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She shook her head. “You just don’t want to believe Carmine’s different now, do you?”
“Nope,” he said, “but stop changing the subject. We’re talking about you being kidnapped.”
“I told you—I wasn’t kidnapped.”
“I know. I thought for sure you were, though. I was banking on you having parents out there searching for you.”
Her chest tightened at his words. “My parents are dead.”
She could feel his eyes on her, his stare intense, but she didn’t dare look at him. After a moment he turned away and kicked the water again. “My mom’s dead, too. She died when I was young. I still have my dad, but we don’t get along. He always expects the worst from me, so I figure, why try to do right when he’ll never see it? But I’m eighteen now, so I may as well move out. Start over somewhere new, where people don’t hear the name Nicholas Barlow and automatically think ‘degenerate asshole.’”
“You think people look at you that way?”
“I know they do,” he said. “It’s worse now that Carmine’s . . .”
“Now that Carmine’s what?” she asked when he didn’t finish. “Now that he’s different?”
He didn’t respond, and that was answer enough for her. A smile tugged her lips. Maybe there was hope for a friendship, after all.
It was quiet, the only sounds being water splashing and crickets chirping in the night. Nicholas cleared his throat after a few minutes. “Did I tell you the joke about the butter?”
“The butterfly one?”
“No, the butter one.”
“What butter one?”
He groaned. “You’re screwing up my punch line. Let’s try it again—did I tell you the joke about the butter?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think so.”
“Then I butter not tell you,” he said. “You might spread it.”
He cut his eyes at her, grinning, but she just stared at him. “Spread what?”
Shaking his head, he looked away. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get you to laugh at one of my jokes someday.”
* * *
Carmine stood in the library by the window and stared out into the backyard. He wondered what Haven thought about as she sat there at night, or if her mind was as vacant as the blackness. He could faintly recall those months after his mom’s death, so in the grips of heartbreak that attempting to hold a conversation took too much effort. It was like the life had been sucked out of him, his insides a bottomless pit of grief.
He spotted the book lying on the small table and grabbed it, surveying the blank cover before flipping it open. Sloppy handwriting covered the withered paper; confusion hit him when he realized it was a diary. Sickness brewed in his stomach when he opened it to the front, seeing Maura DeMarco written inside the cover. Closing the book again, he lost his breath. After everything he had done to shield Haven from the truth, she had stumbled upon it anyway.
He sprinted out of the library, pulling his keys from his pocket as he flew down the steps two at a time. Once he hit the second floor, his father stepped out of his office, the sound of frantic footsteps drawing his attention.
“Carmine, wait!” Vincent took a step toward him, but Carmine didn’t stop. He went out the front door to his car, unlocking it as his father stepped onto the porch. “Don’t go there!”
Carmine hesitated before starting the car. Haven had been gone for more than an hour, and there was no way he could let it go another minute.
Speeding down the highway in the darkness, he held his breath as he flew past the Aurora Lake sign, knowing he had reached the point of no return. He swung around a curve and slammed the brakes when he caught a glimpse of the Audi. The Mazda skidded to a stop beside it, and he jumped out, heading down toward the water. He jogged along the shore, searching for some sign of her, before spotting them sitting on the dock.
Nicholas’s eyes fell on Carmine as he approached. Haven must have sensed him too, because her head snapped in his direction. She jumped up and recklessly took a step away, nearing the edge of the dock. Her foot skidded, but Nicholas grabbed her before she fell. “Whoa, what did I tell you? I’m not going in the water after you.”
Carmine held up his hands. “I’m not here for a fight.”
Nicholas looked at him suspiciously. “What are you doing here? You know you aren’t allowed.”
“I know,” he said. “You can press charges if you want. I just need to talk to her.”
