, Sven, was standard-issue Norsk—blond, blue-eyed, and with teeth so white they practically glowed in the dark. Margit whispered something, making Sven smile and lean in close to hear the rest.

Was this some sort of double date? Butterflies in my stomach were stretching their wings, preparing for flight.

Margit slipped a nylon backpack from her shoulders and set it in the middle of the backseat. The bag was straining at the seams, its taut fabric struggling to swallow something roughly the size and shape of a microwave.

“You’re joking,” Kjell said, sticking to English. “You aren’t bringing that with us.”

“You bet I am,” Margit replied. First in Norwegian, then repeating it in English, presumably for my benefit, even though, surprisingly, I’d understood her the first time. She pulled roughly on the zipper until it opened just enough to reveal a bulky electronic box. Then she reached further inside and slipped a smaller object out of the bag that looked like a tiny remote control, only it was made of clear plastic decorated with fluorescent yellow trim. She pressed a flat green button on the front of it, and a white light inside snapped on like a flashbulb. Sven leaned in close and whispered something in Norwegian. I could tell they were testing it, making sure that whatever it was, it was working.

“What is that thing she’s holding?” I whispered to Kjell

Kjell sighed as he glanced over his shoulder. “That’s a personal locator beacon,” he explained. “We use them when we fish. If you get thrown overboard, lost, you activate it. That way the rescue helicopters can find you.” He paused. “And in the backpack is an old radio she pulled off her father’s boat. Seriously, Margit, don’t tell me you’re bringing those. This is taking it too far.”

“You never know when you’ll need to call for help,” Margit snapped. “I have some extras—you might consider carrying one, too. It’s not like I’m the one who should be worried.”

I couldn’t help it; a laugh slipped right out before I could stop it. “I think I’ll pass on the rescue choppers, thank you. Pepper spray will suffice,” I said, patting my pocket. The most dangerous thing that could happen to me in Skavøpoll was a mountain goat attack. Still, Grandmother had insisted. But then Margit’s comment settled into place next to my grandmother’s cautioning Kjell to be careful, and suddenly Margit’s behavior wasn’t quite so funny. Perhaps Kjell was actually in some sort of danger.

Margit peered at me from around the side of the headrest. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, like I’d repulsed her somehow.

“Elsa Overholt.” Margit said my name like it belonged to a celebrity whose claim to fame was eating live puppies. “You look like your grandmother.” It felt like an accusation, so I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her hair was a vibrant scarlet.

“So I’ve heard,” I said, deciding to proceed carefully since she was predisposed to hate me. One sideways look at Kjell reminded me that he was definitely someone worth being jealous about. But it wasn’t like I hadn’t marched a million miles down that road—with all the time I spent with Tucker, feeling irrationally jealous of other girls when I knew I had no right to be. Fortunately for Margit, I was pretty sure she was misreading Kjell’s level of interest. “Personally, I think my brother looks more like that side of the family than I do,” I said, settling on the most innocuous thing that crossed my mind.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Margit snapped back. “My grandfather always said your grandmother is a witch. That a pretty face doesn’t say a thing about what’s inside a stone-cold heart. You’d do well to remember that, Kjell.”

I sat bolt upright. Even if Kjell was the love of her life, I wouldn’t expect this kind of hostility. I’d spent less than fifteen minutes with him.

“Margit!” Kjell hissed, followed by something gruff in Norwegian.

Back home, I wasn’t the type of girl who fired back, unless it was against Tuck. Maybe it was because being Graham’s sister meant I’d never really needed to, or maybe it was because I’d never done something daring enough to really garner this sort of reaction. Either way, a whole new Ellie simmered beneath the surface, rising to meet Margit’s challenge.

“It’s funny you bring that up,” I said. “In some countries, red hair was considered a sign of witchcraft. They actually burned people at the stake for it. Can you imagine? Just goes to show that a little ignorance can go a long way—if you let it go unchallenged, that is.”

The entire car went silent, and for a moment I wondered if I’d gone too far, and if every one of them could hear me struggling to swallow the nervous lump in my throat. Then Kjell threw his considerable weight behind me.

“You’re way too sweet if you feel guilty.” He shot me a reassuring big-brother smile that made me think of Graham. “She deserved it.”

While I was grateful for the moral support, I would have preferred he keep his eyes on the road as the car started the steep ascent into the narrow mountain lane outside of town.

For the first time that night, but far from the last, I wished I’d just stayed home. Particularly when I peeked in the rearview mirror and saw the sulky, bitter scowl on Margit’s face. The hate in her eyes when they met mine told me she had no intention of letting me off so easily.

