My mother always got whatever she wanted. I’m not sure how—maybe it was the way she always seemed so genuine. Or the way she would do these little favors for people. Stopping to help an elderly woman shovel snow off her driveway. Or returning someone’s empty shopping cart. Things that people call small acts of kindness.

No opportunity slipped by her. But instead of shrugging off the thanks like most people seem to do, she’d stay and talk. She’d tell them something personal—even if it was almost always a lie. That way she’d know who to ask when she needed to crash somewhere for a night to escape whatever dump we were living in. Or someone to cough up enough gas money to get out of town. Her small acts of kindness always had an endgame.

She always had an endgame.

I need to find out what it is this time.

I could talk to her. I pause in front of the mirror, carefully combing my hair up into something respectable. It’s the first time I’ve thought of speaking to her in years. Not that I have a phone to use. Or that I really want to talk to her. But what if this is all some sort of plan?

I’ve tried to write the letter Carly wanted for most of the afternoon, but the words just won’t come. I’ve never really known how to put what happened into sentences. It makes everything too real. Too concrete.

It’s the same thought as telling Dean. How do I actually say something like this? Do I describe the way his father looked up at me when he was lying on that filthy mattress? The cuts carved down his forearms and how he pleaded for me to help him?

I shake it off, but an hour later, I’m still lost in thoughts when Renee and I take the stairs down to the Horseshoe.

The Horseshoe is this underground place named after the worn U-shaped bar that fills the tiny room. I step around an old gum-ball machine and rusted metal sled to get a seat in the corner where the bar meets the wall. Mitch, the bartender my brother befriended when he first visited me here, is something of a hoarder. Not just with objects, but with names too. So even though I know him as Mitch, when Renee sits down next to me, he introduces himself as Beto and drops two cans of beer in front of us. He leaves his fingers clenched around mine for an extra second.

“Haven’t seen you around in a while.” Tattoo spiderwebs crawl up his arms, so light they are almost invisible in the low light of the bar. The one time I saw Mitch in the sunlight, they looked like laced silver.

I take a small sip and try not to be awkward. “H-h-have you heard from Anthony?”

Mitch tilts his head and stares at me for so long I debate if he heard the question. Renee shifts, drinking her beer faster than normal.

“No,” he finally says. “But I have a number if you want it.” He disappears to the other side of the bar and pulls out a box stuffed with papers. He sets it across from us and sifts through the chaos.

Renee’s nails clip against the rough wood of the bar.

“We can go somewhere else after this,” I offer.

She nods, and the click, click, click continues. “My date’s meeting us here. Then we can go somewhere else.”

A can of empty beer later, Mitch flops a torn scrap of paper in front of me—the only thing written on it is a phone number. No name. No area code. It doesn’t even resemble Anthony’s handwriting. I look up at him with raised eyebrows.

“That’s all I’ve got. Some girl he was staying with for a while.” He raps the bar with his knuckles. “Take it or leave it.”

I tuck it into my pocket, trying to clamp a lid on my disappointment. Anthony is always hard to find. But I’ve got to try. Which means I also need to get a phone. Just in case he calls me.

Renee grabs my arm. “That’s him,” she hisses.

Holy crap, Renee is right about one thing: the guy is definitely a steak knife. Thick black hair and a wide face with full lips and a broad nose. He could palm a watermelon. His shoulders fill the doorway as he scans the room. He’s in jeans and a button-down, and a ring glints gold on his finger. Everything about him screams confidence. Or cockiness. Actually, he might be more than a knife. A freaking rolling pin.

As attractive as he is, my heart doesn’t start thumping until he moves aside, and I catch sight of the figure behind him.

Oh, bigger holy…

Wait. No. Not Dean.

But…

Sebastian. A chill washes over me. The same chill when I first realized who Dean was. A third figure is just outside the door, and I lift off my stool a little. Although I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Dean walks in, and I plop down again.

Renee’s eyebrows cinch up, but her smile doesn’t un-plaster. “Well, look who’s here. Your hero.”

“Renee,” I hiss and grab her arm. “No, no, no.” I don’t know what else to say. No seems like the most appropriate word for the situation.

“Holy crap, there’s two of them!” Renee says excitedly. “We’re working up to a full place setting.”

“Renee, I can’t do this,” I hiss. “I know you want me to date, and maybe I should. But not him.”

“Why not?” She tilts her head, her bottom lip sticking out.

