In a way, he reminded her of wildcats at the zoo. Mountain lions, maybe, or panthers. All sleek and dangerous, but so beautiful you’d reach out and touch if you could.

“Emily?”

She snapped her head up. Her father was staring at her, and it sounded like he’d called her name more than once. “I’m sorry. What?”

“I asked if you had any more trouble at the sports complex.”

Here was her chance. She could tell them what Michael had done. Her father would call the Guides, and they’d eradicate the problem.

But she’d provoked him.

This was my place. Mine.

If she’d poked a mountain lion with a stick and it bit her hand off, would that be her fault or the lion’s? Guilt had a hold of her gut and refused to let go. She speared a few noodles with her fork so she wouldn’t have to look at her father. “No. No trouble.”

“Good,” said Tyler, without looking up from his phone. “Seth and I were going to stake the place out if he kept pulling that shit.”

“Seth!” snapped their mother.

“He’s got a point,” said her father. “Josh Drake and I talked about doing the same thing.”

“A stakeout,” said Emily. “Really.”

Her father’s eyes were like ice. “It’s for your safety. I don’t like you going back there until this is resolved.”

She glared back at him. “I think you resolved it with your phone call.”

He didn’t back down from her tone. “It won’t be resolved until that boy is dead.”

Emily’s fork scraped across the plate. “So your plan is ... what? To sit outside the office and wait for him to show up and use his powers?”

“There are ways to make him break the deal.”

At that, Tyler looked up. He met their father’s eyes across the table.

And smiled.

Michael spent Friday night in his room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Waiting.

When Emily reported him, how long would it take for the Guides to come after him? Would they kill him right away, or would they take him somewhere else?

Michael hoped they’d take him somewhere else. He kept thinking of his brothers, how every time they looked at him now, he knew they were just waiting for him to drop some bomb about running away.

That was nothing compared to watching an execution.

A soft knock rapped at his door just after nine. Had to be his mother; no one else in the house would knock softly.

He wanted to pretend to be asleep, but no way would she buy it this early.

“Yeah?” he called.

She cracked the door and leaned in. “Sure you’re not hungry?”

He was, but he couldn’t sit in the kitchen, look his parents in the eye, and pretend everything was fine. Even now, he couldn’t face his mother. Not knowing what he’d done.

He shook his head and kept his eyes on the ceiling.

“Well”—she eased into the room—“I made you a little something, just in case.” A plate slid onto his bedside table.

He glanced over and immediately felt like an ass. She’d made him a turkey sandwich. A good one, too, with extra slices of lunch meat and cheese piled high with tomato and lettuce. He could smell the deli mustard. Three oatmeal-raisin cookies sat on the plate as well.

She had to have made them just for him. No one else in the house liked oatmeal-raisin.

His throat felt tight. God, he’d been so stupid.

Maybe he should run now, before he brought them all down with him. He should have run last night.

It took him a second to find his voice. He still couldn’t look her in the eye. “Thanks.”

“Can I sit down?”

He nodded and shifted until he was sitting up against the wall. She sat beside his knees, and the side of the bed barely dented with her weight. He remembered being young, before his brothers had come along, how she’d sit with him in the dark at bedtime and ask about his day. That time grew shorter when she had twins to take care of—and shorter still when Chris arrived—but she hadn’t stopped until he’d outgrown it. It always made him feel special.

Now he knew just how much being special sucked.

He couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been in here.

He picked up the sandwich and took a bite, just to avoid the need to say anything.

It didn’t stop her from talking, though. “Do you want to tell me what happened today?”

He almost choked on the bread. “Nothing.”

“You don’t hole up in your room for nothing.”

“I’m just tired.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I know you think you’re alone, Michael, but you’re not. Your father and I love you. Your brothers love you—”

He snorted. “Don’t be so sure about that. I caught the twins trying to write on my face with a Sharpie at three a.m. the other day.”

She smiled, but her eyes were still serious. “I’m just trying to tell you we’re here for you. No matter what.”

“I know, Mom.”

She touched his face. “You sure?”

He nodded. He was sure—and that was the problem. They shouldn’t have to be here for him. The thought of his family getting caught in the cross fire for something he’d done, for something he was ... Michael almost couldn’t take it.

And that was the only reason he was here instead of running. When Emily reported him, when the Guides came for him, he was ready to surrender.

As long as they left his family alone.

CHAPTER 5

By Monday afternoon, Emily had completely reorganized the designer golf balls in the display case, making a rather impressive tower of alternating colors, if she did say so herself. She was blasting the Wicked sound track today, louder than usual so she could belt along with Idina Menzel.

This kind of heat always made business slow, but today was ridiculous. Maybe people were finally done with the weather, and everyone had gone to the beach.

