Jeremiah I jumped, dropping the card as if it were a live snake. For a long minute, I stared at it on the floor, then bent and gingerly picked it up by one corner. The skin on my neck crawled as if Jeremiah might be right there in the kitchen, watching me.

My mind spun as the minutes stretched out. I had to get that pa.s.sword. That much was clear. Maybe if I could get it, Jeremiah and whoever had sent him would get the money from the account and leave me-and Davis-alone. We'd tell the FBI-an anonymous tip, maybe. Whatever happened, we'd be together, and safe. That was all I cared about.

"I'm going out now. I have to update our visas at the emba.s.sy," my mother called down the hall. "See you this evening." The front door clicked shut, and silence settled around me. I rose finally and went down the hall to my room, where I tucked the card under my mattress.

I was still trying to recover by the time Oliver came to the door a few hours later. "Lunch?" he said as I opened the door.

I stood back to let him in. "I don't know. I'm not that hungry." I wondered if he noticed my puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

"Oh, come on now. You probably had nothing but Weetabix this morning." He threw himself down onto the white living-room couch and grinned at me.

I had to laugh. The big shredded-wheat biscuits were a staple of English breakfasts, but I hadn't brought myself to try them yet. "No," I admitted. "I had bran flakes." I sank down onto the carpet and rested my elbows on the coffee table in front of me.

"Well if you're not hungry, then, how about we go rowing? I know a guy whose boat we can take out on the Thames."

Rowing on the Thames would make me such an easy target for Jeremiah. He could easily spot me from the bank. I shook my head. "I don't think I should go out."

Oliver leaned forward and touched the tips of my fingers. "Are you still freaked out about yesterday?"

I nodded. "He could be anywhere. I mean, look how he found me yesterday, even in the gardens." I felt my breath hitch just thinking about the terrifying chase.

"Yeah, but you can't just stay inside all summer," Oliver argued. "You'll go crazy." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then pulled out his phone and rapidly thumbed through something. Apparently he found what he was looking for, because he stood up decisively and took my hands, pulling me to my feet. "I've got the perfect place-no one will ever find us there. And you're going to have the best jerk chicken you've ever tasted."

"Where are we going?" I let him drag me toward the door.

"The Notting Hill carnival." He pressed the elevator b.u.t.ton. "It's a giant street festival with crazy dancers from the Caribbean neighborhoods-kind of like Carnival in Brazil. They wear all these feathers and insane costumes and dance in the streets. You'll love it. Plus, it's completely packed. That guy will never be able to find us in the crowd."

Twenty minutes later, I found myself in a Tube car, sitting side by side with Oliver on the bright blue seats. The car rocked back and forth slightly as it thundered through the tunnel. The train was stuffed with excited people, all talking, in a festive mood. Tourists wearing backpacks and sports sandals, groups of students in earphones and chic, striped T-shirts, little kids, grandmothers, families with shopping bags full of food. Everyone was looking at a group of four dark-skinned men standing in the center and wearing nothing but sequined pants and giant blue wings made of feathers.

Oliver looked over at me, smiling, and I smiled back. It was impossible not to catch some of the mood. The train screeched into the Notting Hill stop, and the crowd poured from the open doors. Oliver and I let ourselves be carried along, through the station and up the steep stairs. As we stepped out onto the street, I stopped, my mouth open in astonishment. There in front of me was the most amazing explosion of fantastic colors, costumes, dancing, and music I'd ever seen.

Crowds of festival-goers packed the sidewalks, and the street itself was filled with a river of dancers in wild costumes-huge wings made of feathers, pants covered in bells, tiny, sequined bikinis-a whole troop of girls on stilts in long silk skirts, and dancers beating steel drums.

I turned to Oliver, my eyes wide.

He smiled. "Incredible, right?" He grabbed my hand. "Come on. Let's walk around."

We began weaving our way up the packed sidewalk, brushing past dancers with bare torsos and kids held up on their parents' shoulders, with the bright sunshine beating down over everything. "Hungry yet?" Oliver raised his voice over the noise.

"I am after smelling all this!" I shouted back.

