AROUND HIM THE WOODS HAD gone quiet. He was at the Coles’ beach—a tiny spread of sand that hooked inward, sheltered by trees that bordered the dunes. Ahead of him the narrow dock reached across the water. The pilings underneath it were thin and shadowy, clumps of seagrass rising up around them. He hoped that being out here on the beach where it happened would help him remember.

It was dark for late afternoon. The morning sun had been replaced by low-hanging clouds and the smell of rain. Cage struck another match and held it above the book he’d taken from Mae’s bag. He tried to find the line he’d been on, something about viselike headaches. It had caught his attention, since his own head felt like someone had shoved a tire iron into it and was prying open his skull.

He huddled over the log he was sitting on and focused on the page toward the end, near the missing back cover. Ro had told him about that too. She’d seen the book intact when she was a kid and thought her granddad had hidden part of it from her. He didn’t know if she’d found the other half, but wherever it was, it wasn’t here. The page in front of him had a list, with Signs of the Raised at the top. He wanted to search through the writing as much as he could, in case it’d jog some memory. He was tracing his steps like his mother always said to do, as if his memory could be found like a lost set of keys. Forget where you put them? Trace your steps. Here he was, holding the very book Ro had shown him, but it wasn’t much help. Instead he’d gotten stuck on this list.

He’d laugh if his head didn’t hurt so much. The page was like the horoscopes Ro used to trawl through. Viselike headaches, great thirst. General enough to rope in just about everyone. His headaches were from the gash on his head, not from being raised, whatever that meant, and he was extra-thirsty from being dehydrated. Simple.

Cage dropped the spent match at his feet and struck another. When the light flared, he read the end of the list again.

Throat like scorched earth, great thirst with dreams of water. Hunger dwindles, food soon forgotten. Sleep broken by visits from those now gone. Painful steps, painful breaths, passing between two worlds. Visions of the dead and whispers. Breath that comes and goes, the body overrun with magic.

It was absurd, and none of it had anything to do with him. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and his thirst was constant. Throat like scorched earth. He’d drunk half the rainwater tank at the barn already and could drink the other half right now. And what about the hallucination he’d had of Ro at the cemetery last night? Visions of the dead and whispers.

If he thought it was more than a dream, he was bullshitting himself. But he could remember every detail. Ro with her hair wet, standing in front of him. Water glistening on her skin. Blood on her teeth as she’d smiled. She’d seemed as real as anything—real as the barn and the boat and the trees around him. Here he was, back at Blue Gate, all of last year a wide-open blank, and now he was either hallucinating or…or he was seeing Ro.

Cage looked down at the page again and hated himself for thinking it possible. Sleep broken by visits from those now gone. If this part of the book spoke of things he’d experienced, then what if the rest of it was real? That raising ritual, the one Ro had talked about. I know I can bring my mother back. I’ve come close before. She’d been so serious, and he’d laughed at her.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. Painful steps, painful breaths, passing between two worlds. Maybe the motorcycle accident had been worse than he’d thought. Maybe he hadn’t walked away from it. What if Mae had done the ritual? What if she’d found the book and tried it, and instead of Ro coming back, it’d been him? Or it’d been him first?

His stomach turned to lead; he wasn’t thinking straight. His mother would be doubled over cackling—she’d be telling him the accident had given him brain damage. She’d say he was being a fool. She’d spit out that word. That’s what love does, she’d say, makes you a fool.

Except last night in the woods he’d seen Ro. It hadn’t just been a dream or a hallucination. He’d seen Ro and then passed out. Asleep for what, ten hours, twelve? Lucky no one had found him. He’d woken up on the dirt and grass, right outside the cemetery gate. His hand on the book.

He wasn’t going to leave Blue Gate now, not yet. Not if he might see Ro in the woods again. If she was only a dream, then so be it. If he got caught by Sonny or that cop Childers or by Elle and her rifle, then so be it. But at least he’d see Ro. And then he might know more about what had happened. About what he’d done to her.