“Did you set this up?” I ask, but I already know she did. This has Renee written all over it. “When did you set it up?”

She shakes her head. “Not important. What’s important is that I’m being indifferent. And completely unruffled by the steak knife.”

She swivels toward me. Behind her, the rolling pin strides across the room, straight toward Renee with a wide smile on his face.

“Good to see you,” he says when he reaches her.

Renee flinches and turns. “Oh, I didn’t see you.”

He leans close to her ear, giving her something between a hug and a kiss. And I’m pretty sure she smiles, but then she pushes on his chest and leans back so fast she almost falls off her seat. Like he’s shocked her with his touch.

“Oh, this is my sister, Ella,” she says nonchalantly, regaining her composure quickly.

“Dev,” he says as he extends his hand, and I absently take it. But I’m hardly looking at him or the way he’s nodding and repeating my name. Hardly looking at Renee as she feigns indifference.

The only thing I see is him. Ocean-blue eyes focused on me and that little scar pulling up with his grin. It’s a long minute before I realize Dev’s hand is clasped in mine in the most awkward handshake ever. I drop it and grab my beer. But then that feels strange too, so I finally just slip my hands underneath me.

I’m not happy with Renee for the sneaky setup. But if I want to get information about Charles Archer, this is probably the best way to do it.

Dean stops behind my barstool, and I have to swivel a little to see him. He’s got that thin necklace tied around his neck, and my eyes keep flicking to it as he smiles down at me.

Sitting on the stool, I’m looking straight at his chest and a tight t-shirt that lays flat on his stomach, so I tilt my head to look at the bar, but I can’t help taking in the rest of him. He’s standing so close, his chest and stomach moving with each breath. One hand tucked in his pocket. There’s a thin leather band around his wrist that matches the one on his neck.

No. Focus on the bar. The ugly ambiance. Mitch/Beto changing the music to something heavier and turning it up a few notches. Anything else.

But the moment goes on too long, and I have to tear my gaze away from the bar. I find him watching me, rubbing the back of his fingers along his jaw. His hand drops, and he signals to Sebastian, who’s ordering at the bar behind him.

“Have you met my brother, Sebastian?” he asks, speaking over the music.

My heart launches into my throat. What if Sebastian knows me? It doesn’t seem like he would if Dean didn’t, but I can’t really be sure. But there’s no recognition in Sebastian’s eyes when he introduces himself.

“Ella,” I say, clearly. I can’t help but look between them. I’m sure they are always getting compared, but they have so many similarities. That slight cleft on the chin, those blue eyes, the need to have restrictions due to attractiveness. But as Sebastian smiles at me and steps back to get some drinks, I see their differences too. He doesn’t have that easy, fluid movement like Dean. Sebastian’s bigger, maybe a bit gruffer.

“You’re comparing us,” Dean says—close to my ear, probably so I can hear him over the music. But his closeness makes me realize how dry my throat is. How alone I’ve been—sitting on this stool with so much distance between me and everyone else around me.

“I…” I lick my dry lips and lean back. But then I run into Dev’s arm, which makes me jump too. Renee’s talking about how this bar is one of the first in town, like she actually enjoys coming here.

“It’s fine, Ella,” Dean says, his eyes flicking to my lips and then back up. “I’m used to it. Questions too. You can ask me anything you want.”

Anything I want. Like where his father lives? If he knows who my mother is? But I still don’t know how to start this conversation.

So instead, I raise an eyebrow. “Which one of you is the evil one?”

“Sebastian,” Dean says without pause. He tilts toward me, his leg close to mine. “Watch him. Bet you anything that he’ll run his hand over his mouth in the next few minutes. It’s because he doesn’t have a mustache to twirl.”

I look over Dean’s shoulder toward Sebastian, who’s leaning over the bar and speaking with Mitch. He nods and reaches for his wallet, taking it out and holding it in front of him while Mitch sets some shot glasses on the bar.

“Oh, is he ordering shots for all of us?” I can’t stop myself from smiling. “That discounts your evil theory.”

Dean’s laugh is warm. He doesn’t turn to look at his brother, but keeps his attention on me. “It’s probably part of some overarching evil plot. Seriously, you can’t miss the mustache twirls. Just wait for it.”

I swivel a little on the stool to see Sebastian better, and my knee presses into Dean’s thigh. He doesn’t step away. And I… don’t want him to. I want to pull him to me—feel the arc of his shoulder and bicep under my palm again.

Discover where that rope goes. What if I let myself?

