You don't know your best friend as well as you think you do.

For the rest of the evening, that sentence cycles through my head until the frustration builds and I'm about to explode.

I'm tired of all these secrets. Secrets that Smith and I are keeping. That Emma's keeping, and apparently Jordan, too. I need answers, and I'm done waiting for them to manifest on their own.

Closing the botany notes on my laptop, I open my bedroom window and lean over the sill.

There's an unseasonable chill in the air, the kind that cloaks the ground in a fragile layer of frost by morning. But the night sky is clear, the stars twinkling like millions of diamonds against an endless black. Emma's bedroom light is on, like a beacon guiding my way through the dark.

Once I'm on the roof. I side-step down the slope until I reach the closest tree. If it weren't for the sprawling branches, sneaking out would be impossible. One slip and I'd tumble off the house and fall two stories to the patio below, the craggy border of river rocks catching my fall—and probably breaking my back.

My stomach flips as I let out a frosty breath and race across the yard, the fallen leaves cushioning the soles of my boots. I mount the wrought iron pergola and pull myself up the trellis and through the tangle of climbing vines. When I reach the balcony outside Emma's room, I haul myself over the rail and creep toward her window.

Emma's draped across her bed, all sharp angles and waxen skin. Disheveled heaps of clothing surround her, the price tags still attached. I scan her room, but everything's exactly as I remember it. Her vanity's still cluttered with hair accessories and half-empty tubes of makeup. Shelves of soccer trophies and academic awards consume one half of a wall. A framed picture of her and Smith from Homecoming last year decorates her desk, and old soccer cleats and flip flops are strewn across the floor. It's as messy as ever—her one obvious flaw—and it drives her mother insane.

Emma stretches her arms over her head, her shirt hiking up to reveal protruding ribs. A medication bottle is in her hand. She twists the lid and drops a few pills into her palm, tips her head back, and lets them spill into her mouth. Swallows them down without water, as if she's done it a million times. A tranquil expression soothes her face

An unsettled feeling washes over me. I shouldn't snoop like this, like some kind of creeper. I'm here to see her, to find out more about what happened. All I need to do now is go inside. I test the window to make sure it's not locked and push up the frame until there's enough room to slither through.

My sudden appearance doesn't catch Emma off guard. Instead, she raises her head, eyes heavy, like a dog roused from sleep. Gives me a lazy smirk. "Long time no see."

My stomach tightens, like I've interrupted something I shouldn't have. "Hey." I tunnel my hands to my mouth and blow into my palms. Shake off the cold. It's more out of unease than for warmth. A nervous tic. An I-don't-really-want-to-do-this-but-I-have-no-choice kind of gesture.

Emma seals the medicine bottle and tucks it beside a blue zippered pouch beneath her mattress. When she straightens the blankets, you can't even tell anything's hidden underneath.

"I've been having trouble sleeping," she says. She must be referring to the pills, though I hadn't asked. "One of the many antidotes they insist will cure me. Problem is, they don't work for shit. Fucking doctors. They spend a few extra years in school and think they know everything. No offense to your dad, of course."

"None taken." I shift from one foot to the next, searching for something to say, when an item on her bed grabs my attention. "You got your phone back?"

Her face brightens. "The wardens gave it to me after dinner. It's about damn time, too."

"That was nice of them. Maybe you won't feel so cut off anymore."

"Right? Now I'm not a total loser. I tried to call Smith, but he didn't answer. He's probably at some stupid meeting. Our very own future-president-of-the-United-States-in-training." She shakes her head, makes an amused noise. "I hope he doesn't feel weird around me. He seemed kinda funny the other day, don't you think? Like if he made one wrong move, I'd have a total meltdown."

"I, um ..." The back of my neck tingles. "I didn't notice."

"Maybe it was just me." She scoots to the edge of the mattress and rests her bare feet on the floor, stretching out her legs. Her gaze lingers on my face. "It's about time you came over. What took you so long?"

The words are sharp and I'm not ready for her accusation. I bite the inside of my cheek. "I wanted to, but I thought you might need some time. Mom said not to overwhelm you."

Without warning, Emma tips her head back and laughs. "Your mom. Always the voice of reason. Remember when Rowan was little and we wanted to take her to that movie at the theater? She told us it wasn't a good idea. That three-year-olds can't sit through an entire show and behave. But we were so sure your sister would listen to us, and then twenty minutes in, she threw a fit because she wanted to get up and dance. That girl wouldn't take no for an answer!"

A smile tugs at my lips. It's the one and only time I remember being irritated with Rowan's willful streak. My sister has always loved music. She has an appreciation for every genre, every voice, every instrument. She may not be able to see the pictures on the screen, but she can feel them. The emotion behind the lyrics, the bass thumping through the seats. She experiences the notes in a way sighted people can't. It flows through her veins and goes so much deeper than I'll ever understand.