We drove around a dark and narrow road that traced the fjord, past shallow rowboats bobbing at the ends of rickety docks and stilted boathouses clinging to the shore. An occasional fishing trawler, anchored close to shore, cast a dark shadow across the shimmering water. Not a single car passed us during the drive from Skavøpoll to the tiny town of Selje, its nearest neighbor.

What Kjell had called a pub was actually the bar of the only hotel in town. And it was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday night. Kjell found a barstool for me, after Margit somehow managed to straddle two stools, making sure I couldn’t sit near her. And I was uncomfortable when Kjell then ended up standing himself. Especially when Margit scowled at me, like I’d forced Kjell to do that.

Margit immediately launched into a hushed conversation with Sven, who cast a few apologetic looks at me and more than a dozen at Kjell. It made me feel even worse, since she was making a fool of herself over a boy and alienating him at the same time.

After one last questioning glance at his friends, Kjell seemed determined to make up for Margit’s behavior. He kept me entertained—so entertained, I was surprised to glance at my watch and see it was already eleven. I’d promised Grandmother I wouldn’t be out too late, since we had to leave for the airport first thing in the morning to pick up Graham.

When I looked up again, something in Kjell’s face gave me pause. He was staring over my shoulder, his mouth slightly ajar. His expression was slack and distant, as if his brain had gotten up and walked away, leaving a vacant body behind. It was unsettling. Which is why it took me so long to notice that Kjell wasn’t the only one staring at the door. Sven and Margit were similarly fascinated by something or someone directly behind me.

Naturally, I turned.

Two girls roughly Kjell’s age were framed in the open doorway, scanning the interior of the bar with cold, appraising eyes.

The first thing I noticed was their appearance. They were impossibly beautiful. And tall. While Norwegians are known for both qualities, these girls decimated anyone I’d seen during all my time in Norway. Or anyone I’d seen in any magazine or movie screen—ever. They were breathtaking and heart-stopping all at once.

They walked slowly into the bar, letting the door close soundlessly behind them. Every movement was lithe and graceful, yet with an edge of casual confidence that seemed almost predatory. Like lions circling their prey.

Both girls were dressed strangely. That was the second thing I noticed. They were wearing all leather—from the plunging necklines of their skintight jackets to their knee-high, fur-trimmed boots. Not the slick black leather of a biker or even the shiny metallic leather of Eurotrash nightclub girls. This leather was beige and natural, a coarse, untanned suede. While I’m personally an Ugg boot addict, there was something off-putting about an entire Ugg catsuit.

There had to be a logical explanation for their clothes. Parts of Norway are still rustic in the most charming way. Herds of goats wander the mountain roads and constitute traffic jams. Entire families live in houses so remote, they can only be reached on snowshoes. Perhaps these girls didn’t look as odd to the rest of the room as they looked to me. Maybe that was normal attire for hardy Norwegian mountain folk who happened to look like supermodels.

One quick glance around the bar told me I was hardly the only curious one. There was something extraordinary about those girls. Extraordinary and terrifying. I watched, transfixed, as, one by one, heads turned throughout the bar. Conversations faded into silence, punctuated by the occasional speculative whispers, until the bar was dominated by the obnoxious American country music pumping through the speakers and the loud guffaw of the man in the corner who was too drunk to notice anything except the pint of beer in his hand.

The girls stepped forward, scanning every face as if they’d need to re-create each one from memory when they got home. If they noticed the effect they were having, they didn’t care.

As she stepped to the side to get a better view of the booth in the corner, the first girl’s jacket slid open just enough to reveal a gun secured against her hip in a low-slung holster. There was a long serrated knife strapped to her calf by a thin leather cord that snaked all the way up her leg. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, a strange voice sounded in my head, one that was me and wasn’t me. Like it came from a new part of my consciousness I hadn’t had the chance to meet yet. It told me she was an expert with both weapons. Lethal. Her companion was similarly dangerous, but not nearly as skilled as the blond one. It was the way the other girl stood, bearing too much weight on her left leg. And her holster was half an inch too low. The fraction of a second she’d waste drawing her gun could mean the difference between life and death.

And I had no idea where that knowledge came from. I’d never even held a gun. But the truth of it was undeniable. Seeing those girls was like pulling a muscle I didn’t even know I had. It stirred something that terrified and electrified me. I felt as if I was fully awake for the first time in my life.

Then the rational Ellie weighed in, reminding me of where I was and how unbelievably strange this moment was. Especially when I glanced back at the lobotomized expression on Kjell’s face.

“Is this some sort of local militia?” I whispered, watching the girls move toward the bar, their eyes scanning the room, ever vigilant. Kjell didn’t reply. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken.