Cage felt hot, unbearably hot, and his headache was in full force. He lit another match and flicked to the last page, the one with the smudge in the corner. A Ritual for a Raising was at the top, and then that clumsy scrawl. The whole thing reminded him of a folk song or a hymn, at least until the blood part. He read it again.

Please follow carefully:

Harbor love in your heart,

while in your hand

hold the loved one’s belongings.

Then begin the offerings.

For death feeds life

as blood feeds the ritual,

and little creatures show the way.

A cat for nine

And that was it. Did he really think those few words would bring someone to life? He shifted on the log and felt it dig into his jeans, and then flipped backward from the last page, rifling past another heading, Putting to Rest the Raised.

Another wave of heat hit him, and he couldn’t think. The pages fluttered and settled as he peeled off his shirt. The bruising on his chest was spreading. He breathed through his teeth and then stared down at Ro’s book. Before, he’d never wanted anything to do with it. It reminded him too much of his mother, the way she used to tease him about the father he’d never met. You got magic in your blood, that’s what your daddy always said. What a joke. A lot of good it did you. And now here he was, reading a book of spells. He’d done all he could to avoid it before, but now he was desperate to understand it, to remember everything Ro had told him about it. If it all came back to him, all of his memories, then maybe he’d remember the one thing he needed to.

The day she died.

His lungs felt like someone had taken a fillet knife to them, and he clenched his jaw, tried to breathe. After counting to ten he lit another match, held it over the ink, and then stopped. The match shook in his hand.

Ro’s handwriting was all over the page he was staring at. That slanted alphabet, he’d know it anywhere. The lines blurred, and he wiped his face with his sweaty shirt so he could see.

Part of being gifted this book is that we’re supposed to write in it. It’s meant to be a living thing, meaning everyone who gets it keeps adding to it. Now it’s my turn.

His heart was going wild in his chest. The match ran out, singeing his fingers, and he dropped it onto the sand. A hiss as he struck another one, holding the flame out. The next line was simple, and unexpected:

A Ritual for Love

It was followed by another list that he couldn’t get his head around. It reminded him of a poem, and he hated poetry, the way it got stuck in his head like a bad song and hardly made any sense. But this was her handwriting—it was something from Ro, and he could imagine her saying the words aloud as he read them. It felt like she was sitting right beside him. Like they’d just come in from a swim and here she was, perched on the log with him, her skin cold from the water and her hair smelling of salt.

A Ritual for Love Is This

Open mind, soft heart.

Listen, then speak.

Keep no secrets

unless they hurt.

Always talk

with words or deeds

& remember to say

thank you.

Cage balled up a fist, focused on his raw knuckles to keep from shouting out. It was painful to know she’d written this, to wonder if she’d really loved him. What if she’d kept secrets from him, thinking they’d hurt? He let out a breath, checked the woods around him, and then turned back to the book. The next line was still in her handwriting. A Ritual for a Ritual was in darker ink, like she’d run her pen over it several times. It seemed like more poetry, but he read on anyway, couldn’t stop if he tried.

Old mouth warned,

spoke of danger.

Young hands buried it

under the thorns.

Little statue watched on,

along with other eyes.

It looked like a few more lines had been added in a hurry. The match glowed over her writing, burning down to his fingers again.

As per the instructions

this is the direction.

What was torn out

is now underground.

If it’s raising you seek,

then dig.

The rest was blotted out, blackened by ink. He turned to the next page, but it was a blank, a big nothing. He flipped back and read it once more, hesitating on the lines about the little statue and the thorns. Ro was talking about the gift cherub in Blue Gate’s garden—she hadn’t tried hard to disguise it. She’d found the other half of the book and buried it, that much was obvious, but the rest didn’t make any sense. He skimmed the pages that followed, trying to spot more of her writing. There were too many sketches and different sets of handwriting packed together, and he’d always been a slow reader.

Cage swore aloud. He’d taken the book from Mae hoping it would help him remember, but it was only making him more confused. The book felt hot to the touch and then his whole body felt hot, almost feverish. His hands—they were dirty, full of soot or maybe it was grease, and he was slick with sweat. Water, he was craving water.