When Dad bought a piano a few years back, it didn't come as a surprise when Rowan taught herself to play. And I don't mean how to peck her way through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star like most other kids. She can effortlessly parallel Debussy and Beethoven, both hands gliding over the ivory keys as if they're influenced by magic. Her gift brings tears to the eyes of every person in the room.

I relax and slump against the wall, slide down until my bottom hits the floor. "How can I forget? Mom wouldn't say 'I told you so', but she didn't have to. It was written all over her face!"

Emma bites her bottom lip, and lowers her voice. "Do you think your sister will ever feel comfortable around me? I know I freaked her out at dinner. But I miss her, and I miss the three of us together. I want to hang out like we used to."

I let out a slow breath and shrug. "You know how sensitive she is. But maybe the more she's around you, the better she'll feel?"

I'm not just talking about Rowan, but myself, too. Ever since Emma came home, I've been uptight. Not knowing how to act or what to say. Every scenario I'd gone over in my head is so different from the one that's playing out. I never expected Emma to be so normal—and so not normal at the same time.

"I hope you're right. The sooner things get back to how they used to be, the better. Then maybe I won't need those stupid crazy pills anymore." She lets out a little gasp, her eyes wide. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

I hold up my hand to stop her. "It's not a big deal."

Her face angles toward the floor, and she looks up through her lashes. "How have you been through all of this? With your ... anxiety and all?"

"Good," I say a little too quickly. "I mean—I've been sad, so I kept myself busy. Coach made me captain this year, and North Carolina liked my highlight video."

"Oh my God, are you serious?" She nudges my leg with her foot and gives me a wide grin. "It's your dream come true!"

"I know."

And I've been dating your boyfriend, too. The words are at the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. Now is not the time. There are other things that need addressed first. Like what's up with Jordan.

"Well, I hope you go for it," she says. "I don't want you to hold yourself back on my account. I know it was our plan, but I don't think I'll be playing soccer anymore."

I'm not sure what I was expecting her to say, but it wasn't that. And it throws me off course. "Why not? You love soccer! You can pick up where you left off next year. You're too good of a player to let your skills go to waste. You'll be back to yourself in no time. You'll see."

Emma shakes her head and slides onto the floor across from me. "I don't think so. Soccer just seems unimportant now. For me, anyway. Not for you. I think you should go to North Carolina like we'd plan and play the hell out of that game. For the both of us. Nothing would mean more to me than watching you succeed."

And just like that, all the old memories rush back. Emma and I playing ball in preschool, and attending skill camps in the summer. Our trip last year to Chapel Hill, and taking selfies in front of the Old Well, a campus tradition that is said to bring success to every student who takes a sip. North Carolina wasn't just my dream, it was Emma's dream too.

Tears press against the backs of my eyes. "It doesn't feel right to go without you."

She fixes me with a look. "Don't give me that bullshit. I'll bet you anything North Carolina was still on your radar last week. My being home shouldn't change that."

"You being home changes everything." The words are out before I can stop them, and now it's too late to take them back.

Her eyes find mine and hold. "What do you mean?"

Shit. Why did I say that? Things were going so well. But I came here for answers. For secrets. To uncover hers and let go of mine, even if Smith doesn't agree.

Just tell her. It sounds easy enough, but the words are lodged in my throat, choking me.

Emma's lips move, but I can't make out what she's said. All I hear is a thumping in my ears. I let out a breath, close my eyes. Open them. "There's something I need to tell you. Something you probably won't like."

Emma sits up straighter, leans forward, her gaze unwavering. "Whatever it is, just say it. We're best friends. We have the tattoos to prove it, remember?" She holds up her wrist, but instead of the symbol offering comfort, it feels like it's mocking me.

My heart crashes against my rib cage. I fold my legs in front of me, creating a barrier between us. A false sense of safety. My voice comes out quiet. "It's about Smith."

Emma doesn't move, doesn't breathe. She's as still as a statue. When her voice finally comes out, it's just as low as mine. "What about Smith?"

A sudden chill fills the air, crawls beneath my clothing, sending goosebumps across my skin. I'm not sure if it's coming from outside, or from the palpable tension in the room.

I swallow hard, and push the words from my mouth. "We've been dating."

Emma doesn't blink. Her eyes must be burning, the way they're staring at me, not giving into so much as a flicker. "When did this happen?" she asks. Slowly. Much too slowly.

"A few months ago. But you have to understand—the police told us there was blood in your truck. And hair. They said you were—" I don't want to say it out loud. Not to her face. Not with her watching so closely.

Emma completes the sentence for me. "Dead?"

I swallow again, the words coming out smaller than I intend. "I'm sorry. I never meant to—"

She cuts me off. "How did it happen?"

I can't hide my shock. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how did it happen? I want to hear all about the first time you and my boyfriend became more than friends."

She can't be serious. She doesn't actually want details, does she?

She does.

