Beau finds me in the chapel, the journal open on my lap and my cell phone to my ear. He sits in silence, hand over mine, until I put down the phone. I've called Amelia seven times and left as many messages, twice as many texts, all without a response.

My storm of worry has churned into a hurricane of panic with the absolute certainty that she's in trouble.

"Hey," Beau says, softly rubbing my knuckles. "How are you doing?"

"I've been better."

"We're going to find that woman, Gracie. She's not going to hurt you again."

I wave him away, my own safety the least of my concerns. I'd be happy if she'd never hurt any of my friends again. "Have the doctors been back?"

"Will's out of surgery, but he's in a coma. They're concerned about blood loss and internal bleeding. It's still... It could be better news, sweetheart."

The news hits me with more force than expected, given everything I've just learned about my family, about Jake taking Millie away from me again, not to mention that I've managed to get my ass kicked in one of the safest towns in the country.

Beau's arms go around me. His fingertips trail over my arms and neck, across my cheeks, as gentle as feathers, giving me a moment of peace to utter another silent prayer for the boy who meant everything to me once. Who still does, in his way.

Then I locate my nerve, sit up, stand up. There's only one thing I can actually do right now. "I have to go to Charleston. Amelia needs me."

"What? Isn't she here?"

"No. Jake came and checked her out, and now she won't answer her phone or respond to any texts." I glance down at the diary in my lap, the product of Anne's paranoia, maybe, but after everything Mrs. LaBadie has subjected me to, I'm not willing to write it off as nonsense.

Not to mention that, to my knowledge, a boy has never survived past the age of twelve in our family. Ever.

"Here. Read this if you want. It's the other half of Anne's diary, and I know something's wrong." I step past him, but he's on his feet fast, a strong hand circled around my wrist.

"Stop, Gracie. I'll go with you to check on your cousin if you want, but after everything that's happened, I'm not letting you out of my sight until they find Zaierra."

I'm not sure they'll find her, if they're even looking. Not if she doesn't want to be found. If Anne was right, and if one believes in voodoo, maybe she's not even wholly human. The idea of being alone makes me shake all over, and his offer to come along steadies me. It's more than comfort or protection. It's as though maybe, with him by my side, Amelia might have a chance at being okay.

Mrs. LaBadie's words from the library dance in my mind, the ones she uttered when Melanie accused her of being no better than Anne herself—that she had no control over how the spirits ensured the survival of the curse. That they used "servants."

An abusive, controlling husband seems like a likely candidate for brainwashing.

"Gracie. I'm not taking no for an answer."

"That's okay. I was going to say yes."

We head back down to the waiting area, which has largely cleared out after the news of Will's condition. His and Mel's parents are still there, and my friend sits curled in a chair, watching her hands.

"Mel?"

She looks up, her dark eyes rimmed by red circles and cracked with crimson veins. "Gracie."

My name dissolves into sobs, and I fall to my knees, gathering her slight frame in my arms. Guilt makes me want to die, because if she loses Will, nothing will absolve me.

"I know." I pat her back, letting her loose her tears into my neck until she's finished and pulls away. "I'm going to Charleston to check on Amelia, but I'll call for updates."

"Don't let it be for nothing, Gracie. All of this. Get her out."

Her words harpoon me through the middle, barbs snagged tight in essential organs. Even now, with her husband fighting what sounds like a losing battle for his life, she's concerned about Amelia, too.

Mel read the diary. Fear crackles in her gaze, unable to hide completely behind her grief.

I squeeze her hand, taking one more moment even though the atoms that make up my muscles beg me to sprint all the way to Charleston. "Will's a fighter, Mel, and the only person on this planet more stubborn than Millie. We can't give up on him."

"Never, Gracie. We stick together."

"Until the end."

"Until the end."



Beau's face has settled into hard lines by the time I throw myself into his passenger seat and buckle myself in. It crosses my mind that all of this drama and pain is going to hamper, even kill, our new relationship, but my loyalty lies with others first. My ties to Will and Mel, to Amelia, run so much deeper than any others in my life, and as much as I like Beau and would like to get to know him better, whether or not we'll survive whatever we find in Charleston and emerge with our potential still intact has to take a backseat.