“What’s my brother doing now?” Dean’s still looking at me—I can see him from the corner of my eye. And maybe he doesn’t know I can see him, because his gaze travels down the side of my face, lingering on my neck. Just that look sends goosebumps shivering across my skin. If he touched me, the world might turn a little faster. There’s so much heat between us.

I shift on the stool, leaning closer to Dean. “He’s just standing there, holding his wallet and watching Mitch pour the shots. Oh, now he’s handing over a credit card. Which probably isn’t the smartest choice in this bar.”

My attention flicks to Dean. Crap, it’s hard not to look at him. And the knot of that necklace sits on the side of his neck—right where the muscles smooth down to his shoulder. And those blue eyes are going to be the death of me.

“Now he’s got the shots,” I say. “No mustache twirling.”

“Damn. Maybe I am the evil one.” Dean’s lopsided grin is about as far away from evil as one can possibly get. “But then I’d have to stop rescuing you. Or can I be both a hero and evil?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I think it’s one or the other.”

Sebastian steps up next to us with a line of shots.

“Then I’ll pick hero.” Dean moves away to take two of the shots and passes one to me.

Amber liquid drips over the edge and onto my fingers. Renee grabs the shot as she always does, with a flip of her hair and a smile. She leans past Dev to toast me, her pink tank top sparkling in the low light. I mimic her easy cheers, and we all throw them back.

Oh, whiskey. I cough a little, then glance at Renee and raise my eyebrows. That was one drink, right?

“I was just telling Dev about the haunted lighthouse,” she says in answer.

“Haunted?” Dean asks from behind me. I turn to see him set his shot glass on the bar. Light filters through the glass and colors his fingers with reds and browns. The leather band on his wrist is tightly knotted. He runs a hand over his mouth and then stops himself—his hand hanging in front of his chin. Evil mustache move completed.

I wiggle a finger at him, and he laughs. So easily.

“What?” Sebastian asks, and Dean shakes his head.

“The Windmere Lighthouse,” Renee says ominously. She dances her fingers over the bar and flutters them up to the lights. “It’s supposed to be haunted by chain-rattling ghosts.”

“There aren’t any ghosts.” I tuck my arms around my chest. Going to the lighthouse in daylight is one thing. Going at night is another. “It’s just an old, mysterious lighthouse.”

“You okay?” Dean steps forward, and his fingers brush my shoulder.

When I nod, he steps back with his brother again. He was watching me that closely? I’m not even sure what bothered me. I’ve always loved the lighthouse. It stands at the edge of the Harborwalk, looking down on everything. Protecting everything, maybe.

“I bet there are ghosts.” Dev grins. “I believe in evil spirits.”

Renee wrinkles her nose. “No, you don’t. You aren’t the kind to believe in ghosts. I can sense it.” She turns to me and mouths knife. I’ll have to tell her my rolling pin theory later.

Dev’s gaze never leaves Renee. “Your sense is wrong. I wholeheartedly believe in ghosts.”

“Then prove it.” Renee tips her chin up. I know that look—she’s never going to back down now.

“Prove it?” Dev seems to contemplate this. He knocks on the bar with a huge fist. “How do you prove belief in ghosts?”

Renee scrunches her nose and drinks her beer—perhaps to give her a little time to come up with an answer.

“I would admit defeat on this one, Dev,” Dean says. “You’re in over your head.”

Dev points a finger at Dean. “I will not accept defeat. Even though I suspect you’re right.” He turns to Renee. “Tell me how to prove I believe in ghosts.”

“Um…” Renee glances at me and shrugs her shoulders.

“You’re scared of them,” I say. All eyes shift to me. “If you believe in ghosts, then you’re scared of them. At least a little.”

“My sister has a point.” Renee tosses her hair. “Anyone who really believes in ghosts—especially chain-rattling ghosts—has to be a little scared of them. And I can smell fear.”

Dev chuckles. “I’m man enough to be scared. Bring me to the ghosts.”

Oh, I know where this is heading.

“I vote we go.” Renee throws a hand up like she’s in elementary school.

Dev raises two fingers. “Dean? Sebastian?”

“I’m in.” Dean shrugs. “How can I pass up an evening being chained up by ghosts?”

“Ella?” Renee asks.

I nod and slip off my stool. Mitch keeps turning the music up, and it’ll be easier to ask Dean about his father if I can actually hear what he’s saying. That, and I want to experience this. Normalcy. Even if it’s fleeting.