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Shit. My phone is in my pocket. I pull it out. Water drips from the charging port. The screen is black and dead. Cameron’s phone was in his jacket, also ruined.

I laugh, but it’s a fractured sound.

I can’t even call him to apologize. I’m shivering now. My teeth are chattering.

I pick up my shoes and start walking, leaving Cameron’s scull on the bank, where anyone could take it.

Let him think I’m a monster.

Let him think I’m a psycho.

At least he’s alive.

I gave him that.

THANKSGIVING

17

CAMERON

When I open the front door, I smell cinnamon and butter. I’ve barely crossed the threshold before Mom appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face bright with the particular brand of maternal concern I need but feels annoying.

“Cameron, sweetheart.” She pulls me into a hug that smells like her perfume. It’s floral and expensive, and Dad buys it for her every Christmas. “I’ve been worried sick since I got your voicemail.”

I drop my bag and return the embrace, confused. “What voicemail?”

She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, her blue eyes searching my face. “About the accident. The rowing accident? You said a boy from school saved your life.”

Right. The voicemail I’d left three days ago, still shaking from the adrenaline. I’d forgotten the exact wording. I’d been too focused on making it sound casual, unremarkable.

“Oh. That.” I shrug out of my jacket. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“Cameron, your boat tipped over in the middle of November. That water must have been freezing.”

From somewhere deeper in the house, I hear the scramble of claws on hardwood, and then Angus appears, his golden coat gleaming. He crashes into my legs, tail whipping back and forth, and I’m grateful for the distraction. I crouch to scratch behind his ears.

“Where are Ruby and Sawyer?”

“Out back with your father. Well, they were. Alistair had to leave for the office an hour ago. Some crisis in Singapore.” She waves her hand dismissively. “But don’t try to change the subject. Tell me what happened.”

I straighten, and Angus leans against my leg, a warm solid weight. I’m struck by the memory of the shock of the cold water closing over my head, the way my lungs had seized, the terrible disorientation of not knowing which way was up. And then strong hands grabbing my ankle before I swam toward air and light.

“I was doing morning rows,” I say, following Mom into the kitchen. The island is covered with the evidence of her Thanksgiving preparations, a turkey in a roasting pan, bowls of chopped vegetables, pie crusts waiting to be filled. “Just a regular practice session. I think I caught a crab. That’s when the oar gets stuck in the water, and it threw off my balance. The scull tipped.”

Mom leans against the counter, arms crossed, listening with a focused attention that used to make me confess to broken vases and forged permission slips when I was younger.

“The water was so cold I couldn’t think straight. But Lucien was at the boat launch and he dove in and pulled me out.”

“Lucien,” Mom repeats, and hearing her say his name makes my heart race. “That’s a beautiful name. French?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I busy myself with filling a glass of water from the tap. “He’s just a guy from St. Silas. He’s at Hayworth now too.”

“Honey, he saved your life.”

“I guess.”

“You guess? Cameron, I’d like to thank him properly. Invite him over during the next break, maybe. Or at least send a gift. What’s his last name?”