When “Defying Gravity” came on, she cranked it a few notches higher, then stepped out onto the floor to rearrange the rack of golf shirts by size and style.

Just as she got to the chorus, a man cleared his throat behind her.

Emily jumped and shrieked and nearly knocked all the shirts off the rack. Her face went from cool to blazing in half a second.

She steadied the rack and called over her shoulder, loudly enough to be heard over the music. “I’m so sorry—”

Then she stopped short. Michael Merrick stood there.

She stared at him, unable to move.

He made a circular motion with his hand. “Could you turn this down?”

“Oh ... sure.” She dashed for the stereo behind the counter and yanked her iPod cord free. The music died instantly.

When she straightened, Michael was at the counter. She could barely catch her breath.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said flatly. “I like Broadway musicals as much as the next guy.”

Her cheeks felt hotter—if that was possible. “Sorry. It’s been dead. I mean ...” She hesitated. “You need tokens?”

“I have some from the other day.”

“Oh. Okay.”

But he was still standing there, staring down at her. It took some effort to meet his eyes, but at least she could read the emotion there: surprise, and intrigue, and confusion.

“About Friday,” he said.

She wet her lips. “Friday?”

“I stayed up all night.” A self-deprecating shrug. “Most of the weekend, really.”

She frowned. “Okay ... ?”

“I was waiting.” He rested his forearms against the glass, and his voice dropped a notch. “I thought you’d turn me in.”

“For the parking lot?” She shrugged and picked at the disclaimers taped to the glass counter. “It’s not a big deal—”

“It is to me.”

Emily stopped fidgeting and looked at him.

“So,” he said, his voice softer and almost gentle, “thanks.”

She had no idea what to say to that.

And he didn’t wait. He picked up his bat and turned for the back door to the shop, stepping out into the humidity without a backwards glance.

Emily cheated the time clock out of fifteen minutes and strode down the hill to the batting cages. Michael was still there, in a royal blue tee shirt today, using the fastest machine they had.

She didn’t even hesitate this time, just walked up to the cage and hooked her fingers through the fence.

“It’s Monday,” she said.

He didn’t look. “No kidding.”

Crack.

“You said you only come on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe I didn’t want to miss the show.”

His voice wasn’t quite friendly—but it sure wasn’t hostile. She blushed again and wished her skin weren’t so fair. Maybe he’d attribute it to the heat.

Then he turned back to swing for the next ball.

There was something addictive about the sound of the machine, the regular crack of the bat, the motion of his body as he swung to hit.

Before she knew it, four pitches had gone by, and she realized she looked like a freak stalker.

She had to say something. “That looks so ... therapeutic.”

“Want a turn?”

“What—No!” God, she’d been standing here staring. She couldn’t even remember why she’d come down to the batting cage. “Sorry. I’ll just ... I’ll ...”

“I’m sorry about Friday.” Michael fed the machine a new token. “Not just for the parking lot.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “For being a dick.”

She should turn and walk away. She didn’t want to. “It’s all right.”

He paused to swing. The crack of the bat stole her breath. Another glance. He tapped the bat against the dirt. “Sure you don’t want a turn?”

Emily shook her head quickly. “I’ve never played baseball. I’m not sure the fast-pitch machine is the best place to start.”

He snorted. A laugh? She couldn’t tell. She felt like they’d completely ventured off the map of what felt sure and certain.

Then he said, “So why do you need this job so badly?”

“I want to move to New York City.”

The words were out before she could stop them. But he’d surprised her with his gratitude, followed by this apology. And for some reason, it was easier to have a conversation while his back was turned and his attention was focused elsewhere.

“New York?” Crack. The ball strained at the nets before dropping to the earth.

She swallowed. “Yeah. I have a friend who graduated two years ago who’s an understudy on Broadway. She says she’ll help me get a job.”

“You want to be on Broadway?” The surprise in his voice was almost tangible.

She bristled, ready for the mockery she’d gotten from her father when she’d mentioned this last year. There was a reason she made the appropriate noises about researching colleges but kept her true plans a secret. “Yeah, so?”

He didn’t say anything, the bat poised over his shoulder.

“I mean, it’s not like a guarantee or anything,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I’ll probably end up waiting tables and calling my parents to borrow cash after six months.”

A ball flew at him. Crack.

“Nah. I could see it. You kept up with that Wicked song.”

Her jaw almost hit the ground. “You recognized the music?” And was that a ... compliment?

He shrugged. “My dad got our mom tickets for her birthday last spring. We all had to go. Some crap about needing more culture.”

His dad got tickets to Wicked for their mom? She couldn’t remember the last time her father had given a present to her mom—much less included her and Tyler in on it.