Little stalls, selling everything from seash.e.l.ls to shaved ice, were set up all along the sidewalk in front of the closed storefronts. Oliver stopped in front of one where a coffee-skinned woman was turning chicken pieces on a small grill. She offered us a wide smile, revealing blinding white teeth. "You kids want to try some jerk chicken? Best at the carnival."

The aroma was insane. I had to restrain myself from grabbing a piece right off the grill and biting into it. The woman heaped two paper plates with chicken legs, a big spoonful of red beans and rice, and some kind of colorful salsa with chunks of yellow fruit. Oliver handed her a five-pound note, and we started fighting our way down the sidewalk again. I concentrated on not dumping my food onto the bystanders we pa.s.sed, but it wasn't easy.

"Here, let's sit." Oliver pointed to an empty doorway, and, with a sigh of relief, I sank down onto the wide stone step and balanced my plate on my knees. Just a foot away, the stream of humanity surged by to the beat of the steel drums.

I took a big bite of the juicy, spicy chicken. "Mmm." I closed my eyes briefly.

"Glad you came?" Oliver laughed at my expression, gnawing on his own chicken leg.

"Yeah." I nodded. "Thanks for getting me out." Jeremiah and the pa.s.sword felt a million miles away. Oliver was right-he'd never be able to find us here.

Oliver started in on his beans and rice. "I'm thinking of getting an outfit like that." He pointed his fork at a man strolling by sporting a black sequined bikini bottom and a ma.s.sive potbelly, which was painted to look like a giant tomato.

I guffawed. "What would you paint on your stomach? A carrot?"

"Are you saying I'm skinny?" He nudged me with his shoulder. "Watch it, la.s.sie. We Brits don't like cheeky Americans."

"Here, watch this." I picked a bean from my rice and balanced it on my nose, then jerked my head and flipped the bean into the air, catching it neatly in my mouth.

"Bravo!" Oliver applauded.

I grinned and made a mock bow. "Now you've seen my one and only party trick. I'm better with grapes, though."

"Who would have thought it? You look so ladylike," Oliver teased.

We shoveled in the rest of our food; then Oliver stood up and pulled at my hand. "Come on, let's go down to the concert stage."

I held his hand so I wouldn't lose him as we fought our way down the sidewalk. Out on the street, the dancers were still surging past, and the air was full of raucous laughter and the music of the drums.

A giant man in bright yellow bell-bottoms with spiky yellow feathers sprouting from his back loomed in front of us. "h.e.l.lo," he bellowed as we pa.s.sed.

"Hi," I called back, and he broke out into a random little dance.

"Dance with me!" he invited in a rich Jamaican accent.

Laughing, we tried to match his sliding, back-and-forth steps until I almost staggered into the gutter and had to snag Oliver's shirt for balance.

"Whoa." Oliver grabbed me and pulled me back onto the sidewalk, only to find himself entangled with a pair of vast, airy blue wings. "Oh, sorry, excuse me." He and the wing owner struggled to free him as I laughed.

"a.s.sault by wingspan!" I unwrapped a blue ribbon from his shoulders. "Don't get too tough on me now."

"What can I say? It's a rough world." Oliver put his arm around my shoulders as we walked.

At the end of the block, in a small park, a concert stage was set up, and a DJ was spinning Caribbean-reggae-hip-hop. Several hundred revelers were dancing. We wedged our way toward the front of the happy crowd. I started swaying to the infectious music, and Oliver followed. For the first time in days, I felt light and free.

"Notting Hill!" the DJ called out over the crowd, and suddenly a steel-drum band burst onto stage, followed by dancers doing what looked like a Caribbean, African-inspired dance infused with hip-hop.

I cheered along with the crowd, and Oliver put his fingers into his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. I grabbed his hand. "Dance with me!" I called over the music. He pulled me to him, then twirled me away. I twirled back, landing squarely in his arms.

Our faces were very close, and, for an instant, I looked into his eyes and felt his warm breath on my cheek. He stopped laughing and, standing still, ran his hand up my arm to my shoulder.