I take a shaky breath, look down. My hands are folded in my lap, knuckles white, my fingers pinching together. "It happened over summer, after one of the candlelight vigils on the soccer field. Lance's parents were out of town, so he had a small get together afterward, and Smith offered to drive because, well ..." I glance up, "that's what Smith does. But I wasn't in the mood to hang out, not after we spent the evening praying for your return. So, he took me home early."

As memories of that night flicker through my head, my face goes warm, along with the rest of me. The helplessness from losing Emma. The flutter in my stomach from having Smith so close.

"We sat in my driveway for a while, talking about you—and I started to cry. It didn't seem like the police were ever going to find you, and I couldn't imagine never seeing you again, or knowing what happened."

Just like that night, my eyes fill with tears. I don't want to go on. Don't want to tell her what happened next. But there's no way Emma's going to let me off the hook.

I lick my lips, but my mouth is so dry it doesn't do any good. The urge to jump out the window and run home seizes me. But I can't—I won't. This was part of my plan: the releasing of secrets. I just didn't expect to go first.

I clear my throat and start again. "Smith leaned over to wipe a tear from my cheek, and we were just staring at each other. And I—I kissed him. I couldn't stop myself. I was just so tired of feeling sad all the time." I hold my breath, wait for her to respond.

"So, let me get this straight: you kissed him first?"

There's a pause. I exhale, and nod.

"And did he kiss you back?"

My God! Why is she making this harder than it has to be? I'm not giving her a play-by-play. Those moments are special. They're private. The pounding of my heart, the way my breath caught when Smith leaned in, his stubble of facial hair grazing my tender skin. I'm not sharing those memories with anyone. Not even her. "He did."

Tension crawls up my back and to my neck, the muscles on both sides burning beneath the pressure. I rub at a tendon, trying to relieve the stress, but it's like cement beneath my fingers.

Emma releases a disgusted huff. When she speaks again, her voice is tight, unsteady. "So, what you're saying is that my disappearance brought the two of you together—my best friend and my boyfriend?"

Something inside me shivers.

"It's not like that! I mean, I don't know. Sort of. But we didn't mean for it to happen, I swear."

A spiteful laugh falls from her lips. "You didn't mean for your tongue to slide into his mouth? It had a mind of its own and made you its innocent victim?"

"I—no. I'm not a victim. I accept full responsibility for what I've done. I just need you to understand it wasn't intentional. And I'm sorry. I am so so sorry. But eventually," I wipe a tear from my cheek and sniffle, "we had to move on."

"You had to move on," she repeats, her tone flatlining. Emma leans against her bed, pulls her knees to her chest. "You always had a thing for him, didn't you?"

All the air leaves my lungs, sweat clinging to my palms. When I rub my hands against my pants, they're shaking. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to." Something flashes in her eyes. "Do you expect me to believe you didn't have a crush on my boyfriend? Because I knew you did. I knew the entire time. You're a terrible liar."

Emma knew. Of course, she knew. Why did I think I could hide it?

A bitter taste settles in my mouth, burns the back of my throat. "I swear, I never would have tried to come between you two. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy."

"My God, you're such a martyr. Always doing what's best for everyone else, while poor, little you suffers in silence." A shitty smirk slides across her face, making her look like someone else. Not Emma Navarro, the girl I've known my entire life. Not even the Emma that came back from the dead. A different Emma. A dangerous one, like that Emma from the locker room.

Which brings me back to her secret.

I straighten my shoulders, force my chin up. Pretend I'm comfortable with confrontation. "Oh, shit—I almost forgot! Someone asked about you the other day. I can't believe it slipped my mind." I roll my eyes at the brainless mistake.

I've caught her by surprise. "Yeah? And who's that?"

I wait a beat. "Jordan Pacey. You know, from soccer? She asked if you were coming back to school. I told her I didn't know, but then she said something strange." I pause again for dramatic effect. "She asked if you were with someone you knew while you were gone. Remember how I mentioned that the other day? She's the one who put the thought in my head."

A sudden shadow crosses her face. "Why would she say that?"

"I was hoping you'd have that answer."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have a clue what she's talking about." Emma pushes herself off the floor, grabs a pair of jeans with the price tag still attached and carelessly shoves them into a drawer. She repeats that with another pair, and another, while I stand up and watch. In her haste, she bumps into the desk and the picture of her and Smith tips over. Their smiling faces crash against the wooden top.

What the hell is wrong with me?

An unexpected wave of heat slams into me, the guilt dulling my brain. I'm not good at this. At confrontation. I should have known better than to try.

"It looks like you're busy, so I guess I'll let you be," I tell her as I linger next to the open window. "I really am sorry about Smith. I hope, in time, you'll be able to forgive me. I never meant to hurt you."

Emma doesn't respond. When I swing my legs over the window sill, there's a flush to her cheeks that wasn't there before. But she doesn't look angry. If anything, I'd swear she's nervous.

But I can't imagine why.

Unless Jordan does know something Emma doesn't want her to. Something big. And if that's true, I need to find out what it is.