Before I had a chance to nudge Kjell back into the present, the drunk, guffawing man took three wobbly steps right into one of the girls, the blond one, and stumbled backward, dropping to one knee to catch his balance. He must have been stupid as well as drunk, because somehow he missed the weapons strapped to that model-perfect body. As he rose to his feet, he gave her a very thorough once-over. When his eyes finally reached her face, a lewd smile spread across his lips as he reached out and let his fingertips trail along her thigh.

The blond girl’s retaliation was fast as lighting and every bit as deadly. She grabbed him by the hair. Her knee came up as she slammed his head down. There was a sickening crunch as his face met bone. The move was as graceful and smooth as a ballerina’s pirouette, but no one could mistake the brutal, incalculable force contained in those long limbs. Or the cold blood pumping through Blondie’s veins.

The man crumpled at her feet when she released him, blood pouring from his shattered nose and pooling into a puddle on the floor.

“Kjell,” I whispered. “Your medical training … shouldn’t you help him or something?”

Kjell’s eyes never left those girls, even when I shook his arm hard, trying to snap him out of it. He was staring at them with an odd sort of determination. The set of his jaw told me that now he only had eyes for those two.

“Kjell?” I repeated, annoyed and a bit scared when he swatted me away with one arm. “If you’re staying here to watch the ultimate fighting floor show, can you at least tell me how to get home? Can I call a cab or something?”

When Kjell finally looked down at me, his eyes were as cloudy as opals. The boy at Graham’s party had looked the same way, right before he almost pushed me into the pool.

As Kjell stared at me, his eyes cleared, and he recovered enough to remember his manners. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head the way you do when water is trapped in your ear. “I seem to have dozed for a sec.”

Right. Years of hanging out with Tucker and Graham had taught me more than enough about boys and their attention spans. Particularly when supermodels were wandering around. Kjell was hardly in danger of falling asleep anytime soon with those two sirens in the room. But for the moment, his eyes were back on me. And I needed to seize the opportunity to secure my ride home. I wanted out of there immediately.

I’d barely opened my mouth to speak when manicured, fire-red fingernails curled over his shoulder. One of the leather-clad bobsled girls was standing at his side, her lips framing a devastating smile.

“How old are you?” she asked in Norwegian. It was one of the few complete sentences I knew. Hopefully, next she’d ask for the time or directions to the airport. But I had a feeling this conversation was about to soar past my repertoire of memorized phrases.

“Nineteen,” he replied in a flat, monotone voice.

Really? I thought. Graham would die. A nineteen-year-old boy had taken me out. To a bar. Even if the story was about to end with that boy ditching me for someone more in his age category, I almost regretted I’d never get to see the look on his face.

The beautiful girl shifted closer as she trailed her fingers from Kjell’s shoulder down his chest, probing, as if she’d find buried treasure beneath his shirt.

I had to admire the speed with which she closed in on what she wanted. But the way her fingers continued to expertly weave across his torso reminded me more of a butcher inspecting a side of beef than an attempt at seduction.

I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. In light of the man still washing the hardwood floors with his blood, a groping session seemed ill timed. At home, the LAPD would be all over the place by then. As I glanced around the bar again, no one seemed particularly bothered by any of it.

The catatonic expression had settled back over Kjell’s features, like he wasn’t fully cognizant of what was happening.

The second girl joined her companion. She curled one hand over Kjell’s cheek and started saying something in Norwegian. It was about time, I thought. In my book, a few words of small talk ought to precede a full body massage.

I caught the word doctor. Somehow they knew about medical school. Perhaps these were Kjell’s friends from Oslo? Kjell tipped his head to the side, watching the blond girl in absolute rapture. Beautiful as she was, it was wrong. So wrong. She pulled him two steps forward, leading him toward the door like a puppy on a leash. I knew I had to do something about it. I had to stop them.

“Kjell, are you okay?” I asked, putting my hand on his wrist protectively.

Instead of replying, Kjell glared down at me. Like he had no idea who I was or what I was doing there. But I held his gaze, steady and trying not to be frightened by the furious intensity in his eyes. He blinked, three times, fast, as if waking out of a dream.

Frantically he dug for something in the pocket of his jacket—something small and silver. It looked like the tiny object my grandmother had dropped into his hand earlier that night. It was a small metal disk, with a series of raised lines and curves that resembled letters, only from no alphabet we’d ever learned in school. Kjell held it out in front of himself. Like a priest exorcising the devil. Except his eyes were firmly closed, clenched tight.

His other hand reached out and found mine, his fingers snaking in between all the digits, squeezing so tight I thought my knuckles would pop like balloons.

The blond girl took a step back, staring scornfully at the object resting on Kjell’s palm. Her hand flew out as if she was planning to snatch it away from him. But the instant her fingers touched metal, she whipped them back like she’d been burned. Then her eyes shifted to me. She looked m

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 792