He looked up at the stretch of sand, the hulking dock where they’d found her body almost a year ago, if he believed her sister. To him, it felt like he’d been here a few days ago taking out the sailboat with Ro. That was the last thing he remembered doing with her. The dock and the fight, and then the crash…

“Ro,” he said aloud, because he couldn’t help it.

A rustling came from behind him and Cage jerked, stared into the woods. Nothing was there. Another wave of heat hit him. He was sweating, dripping on the book. It looked like it might storm soon—no one would be at this beach for a while. He could cool down in the bay and then read some more. He set the book on the log and took off his stolen boots, his jeans. The air felt good against his bare skin, and the pebbly sand was rough under his feet as he walked to the dock, all the way down to the water.

Home is the sailor, home from sea. Remembering what Ro used to say sent a chill through him. He knew she’d be grinning at him if she could read his mind right now, and maybe she was. Who knew what came after death, where you went. Preachers said heaven, old folk said haints, and some said nothing came after. He thought of his friend back in Ohio who’d touched an electric fence over summer break and died. Their neighbor in New Orleans, dead for a week before anyone found him. His uncle’s wife, killed slow by cancer. Maybe they were all still here somehow. If there was a choice to stick around, Ro would take it. She wasn’t the type to give up easy.

A little wave rushed at his feet, the foam hissing and bubbling and cold on his skin. Cage strode out into the bay, shivering as the cool wet edged up his thighs. It should’ve been warmer this time of year. He was freezing, but he kept going, his jaw tight, his hands tucked under his armpits.

When the water reached his stomach, he dunked himself under like an evangelist being saved. The coldness rushed over him, his ears, his mouth, his eyes, everything. He lifted his head up, taking in a monster breath before going under again. It was ice to his head, and his pulse thrummed in his ears. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. He could hear his heart beating, the blood running through his veins.

Keeping himself down, he let the coolness prickle over him. Then he surfaced with a gasp, splashed under his arms, rubbed at his buzz cut gone feral, gargled a mouthful of gritty salt water. He waded toward the dock before he lost all feeling in his legs. The water was so cold it was fiery. It streamed down him as he made his way back to shore, his limbs stiff. And then, just as he was striding onto the beach, he saw it—a smear of blood in the sand. It flashed at him and was gone, and he yelled out, lunging from the water.

Ro was found right here by the dock, that was what Mae had told him. If he kept tracing his steps, maybe he’d remember. It had to come back to him, all of it, not just flashes.

Cage braced himself against one of the pilings and thought of that day, what had happened in this very place. Ro’d been shouting at him, but what else? He slammed the back of his head against the wood and got nothing but pain. He was shivering now; he needed clothes.

Home is the sailor, home from sea. His heart was pounding so hard he couldn’t breathe. And the hunter home from the hill.

Overhead a flock of gulls shrieked and then settled on the sand nearby, huddling around a dead fish. When they all turned their beaks at once, he followed their gaze.

Someone was coming out of the woods.

Cage ducked around the piling, flattening himself against it. He took a breath and peered out. It was a man with a fishing rod, and he was standing near the dirt access road. The fisherman stepped onto the sand, looked down the beach. Cage stayed flush against the piling and tried to quiet his breathing. No shout came, but everything inside him was tense. Being naked made it worse. Like those nightmares where he was stuck at school without a scrap of clothes and everyone was laughing. He needed to get to the trees, get back to his clothes, grab the book and run.

He heard the squeaking sound of footprints on sand, followed by a thud on the dock. The boards creaked overhead as the steps grew louder and then stopped directly above him.

Next came the metallic whir of a lighter being flicked, the stench of cigarette smoke. After a minute, the fisherman started to whistle. It was an old tune, one that Ro used to hum. Cage peered up through the slats, his heart pounding.

Sonny Cole was right above him.

He was crouched on one knee, jabbing cut bait through a hook. The long brown ponytail under his cap was impossible to miss. Cage pressed himself against the piling, hoped Ro’s dad wouldn’t look down. He knew Sonny kept a pistol in his tackle box.

