I head back to the inn, deciding to save the trip to the library for another day since I start work in less than an hour and still have to get ready. Should be more than enough time to squeeze in an internet search on the Hawkins family, though.

Claire’s on the phone when I step inside. She catches my eye and grins wide. I give her a fake applaud as I pass by that says, Yeah, yeah. You got me, and she snickers.

Once in my room, I get comfortable on the bed and retrieve my phone, immediately starting a Google search. I don’t even have to scroll through the search engine results, because right there at the top of the page reads: “Hawkins Family of Three, Burned to Death in Their Own Home.”

My stomach twists at the words, eyes squeezing shut before I force myself to continue reading. There’s a picture of the house—or what’s left of it, but it’s the wild flames that take over the image, swirling between dark clouds of smoke. I squint, focusing on the background scenery, and notice that the property is on some kind of small farm.

Ashwick, KS—Single father and two sons pronounced dead following a house fire apparently sparked by gasoline and a match.

About 2:30 p.m. on Tuesday, July 6, 1958, Kansas State Police troopers responded to a medical call at 2139 Deer Lane. As they neared the scene, they spotted smoke coming from the house, said Chief of Police Wayne Mulligan—

My fingers tighten around the phone as I carefully reread that last name. Mulligan. I know that name. I know it, because it was Grams’s last name. Tallulah Mulligan. The Chief of Police, though? My mind immediately begins forming assumption after assumption, and I have to give my head a little shake. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Mulligan is a fairly common last name, right? Still, I store the piece of information away for later.

I redirect my attention back to the article in front of me.

Firefighters arrived and battled the blaze. Once it was controlled, responders entered the structure, which was left mostly in ruins. They found resident and father of two Sherman Hawkins lying on the living room floor.

Hawkins was removed from the house and paramedics pronounced him deceased, Mulligan said.

An initial investigation showed the kitchen floor had been doused in gasoline before a match was lit to it. The physical state of Hawkins’s body suggests foul play, with a severe injury to the back of his head having occurred just prior to the fire being set. Additionally, blood residuals recovered on Hawkins has since been matched to the DNA of both his sons.

The investigator says at this time all evidence suggests the fire was intentionally lit by one of the Hawkins boys.

While the bodies of the Hawkins boys—seventeen-year-old Enzo Hawkins and twelve-year-old Thomas Hawkins—were never recovered due to the poor condition of the property’s remains, further forensic evidence has since confirmed their deaths.

At present, Mulligan, who was also close friends with the now deceased Sherman Hawkins, says the case is currently closed.

Holy crap. My jaw aches from clenching it so hard, and my hand cramps around the phone I'm holding in a death grip.

It can't be them.

Can it?

My heart’s racing as I release the phone and snap upright, my mind involuntarily darting back to my dreams.

Thomas. Twelve years old. An older brother. Evidence of foul play. Fire, the kitchen.

It all lines up. In fact, it could easily have been where my latest dream was headed if I hadn’t woken in the middle of it. But really, how could that even be possible? They’re dreams. I pause, reviewing all the impossible things that have already happened in my life lately. Dying, being saved by Death, him getting trapped in my room, me crossing over to the other side, my body attempting to adjust to life over there. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable after all.

Even so, what are the odds that the people in my dreams would exist right here, in this very town? Or that they did, anyway. My eyes shut at that last thought, my insides churning so intensely it makes my head pound.

It can’t be true. It can’t end like that for them. God, I was there. Right there with them. I know what that monster did to them. Felt from a place deep within me the way that raw, blood-thick, brotherly love constantly burned between the boys. I knew them. I was them. I bled with them. And now it feels as though a part of me burned with them.

Tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t bother to wipe them. What’s the point, when I know they’ll just keep on coming?

There has to be more to their stories, right? They were so young, had so much more life to live. And after all they’d gone through, all the suffering, all the pain. Where’s the justice? Where’s their silver lining? It just doesn’t seem right for that to be the ending to their story, when it should have been the beginning.

I grab my phone again, this time doing a search under the boys’ names. I figure with an incident as big as this one happening in such a small town, there might be something more on them.