"Hey. Where's your driver? I didn't know you could drive, should I be worried? Do you even have a license?" My lame attempt at teasing relaxes him slightly, twitching a smile from the corners of his lips as he pulls onto the street, squinting into the early morning sunshine.

"Where are your sunglasses?" I ask.

"What?"

"Your sunglasses. You'll get wrinkles, squinting like that."

He slides a bemused gaze my direction, before returning to his squinting. "Wrinkles, huh? Well, if you must know, I left them in my other car."

I laugh without a second thought, then jerk with the realization that I can laugh, after everything. Maybe I'm not damaged for good this time.

"What are you laughing at, you terrible woman?"

"Your 'other' car," I drawl, putting air quotes around the word other. "Sheesh. Spoiled much?"

"How can you say that?" The tinge of mock outrage in this voice makes me snort. "I just told you I only have one pair of sunglasses."

I nod, rearranging my face into a serious expression. "That's true. Very frugal of you."

"Tell me about the diary," he says, sobering again as we turn onto the highway.

I do, leaving nothing out, even the parts that seem insane. My tongue trips over words like curse, witch, and voodoo, wondering when in the world those became concepts normal people talk about in real life.

There's no denying Anne's fear, though. It soaks every page, and the air of anguish that fills the space around her spirit doesn't lie. She thinks this is real. The fact that there's not a single boy in my entire family makes me not want to dismiss it, either.

Beau's quiet when I finish, watching the road and asking me which exit to take to get to Jake and Amelia's huge antebellum home on an Ashley River tributary. The property has been around forever, but the original house was a casualty during the Union army's march toward the coast. Jake's family purchased the land soon after, and the house standing now had been built around the turn of the century but in the Colonial style.

It's beautiful architecture, but true to the time period, it's separated from the main thoroughfare by a long, winding, oak-lined drive. There aren't other houses nearby, but thank goodness it's not as isolated as it once was.

I put my hand on Beau's arm while we're still on the main road. "Wait, stop."

"Here?" He glances around, but there's nothing to see but a grocery store and a few small restaurants. "Why?"

My brain trips and falls, urged by fear and an instinct I can't explain. "I think we should walk the rest of the way. Just in case."

"Just in case of what?" He sounds a little exasperated, and it's hard to blame him.

I'm not making much sense, but all I know is that giving Jake any kind of warning that he's going to have guests could be a mistake. "I don't know. What if he's hurt her, or forbidden her to contact me? If he sees us drive up, he'll be able to hide or think up some story."

Beau flips his hand under mine, tugging my fingers between his. Calm flows across my skin, crawls underneath, until the manic nature of my thoughts slows to a manageable pace. It doesn't change my mind about the best course of action, but now it seems as though walking on my own scratched-up legs might be possible.

His touch is so soft, so reassuring, and in that moment I realize that Amelia's safety isn't the only reason for my nerves. The thought of seeing Jake again, of being reminded of everything he did to me, sets me to shaking.

"Gracie, you don't have to go anywhere near that man. I can go and check on Amelia."

I shake my head, even though laying eyes on Jacob Middleton is about the last thing I ever want to do. Having tea with David and his busty coed holds more appeal than being in a room with Jake. Refraining from scratching his eyes out not only for what he did to me or what he's doing to Amelia but also what he did to us.

"I'm going. He's not winning."

Also, Amelia will believe me about Anne's diary. She might like Beau, but she doesn't know him well enough to trust him in a situation like his.

Beau doesn't argue, just puts the SUV in park and climbs out, walking around to open my door. I take a few seconds to compose myself, because me flying off the handle or completely losing my shit isn't going to help anyone. He pulls me out of the car, wrapping me against his chest with gentle arms, and plants a hard kiss right on my mouth.

I relax into his lips in spite of my surprise, letting their warmth and insistent prying settle my nerves even further. When he lowers me back onto my feet with a satisfied smile, I'm as loose as a goose on a bed of clovers.

"What was that for?"

"I wanted to get our first middle-of-the-day, for-no-reason kiss out of the way. Now I can kiss you whenever I want."