Don’t move, don’t. His breath was so loud, he was sure it’d give him away.

And then Sonny shouted.

Cage stiffened, his heart in his throat. But Sonny wasn’t looking down at him, aiming true. He was facing the woods.

More footsteps now, someone’s heavy tread through the sand. Cage thought at first it might be the old man—Ro’s grandfather and Sonny used to fish together—but instead a younger voice called out a greeting, swung down some lawn chairs on the dock. “Thought you’d come out here.”

“Where’s your dad?” Sonny sounded gruff, just how Cage remembered him.

“Saw him on the way over from your place. He spilled coffee on himself in the truck. Went back home for jeans and another drink.”

Cage’s fists tightened. Lance Childers was above him. He was trapped here under the dock until the two of them went farther out or left altogether. Being late afternoon, they’d probably be onto the trout, given the flooding tide. Once they got stuck into it, he’d have to move—fast.

“He better not bring that dog with him,” Sonny said. A hook jingled on a fishing line, and the boards groaned overhead. Ro’s dad was walking down the dock now. If Lance followed him, Cage could leave without them seeing. He stared through the slats, waiting.

“Good that you’re fishing again.” Lance shifted in his lawn chair and pulled off the hat he was wearing. “You casting or what?”

Sonny grunted. A long minute of quiet stretched out. Cage held still, hearing nothing, and then squinted up through the planks at Sonny. After another minute, he glided the line back overhead and then suddenly whipped it down, the rod snapping in his hands with a loud crack. He dropped the pieces onto the dock before kicking them into the water.

“You okay?” Lance stood up so fast he knocked his chair to the ground. Cage got ready to bolt—here was his chance—but Lance stayed where he was. Then came more footsteps, moving toward him. Cage crouched low as Sonny sank into one of the lawn chairs.

“Can’t do it. Can’t fish anymore.” His voice was raw. “Reminds me of her.”

Another long silence. Should he make a run for it now? Hope to Christ they didn’t see him?

Sonny spat and then cleared his throat. “Tell me about that day.”

Cage went cold at those words, like he was back in that freezing water. That day. He knew exactly what day he meant.

“I already told you,” Lance said. “I don’t think it’d—”

“Why don’t you tell me again.” Sonny sounded strung tight, impatient. “From the beginning.” It was a challenge, or maybe the strain in his voice was from missing his daughter.

Lance let out a sigh. “I found her on the shore,” he said after a minute. “He was bent over her, holding her.”

Cage sucked in a breath—it was him they were talking about. His feet were heavy, welded down, his heart firing in his chest. He couldn’t run now if he wanted to. He was stuck against the piling. He had to hear, had to know.

“Go on.”

“Something didn’t look right,” Lance said. “The way she was just lying there.”

“Why’d you show up?”

“I’d come to fish; sometimes Ro and me fished together, you know that.” Lance let out another jagged sigh. “And then I saw him; she was…” He trailed off. “She was lying on the sand. He was trying to hold her, or shake her. I wasn’t sure which, but I shouted out.”

Cage’s body went to stone. One, two, three.

“And he looked up at me, at least I think he did, and then he was running. He just dropped her down on the sand and took off.”

“I’ll kill him,” Sonny swore. “I’ll kill him if he did it.”

He meant it, it was in his voice. Cage kept as silent as he could.

“Don’t blame you,” Lance said, “not for a second.”

“Why didn’t you follow him?”

“Because of her,” Lance said. He coughed. “She was still on the sand. She didn’t move. I went down to the water, and when I got close I saw…” He stopped. “Sir, pardon me, but—”

“Go on.”

“When I got close, I saw the blood. Her head was bleeding. There was blood on her mouth. Her eyes were…” He stopped, seemed to pull it together. “They were all black. That’s when I checked for a pulse. Didn’t feel anything. My phone never works out here—”

“Did you notice anything else?” Sonny shifted in his chair, the metal legs screeching across the wood. “Anything at all?”

“Well,” Lance said, “y’all’s boat was tied up.”