"Wait," I tried to say, but all of a sudden, my voice wouldn't work. He pulled me tightly against him, and even though I knew I shouldn't, I lifted my face to his and closed my eyes.

His lips were on mine in an instant, hot and eager. Every thought was driven from my head, and I pressed closer to him, feeling his hand caressing the side of my face as he kissed me long and deep.

A noisemaker blatted in my ear suddenly, and like an alarm had gone off, I dropped my arms and pulled away. We stood looking at each other, a sober little island in the sea of revelers.

The reality of what I'd just done crashed in around me, and I raised my hands to my mouth. "Oh, Jesus, Oliver. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm not." He reached for me, but I stepped away. A wounded look crossed his face.

I felt sick. "Oliver, this is all my fault. I-" I looked around at the raucous crowd. "Let's find somewhere quieter."

We wound our way back out of the crowd and turned down a relatively quiet side street. In front of a cemetery, we stopped. The noise of the festival was a block distant now.

"I'm so stupid. I've just been really needing a friend these last weeks-and you've been a great friend," I said miserably.

"Don't tell me you didn't feel something just now." His voice was fierce. "Because I sure as h.e.l.l did."

"I did," I admitted. "I-I do feel something for you." I searched his beautiful brown eyes. The words felt right to say. "But I'm with Davis, and I love Davis. And it's not fair to lead you on."

"What a b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.l.l.s-up." He turned away, his head bowed. I just stood there until he turned around again. His mouth was set in a grim line. "You're right. It's not fair," he said. "Look, Z, I like you-a lot. I'm pretty sure that's obvious. But you've got to work out whatever you've got going on. No one else can do that for you."

"I know," I whispered. "I'm trying."

EIGHTEEN.

I lay in bed that night, flat on my back, with my arms by my sides and the covers drawn up neatly to my chest. I stared at a network of hairline cracks in the ceiling. My palms were sweating already, but I knew what I had to do. Don't say anything to anyone, Davis had texted that night at the art show. Don't say anything. How could I say anything? I didn't know anything to say. Unless, of course, I did. Unless I somehow knew the pa.s.sword, and Davis knew that. Unless the pa.s.sword was hidden in the very place I never wanted to go again-my nightmare.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like in yoga. Long and slow, slow and even. In, out. In, out. Thought by thought, I emptied my mind, just like the teacher had told us. Each thought should be sent flying out an imaginary window. Oliver's kiss-good-bye. I gave it small white wings and sent it on its way. Davis being beaten by Jeremiah-good-bye. The lies between my parents and me-good-bye. My mind became an empty, dark vessel, filled only with the sound of my breaths.

Then, one by one, I dropped in images of that night. Davis's old VW with its familiar dents and sc.r.a.pes. The torn-up gray seats. Myself, dressed in the white tank top and jeans. The ding as we opened the car doors. The roar of the ignition. I brought myself up to the moment we'd gotten into the car, then held that image in my mind. I kept my body relaxed, and, after a long time of waiting, sleep finally came.

We slam the doors, and Davis backs out of Becca's driveway, fast. Too fast. He almost hits the car across the street, and then we are off, flying down the block with the noise of the party fading behind us. I hold up the infinity charm, admiring it in the dim light. "It's beautiful," I tell him.

He glances over, but his face is serious, not smiling as I expect. "To remember me by," he says. I laugh at what I think is a joke, but he is anxious as he stares through the windshield. His foot presses the accelerator harder, and I watch the houses outside give way to open black countryside.

"Davis, slow down!" I cling to the door handle, and even as I live the dream, I sense my aware-self coming into being. I know now that I am dreaming and that it is the same dream I've had a thousand times before.

Davis is already nervous, already checking his rearview mirror. "Davis, what is it?" I ask. "What's wrong?" Cars approach and pa.s.s us steadily in the opposite lane, and, each time, he flinches as if he expects a collision.

"Look, Zoe. There's just one thing." He stares out at the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "If anything happens to me, remember that risk is your ticket out of here. Swear to remember. Risk."

The moment he says the words, a jolt of recognition shoots through my aware-self. Risk. Could that be the pa.s.sword? Why else would he make me swear to remember? I have it. At last, I have it.

