The phone goes dead in my ear. The sudden silence on the line is so total, so ominous, that a cold surge of adrenaline brings goose bumps to my flesh in spite of the thick and sticky heat that lingers in the night air. "Hello?" I say stupidly, hearing the raw agitation in my own voice. "Are you still there?" A quick and pointless glance at the display assures me that the answer is, indeed, no.

"What's going on?" The boy standing behind me asks, his ancient Chucks scraping against the rough pavement of the street. Sebastian's "lucky" shoes are so worn out, they're literally falling apart, his dark socks peeking through frayed holes in the graying canvas. I used to think it was cute. "Who was it?"

I wave him irritably into silence as I dial my cell, calling the number back. It rings repeatedly on the other end, but no one picks up. "Come on," I urge out loud. "Answer your damn phone!"

"Rufus, who was it?" Sebastian repeats as I give up in frustration, jamming my cell back into my pocket and turning to face him. His wide, dark eyes are filled with obvious concern, and it makes me angry. He has no right to be worried about me — not now, not after everything he's done — but I'm suddenly too confused and anxious to summon up the righteous fury I'd been feeling just a few minutes earlier.

"It was April," I report stiffly, feeling a twinge of self-directed anger as I indulge his solicitude. Why am I answering him? My life is none of his business. Not anymore.

"Your sister?" He wrinkles his nose in genuine bewilderment, eyebrows scrunching together. It's a familiar sight, and another thing about him I used to think was cute — back before he broke my heart.

"She's the only April I know."

"Why was she calling you?" He isn't asking for a summary of our conversation. What has him so perplexed is the simple fact that my sister has called me at all — and I'm just as baffled as he is.

April is only ten months younger than me, fifteen to my sixteen, but we barely know each other. I'm her brother only in the most technical sense, and we're hardly even what you might call friends; friendship is something our controlling and self-important father, Peter Covington II, would never tolerate between us. And while I do not personally give two flying shits what that hypocritical dickbag will or will not tolerate, neither do I especially want anything to do with any of the Covingtons.

But April has a way of worming into your heart, no matter how many obstacles you set before her. She's outgoing, fun-loving, and bold, and so far has never met a rule that doesn't have an April Covington–shaped loophole. There's a sweetness to her that even her cold-blooded parents have failed to stamp out — and you can bet they've given it their best shot. Peter and his wife, Isabel, have succeeded in passing along some of their more dismal qualities, though; and to that end, likable though she may be, April can also be calculating, manipulative, and spoiled. Her company often comes at a price, and I'm pretty sure my account with her has just been called up.

"She's in trouble," I hear myself saying to Sebastian, the words sounding surreally technical, my brain already spinning faster and faster as I try to figure out what I'm going to do next. "She — she needs my help."

"April needs your help." He tries the words on for size, but they make no more sense to him than they do to me. And yet, not two minutes earlier, it was exactly what she said.

* * *

"Hello?" My voice was testy, my patience threadbare when I answered her call. I was already regretting it — already wishing I'd just continued with the angry speech I'd been about to give Sebastian — even as the greeting left my mouth.

A strange, shuffling silence came back, a susurrant nothingness on the line that was slowly replaced by shallow, labored breathing. Then, just as I was starting to think it was a prank: "Rufus?"

Her voice was quavering, distant, my name sliding around in her mouth like a sliver of ice, and in that instant, I forgot my anger. "Yeah, it's me. What's ... what is it?" "Rufus," she repeated fretfully. There was more breathing — stiff and unnatural — and then her distant voice again. "I need ... I need help, Rufus."

"What are you talking about? What's going on?"

"I'm at ... Fox's c-cottage," she said next, the words jerky and disjointed, as if they had taken colossal effort to put together. "Fox's parents' cottage. You have to help me. Please."

"What's happened?" I demanded, still too innately suspiciousabout anything to do with the Covingtons to take my half sister's plea at face value. "Tell me what —" "You're the only one I can trust!" She blurted in a kind of high-pitched whimper. "You have to come, Rufus. You have to! Please promise me ... promise me." Garbled words followed, a string of nonsense, like English spoken backward, and then, "I don't know what to do. I'm so scared. I think I — HELP ME!"

And the line went dead.

* * *

I recount this for Sebastian in broad strokes, not really wanting to share, but too upset not to. We're standing in front of his car, amber streetlights casting his stupidly gorgeous face in sepia tones, and the heavy, still air that settles around us is redolent of gunpowder. A block away, my best friend, Lucy Kim, is hosting her Fourth of July rager; it's our pathetic attempt at living up to all those iconic Hollywood teen movies, where no parents and lots of beer is the only formula necessary to create one perfect, life-changing night for a handful of feisty, lovable underdogs — but so far we've only succeeded in creating buckets of puke and a few scorch marks on the back of a couch, which Lucy's going to have a hell of a time explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Kim when they return from Boston on the sixth.

"What are you gonna do?" Sebastian asks worriedly. He moves closer, like he's going to touch me, and I step back. He registers the rebuff and stops, but his eyes stay on mine, his gaze soulful enough to stir a feeling to life inside me that I long ago drove to its grave with a stake through the heart.

"I don't know," I mutter, glancing up toward Lucy's place to avoid his gaze. I can hear shouts, music, and laughter, fireworks still cracking and booming intermittently from somewhere along the lake. It's nearly ten ... Would anyone at the party even be sober? "I don't — Maybe I should call Peter."

"Your dad?" This statement confuses him even more than April's request for my help. "Is that a good idea?"

"No," I admit, feeling my face color. "But what else can I do? I don't have a car, all my friends are shit-faced, and I don't even know where April is! 'Fox's parents' cottage,' I mean, where the fuck is that? It could be anywhere!"

"South Hero Island," Sebastian responds promptly, because of course he knows. "I've been there a couple times. It's only like thirty minutes from here — I'll drive."

"No, thanks," I say in a cold voice, summoning up as much dignity as I can, even though it's obvious that I'm just cutting off my nose to spite my face — a tacit and embarrassing confession that I'm still hurting. That I still care.

"How're you gonna get there, then?"

"I'll figure something out."

"Yeah?" he challenges, a small spark of irritation at last flickering to life beneath his perennially...