“Show me where.”

Cage heard their footsteps moving farther down the dock and knew he couldn’t wait another second. Go, go, go. Now.

He sprinted across the sand toward the trees, expecting to hear a shout. Every muscle was straining, and he could almost hear it—their yells, their hollering, a clap in the air, the meaty thud of a bullet in his back—but nothing came. He made it to his clothes and then ducked down behind the fallen log. They hadn’t seen him. A shred of luck. He pulled on his shirt and jeans as quick as he could and then dared a glance at the dock. Sonny and Lance were looking at the bay, their backs to the woods.

Cage ran off toward the barn, glad to grow the distance between them. Halfway there he realized what he’d done—

Ro’s book, he’d left it on the log. Christ. He turned and raced back. When the ground got sandier under his feet and he heard the tide, he knew he was close. At a break in the trees he saw the dock. Only one man was still out there, but he couldn’t tell if it was Lance or Sonny.

He slowed down, wary now, going for stealth over speed as he headed toward the fallen log. When he got close to it, he stopped.

Near the branches on the other side was a blond girl. She was standing by the log with her back to him.

Ro?

But she was too small, too young. The girl was holding something in her arms and straightaway he knew what it was. He couldn’t call out to her, but he couldn’t let her take the book either. Grabbing her was a bad idea too. She’d scream and it’d all be over.

The girl turned away from the beach and set off into the trees. He didn’t have any choice but to follow.

She moved slowly, her head bent over the book. She was trying to read as she walked. He kept his distance, stepping from tree to tree as he stalked her.

The girl’s hair was a knotted mess down her back, and she was barefoot. Maybe it was the neighbor kid who lived on the other side of the woods. The one Ro used to babysit. She was related to the cop somehow, had one of those hippie names, he remembered that now. Daisy? Apple? Fern. He’d only met her once, so she probably wouldn’t recognize him—and he needed that book; it wasn’t his to lose. He had to call out to her, ask her for it. That cash he’d taken at the hospital was rolled up in his boot. He’d offer to pay her for it if she didn’t give it to him outright.

“Is that you?” The girl had stopped walking. She was peering into the woods ahead. “You can’t scare me, I know you’re there,” she said, turning suddenly.

Cage crouched behind the trunk of an oak and waited, trying to figure out who she was talking to.

“I’m serious,” she said. “I saw you just then. Don’t try to scare me.”

Maybe she’d spotted him. He chanced a quick look. The girl was still standing there in the woods, staring off to the side at nothing he could see.

“Just come out already.”

He thought about stepping out, asking her for the book, but then—

“Wouldn’t waste my breath scaring you.” It was Lance, walking into view now. “What’s that you got, little cousin?”

Cage pulled back behind the trunk and sank low to the ground.

“Nice, give it here,” Lance said, and then the girl cried out like he’d yanked it from her. “Holy shit, Fern. You found it.” He sounded surprised. “I’ve been looking for this. Know who it belongs to?”

Cage’s chest flared tight and hot. Maybe Ro had shown the book to Lance too. He shook off his jealousy, tried to focus.

“Yeah, it’s mine,” Fern piped up. “Finders, keepers.”

Lance laughed. “I don’t think so.” There was a scuffling sound—the girl was trying to grab it back. “I might let you look at it,” he said. “If you’re lucky.”

Christ, he was going to keep it. Mae would be furious with him.

“You got any of those pills?” Lance asked.

It was a weird thing to ask a kid, and suddenly they were beside him, walking right past the oak, close enough for him to touch. Lance was studying the book’s front cover and didn’t look his way. He could hit him and take it, but the girl would yell.

“Mom skipped her shift,” Fern said. “Didn’t bring any home.”

Cage held still, unsure of what to do. And then something strange happened. Fern looked over her shoulder. Her eyes landed on him—she was staring straight at him, he could’ve sworn it.

A tightness gripped him as he waited for the girl to call out, get Lance’s attention. Instead she frowned a little and then turned back, kept walking.

As though she hadn’t really seen him at all. As though she’d seen through him.