As I dream on, the car enters the long, flat stretch of road approaching the hills. I know the crash is coming. I sense myself waking up-for an instant, I feel the rough wool of my blanket. But I have to see this through. I fight against the waking. I draw myself deeper into the dream.

We drive rapidly toward the hills, and, once again, I watch Davis tell me about the Dubai ring, about the hacking scheme. He checks his mirror. I beg him to slow down. Then the car engine revs as we climb into the hills. Black and steep, the slopes rise on either side.

My aware-self knows what is coming, of course, and I brace myself as the car skids around the turns. I scream at Davis to slow down. He does not listen. And then I see the curve approaching, grope for the door handle as I have so many times before. That boneless spinning of the steering wheel, the sickening crunch of the guardrail, so like the crunch of bones. Then we are flying through the air. I wait to black out.

But to my shock, I don't. Instead, we hit the ground with a bone-shattering crash, the car rolling over and over. I grab at the walls, the ceiling, the world flipping upside down. Davis! I try to scream, but my voice doesn't work. The car comes to rest against a tree. My legs are stuck under the dashboard, and my body is bent over the console. Something soft is pinned beneath me. Everything is very quiet. I claw at my seat belt, barely able to see from the blood streaming down my face. Whimpering, I push myself upright. I can't feel anything from the waist down, and for a heart-stopping moment, I wonder if I am paralyzed. Then bolts of pain shoot through my legs, and I almost scream. Where is Davis? It's so dark. I can't see. I swipe away the blood.

Davis is lying half through the windshield, the upper half of his body resting on the crumbled hood of the car, his legs bent grotesquely over the steering wheel. His seat belt hangs slackly beside him. "Davis, Davis, Davis," I moan. "Davis, oh please, please." I yank myself from under the crushed dashboard, sending new shockwaves of pain through my body. Panting, big black spots dancing in front of my eyes, I crawl out through the shattered windshield onto the hood. Davis is lying very still, with his upper body bent away from me. "Davis," I whisper. I put my hand on his back, shake him. His head rolls loosely on his neck toward me. I see his face for the first time.

His eyes are filled with blood.

I scream, though my voice must be only a whimper. Then I see it-his head-and my screams grow even louder.

His skull is cracked and flowing with dark blood. I see bright flecks of bone amid the mess. He's lying still. So still.

911. I have to call 911. Get help. My hands still work, and I manage to fumble my phone from my pocket. Oh G.o.d, please let it work. Please.

My breathing ragged, I dial.

"911, what is your emergency?" The dispatcher's emotionless voice is like a lifeline in the dark.

"Oh, thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d, please help us," I sob.

"Ma'am, what is your emergency?" she repeats.

"We've been in a car accident. The car, it slipped off the road."

"What is your location?" she asks.

"Great Bend Road, I think. Please, please hurry! My boyfriend, he's not responding."

I could hear clicking on the other end, as if she was typing.

"Can you try to talk to him, ma'am?" She sounded so calm.

"He's unconscious, I-I think he's dead." The words slip from my mouth, and, in an instant, I realize they are true.

I have known all along.

"No!" I wail. "No! No!" I drop the phone.

"Ma'am? Ma'am?" the dispatcher says faintly from the bottom of the car. But I barely hear her.

"Davis, please, talk to me. Please. Please." Over and over, I plead. But he is silent and still.

Sirens wail up the mountain road. Strong white lights flash over the twisted sh.e.l.l of the car. "Here they are, Jim," a man says. Two of them. Metal screeches, and then strong hands are delicately feeling my head, neck, and back. "Can you hear me? What's your name?" the paramedic asks. Behind him, a firefighter is shining a powerful flashlight over the car wreckage.

"Zoe," I whispered.

"Let's get you out of there, Zoe." I'm carefully disentangled and lifted from the wreckage. On the other side of the car, I can hear others working to free Davis. A stretcher is placed beneath me, and I lie back on it.

"This will help with the pain until we get you to the ER," one of the paramedics says, and I feel the sting of a needle in my arm.