"Is that right?"

He smiles, all dimples, and grabs my hand. I lead him toward the driveway that runs up to the Middleton residence. We move fast, because once we leave the cover of the trees, they only have to glance out the front window to glimpse us stealing across the expanse of naked cut grass toward the garage. Every bruise and scrape screams in protest, but I don't slow down. Can't.

The home is three stories and a pretty, burnt brick. Wide white-painted columns support two large decks on the front. The garage stands off to one side, built in the style that would have been called a flanker in the seventeen hundreds and matches the main house perfectly.

The closer we get, the more repulsion churns my stomach. It's as though the proximity to Jake soils my soul.

I stand on my tiptoes and peer into the garage, seeing Amelia's silver BMW and Jake's black Escalade parked next to each other, as though this is the most normal of normal days.

"What are we hiding for, Gracie? Let's go ring the damn doorbell."

"I have a bad feeling, that's all." I'm scared. Help me.

"It's so quiet," he comments. "Too quiet, don't you think?"

It is, and the observation is part of what's reigniting my panic. What if I'm too late? What if he's stolen her away, and I'll never see her again? What if he's hurt her, or worse?

"Gracie, there's no way to find out the truth unless we knock on that door."

I nod, stepping out from the shadows and stretching the kinks from my muscles. They're tight from the drive, from last night's bonds and the morning beating. Beau copies me, walking at my side the short distance through the summer-browned grass and up the creaking front porch.

A light flips on in the foyer, and my every muscle snaps like a rubber band. I hold my breath as the locks disengage, holding on to Beau's hand for dear life.

The sight of Jake impacts me even more than I expect. He fills up the doorframe, buckling my knees with his presence, and a sneer twists his handsome face into a monster's mask.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't little Graciela Harper. Guess you're still going by Harper, given that your man finally wised up and found something warmer for his bed."

I can almost hear Beau's teeth grinding together, but Jake's meanness helps me recover from my terror. He's a little boy with nothing that can hurt me, and his words strike me as stupid pebbles tossed by a child. They hit me, doing little more than causing an annoying shower of dust.

He doesn't see it, of course, and takes my silence for shock. He turns to Beau, a self-satisfied smile painted on his lips. "And you are?"

Beau must have reserves of patience and resolve I've only guessed at, because he shakes the devil's hand. "Mayor Beauregard Drayton."

We need to get inside. I need to see Amelia. We can't do that unless Jake lets us in.

"Jacob Middleton, no title. Yet." His ravenous gaze prowls back to me, where he senses weakness. He never was very bright. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to see Millie."

"Amelia doesn't want to talk to you."

"That's fine. She doesn't have to say a word. But I've been trying to get ahold of her all day and I'm not leaving until I see her."

The three of us stand in silence, a quiet face-off that ends when Jake's grin widens and he opens the door to allow us entrance. "You know I'm only kidding, Graciela. What kind of husband would I be, speaking for my wife? You know me better than that. Please, come in."

His pleasant host-with-the-most mask unnerves me more than his hostility. It reminds me of a predator, a giant cat hunched in the bushes, perfectly still and unthreatening.

Until its prey wanders close enough, and then it pounces.

"Amelia's in the kitchen," he offers.

Beau moves between Jake and me, putting a hand on the small of my back. For once, I appreciate his desire to do something for me without being asked, because even accidentally brushing against that man might make me blow chunks.

My cousin stands over the stove, stirring what might be some kind of pasta or rice that steams toward her face. Her shoulders tense, but she makes no greeting as Jake motions us toward the table in the breakfast nook, then offers us something to drink.

I ignore him, moving toward the stove with slow steps as though approaching a terrified, beaten, feral cat.

"What's going on, Millie?"

She shakes her head without turning around, and from across the room, the tremble in her shoulders is painfully obvious. Once at her side, I put a hand on Millie's shoulder, feeling it shudder under my touch.

Without warning she turns, throwing herself into my arms and squeezing so hard my bruised ribs scream in protest. I watch spaghetti sauce bubble on the stove behind her, popping little red dots onto the stainless steel. She smells dirty, as though she hasn't washed off any of the antiseptic or cleaned her hair since Jake checked her out of the hospital yesterday. When she pulls back, revealing a massive ring of black and purple around her eye. It makes me gasp.