Nothing.

All that pops up is that same article. I try searching under the father’s name instead. Bingo. It’s just one photograph, but it’s all the confirmation I need. A sickening feeling takes ahold of me as I instantly recognize the monster from my dreams. He sits on a chair in the grass, one leg kicked out and a pipe in his mouth, like he hasn’t a care in the world. The woman beside him is gorgeous. There’s a flashy, almost seductive smile on her face, one eyebrow arched daringly at the camera. Her hair is a silky black, perfectly coiffed in a way that makes her look out of place in the middle of a farm as they are. So this is the mother who was never there. The woman who cared more about her next fling than her own children.

My thumb clears the screen as I swallow down the urge to vomit. I have all the proof I need. It is them. Enzo and Thomas Hawkins. The brave brothers with hearts spun from gold. Survivors. Angels. And everything good and strong in between.

I can’t take the heartache, still feeling the reality of this revelation sink into my mind, my soul.

Why? Why am I having dreams about these two people who existed decades ago? I may not have trouble believing in the impossible anymore, but I still want to understand it. Is there some connection I should be making here? Something I’m meant to do in relation to these boys?

It’s on that heavy thought that the alarm goes off beside me. Ugh. I have to go. I can’t imagine spending the day cleaning when I should be trying to figure out what’s going on with me. With all of this. But I have to go. If I’m going to get anywhere with Mr. Blackwood, if I have any chance of getting answers from him about the Hawkins brothers, I need to repair the trust I broke with him first. Show him he won’t scare me away. That he can yell, he can bark, he can push and shove all he wants, but I’m not going anywhere.

As expected, Mr. Blackwood ignored me for most of the day. I was happy to find him already home when I arrived this time, rather than stumbling drunkenly through the door later on. He even seemed to be back at it with his research again.

I made a point to give him some space after our last little episode. It wasn’t easy. I almost caved several times, my jaw about to snap from how hard I forced my mouth shut all day. It was difficult enough trying to stay out of his business before, but now that I know he has ties to the Hawkins boys, it’s near impossible.

When it came time for me to leave, I gave him my usual goodbye and he gave me his usual grunt. He didn’t toss me out on my ass mid-day or drink himself to death, so, yeah, I’d say the day was a success.

I almost stopped at the library on my way home, but the more I thought about it, the more I concluded I would rather he reach a point where he’s willing to show me his work than have to go snooping around even more. As of now, the library is my Plan B.

After my bath once I’m back home, I mentally go over exactly what Death and I need to focus on when he comes over tonight: how to get ourselves out of this mess before it gets any worse. That is what we need to discuss, and that is all we need to discuss.

I’m certainly not obsessing over my sleepy confession last night, which is also not replaying in my head like a broken record as I realize I’m about to face him for the first time since then. I’m not taking the time to blow dry my hair or put on my favorite lip gloss. And I’m especially not sliding my legs into the kind of jeans that highlight my curves in all the right ways.

But if I were . . . I might wonder what he’d think at seeing this look on me. I might wonder if he’d comment on it, or inch closer and slowly brush the hair from my face. I might wish for just one last moment to pretend we aren’t from different worlds, we don’t have an expiration date, and that I’m just a girl and he’s just a boy.

I shift my head and eye the clock. At least I can always count on him being on time.

Which means I have exactly forty-five seconds.

Forty-five seconds to get my head together and stay focused on the reality of our situations. Thirty-nine seconds to remind myself why I can’t get all girly on him now and need to concentrate on the issues with my actual heart, not my metaphorical heart. Twenty-two seconds to become a full-blown adult who knows how to get shit done.

Fifteen seconds.

Ten.

Five.

And . . .

I turn my head. Look around. Clear my throat. “Um, hello?”

Nothing. Strange.

I continue to wait, chewing my lip and allowing my mind to wander. I toy with the ring on my middle finger, the one I’d made sure to slip on after my bath. Then I continue to wait as I return to the bathroom to check my hair, adjust my top. And I flick through the channels as I wait some more. It’s not until over an hour later as I lie restless on my bed that I finally get it.

He’s not coming.