B l u f f s

Cheek on cheek, then lips on lips.

Chatham backs off, a look of utter confusion on her face.

Tattoo girl winks at me, and in a heartbeat, she’s enveloped back into the swarm of dancers.

Chatham pulls on my hand, and soon, we’re dodging bodies on our way toward the door. When we finally get there, and burst back into the night, the rush of lake-effect air wakes me up.

“What was that about?” I still hear the bass in my eardrums.

“It’s not Savannah.”

“She kissed you. I mean, why would she kiss you if she didn’t know you?”

“I don’t know. It’s not her.”

Chatham hasn’t said anything since she uttered those words. She’s staring out the window of my Explorer, and I’m sure a million thoughts are going through her head. I guess I can’t blame her.

And I might know what she’s thinking because I’m thinking it, too: First, why did that girl kiss her? Second, if Savannah isn’t here, where is she? Furthermore, if Wayne happened to catch up with Savannah, will he eventually come looking for Chatham, too?

And what happens then?

Is Sugar Creek—is anywhere—far enough away from the man who deliberately burned Chatham with a cattle brand?

Adrenaline is pumping through my system, and I can’t imagine going to sleep, even though it’s way past late, and I have an early start tomorrow.

When I left home, hours ago, I hadn’t intended to go back tonight, but given everything that’s happened, I’m not sure Chatham should go back home, either. So where do we go from here?

And my mind is racing, replaying the moment the two girls laid eyes on each other: the look, the leaning in, the kiss.

Why did the girl with the tattoo kiss Chatham, if they don’t know each other?

I park at Northgate Beach so we can decide what to do next.

“What did she say to you?” I ask.

“What?” Chatham snaps out of her daze. “When?”

“She said something in your ear. Right before the two of you kissed.”

“I don’t kiss girls,” Chatham says. “Or strangers.”

Technically, considering tattoo girl isn’t Chatham’s sister, she did both tonight. But I don’t think she’s in the mood for me to point this out. “Okay, fine. She kissed you. But what did she say?”

“I think she said she liked you. I don’t know. It was loud.”

“Why would she say that?”

“Maybe because she likes you?”

“Right.”

“Have you seen yourself lately? Not too tough to imagine some girls liking you.”

“So she said she liked me, and then kissed you.”

“Yes.”

Molly can do crazy things to people, I guess. But even still . . . why would that girl zero in on me? And why kiss Chatham? I don’t want to accuse Chatham of lying about what the girl said, and I don’t want to accuse her of not telling me the whole story, but something’s not adding up.

And it’s not like she’s always been honest with me.

“She didn’t say anything else?”

“If she did, I didn’t hear her.”

It wasn’t like there was enough time for a conversation, but still.

“And you’ve never seen that girl before? She just . . . laid one on you.”

“Yeah.”

“Why would she—”

“How should I know?” There’s an edge to her voice this time. She opens the car door and gets out, heads toward the boardwalk gate.

“Chatham, wait.” I hurry to catch up with her; by the time I reach her, she’s hopped the gate and is heading toward the bluffs.

“Sorry,” I say when I reach her. Her hair is whipping in the breeze, and it’s so dark on the beach that she’s only an outline of a girl right now. I can’t see her expression. “I’m just trying to understand. I mean, maybe we should take this girl out of the equation for a second, and—”

“You’re the one who put her in the equation.”

“I know, I know.” And for good reason. The tattoo. I got a better look at it at the warehouse on Foster Street, and I took a good, long look at Chatham’s sister’s ink on Instagram. The girl at the rave’s tat is a dead ringer for Savannah’s.

Even if it’s clip art or a typical design—and it doesn’t look like either; it’s too complex—I can’t dismiss the coincidence of it. Especially not when I factor in the kiss.

I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I don’t think Chatham’s being honest with me. If that girl wasn’t Savannah . . .

Then again, why would she lie?

“Let’s assume Savannah did make it to Sugar Creek,” I say. “Where would she hang out?”

Chatham sighs. “Joshua, I’ve been everywhere I think she might be. I’ve hung around at all the shops she might like at the mall. I’ve dropped into restaurants where she might have taken a job, but no one’s seen her. I’ve been back and forth to this beach a dozen times. Do you know I leave a sand castle here every time? Just so she knows I’m still here? So she knows I’m still looking?”

“Good idea.” I keep replaying the kiss—brief as it was—in my mind. Would the girl with the tattoo kiss Chatham if she was really high on X? But in that case, wouldn’t she have kissed me, too, the moment she pulled me in close to dance?

“I’ve been to the train station,” Chatham continues. “I’ve ridden the train up and down the north line, just to see if anything clicks, just to see if I remember being at any of the stations.”

I wait for the verdict, although I suspect I already know it.

“I was pretty convinced before I saw this girl at the rave, but now I can’t deny it: I’ve never been here, and I don’t know why Savannah would’ve been here, either. She wasn’t here then, and she’s not here now.”

“But the things in the journal.”

“Almost everything in that journal could’ve been read about online. And the rest? She made it all up. The girl under the floorboards, being here that day Rachel was taken . . . it’s all lies.”

“So where do you think she went? What are you going to do?”

“Well, I can’t go home.”

I don’t know if she’s talking about home to the Churchill, or home to Moon River, but I decide right then and there: I’ll sneak Chatham in every single night if I have to. “You can stay with me.”

She comes to me then, and presses her body to my chest. She trails a finger over the part of my shirt that covers my tattooed fourteen. It takes a moment for me to realize she’s drawing the same curls and loops of the shamrock she drew in the sand the first night I hung out with her.

“Rachel Bachton’s family hasn’t given up hope,” I say. “And it’s been twelve years.”

I’m leaning against one of the enormous rocks at the shoreline now, and Chatham nestles in tight to my chest. Her body feels small in my arms.

“Maybe there’s a good reason she didn’t come that day.” I kiss the top of her head. “Don’t give up.”

We stand there for a while, with the cold, damp breeze whipping in off the lake. She shivers. I inhale the scent of her hair and remember the first time I saw her, just down the shore from where we’re standing.

She pulls out of my arms and walks inland. I follow at a safe distance until she plops down in the sand and starts to dig.

She’s building a castle.

I can’t help wondering: Is she doing it because I encouraged her to keep the faith? To send a signal to Savannah in case her sister really is in Sugar Creek somewhere? Or is she doing it to pretend, to amplify the lies she might have told me tonight?

My window is locked.

Touché, Rosie. Nothing like forcing a confrontation by making me come in through the front door. I guess I can’t blame her. And an unlocked window could invite Damien in.

“Maybe we should just go back to the Churchill,” Chatham whispers.

“No, I have a key. Wait here.” I don’t want to leave her, but on the off-chance Rosie’s waiting up for me, I don’t want to waltz Chatham through the front door, either.

I walk around to the front of the house and quietly open the door.

The place is still and quiet.

I leave my sandy shoes in the foyer, then go to my room to let Chatham in.

She climbs in and presses a kiss to my lips. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I’d do anything for you.”

And I mean it.