She whirls, putting her back to me, and starts wiping at the sauce.

"Are you okay?" I whisper, even though the lowest voice possible isn't quiet enough to go unheard. "Talk to me."

Her laugh is an ugly, forced thing that sounds more like a child choking. "I'm fine. Walked right into the door on my way inside yesterday, is all. I'm glad that you're all right. I was worried when I didn't hear from you sooner." When I don't answer, guilt slashes her face open until it weeps. "You shouldn't have come, Grace."

"Can we talk in private, Amelia? I have something to tell you."

"Whatever you have to say to my wife, you can say in front of me. Isn't that right, dear?" Jake is at Amelia's elbow, grasping her arm hard enough to make her wince. She nods, her eyes on the floor. "What exactly did you come all this way to say? It must be awfully important."

My brain races, trying to claw through the worry and panic, through the knowledge that none of this is helping Millie, and Beau comes to my rescue.

"She thought Amelia would like to know what happened to William."

Her eyes snap to mine, and I don't have to fake agony over this news. All of the color drains from her face, and she reaches out, grasping my hands. "What happened to Will?"

"He was stabbed. The doctors don't know if he's going to make it."

"What? How?"

Jake plucks a strand of spaghetti from the pot, chewing on it as he leans against the sink, studying his wife's horror with a distant look of annoyance.

"Mrs. LaBadie, from the library. It's kind of a long story, but she kidnapped Mel and me, and when Will tried to free us they struggled." I swallow. "She was going to kill us. Because of Anne's diary. The second half."

"You found it?"

"Mel did. That's a long story." Impotence rages in my blood, bites my fingernails into my palm. I can't leave without telling Amelia about the curse and letting her decide for herself whether or not she and the baby are in real danger.

The sight of her marred face, and the evil glint in Jake's eye, screams that it's not a matter of opinion.

But there's no way to say more without Jake overhearing, and when our silence has gone on long enough to his mind, he pushes away from the counter and wraps an arm around Millie.

"Well, I can't tell you how nice it's been seeing you again, Graciela. As you can see, my wife has had a rough couple of days and we're about to have dinner and retire for the evening. I think you should go, if you're convinced she's alive and well."

Alive, maybe.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mayor." Jake's smooth voice smothers my hope, presses all of the light from the room. From the world. His dismissal is impossible to miss, even more so to ignore. We're on his property. "A piece of advice, if you're interested. Stay away from that one. She's crazy as a loon and a prude, to boot."

Beau's fist smashes into Jake's nose before the last word falls off his lips. It snaps his head backward and sends him crashing into one of the barstools against the marble-topped island. He cups a hand around his gushing nose, eyes full of more hatred than any human should possess as they fix on Beau.

For his part, the mayor does not seem concerned. He steps forward until their faces are inches apart as Amelia and I stare. My feet are fused to the spot, and Millie's fingers twist a strawberry-printed dishtowel into a knot.

"Let's get one thing straight, dirtbag. You don't fool me. Don't ever speak Graciela's name again or you'll get worse. And I know what you're doing to your wife. It's despicable." His eyes slide to Amelia. "You're welcome to come with us."

"You're not taking her anywhere, dickhead."

"I'm fine," comes Millie's automatic response.

"Millie, you're not fine, and everyone in this room knows it. Come."

"No. I belong here. I don't want to leave my husband."

She does want to leave; it's written all over her face, in ink forged by the kind of stress and despair that will be part of her for the rest of her life. I can't understand why, even if she's scared, she's not more terrified for her child. I've never been in her shoes, though, and judging her isn't going to help anyone.

"I believe my wife said she's fine, and I've asked you both to leave." He glares at Beau. "Consider yourself lucky that I don't call the police and file assault charges. Get out of my house."

"We can't make her come, Graciela. Let's go."

I jerk my arm away when Beau places a hand on my elbow, turning to my cousin and snatching her into a fierce hug. With my face buried in her filthy