She snorts indelicately and pulls out a notebook. There are two pages filled with inconspicuous academic stuff. Notes on some science theory or whatever. She flips right past those, opening the book to another section. I see a listing of train departure times and directions to an unfamiliar address in San Diego.

"Yeah, what's up with that? Everyone else said it was San Francisco."

"Yeah, well, the p-post office called it an address forwarding error." Maggie makes little air quotes around address forwarding error like she doesn't believe that for a second.

"Wait a minute, are you saying they didn't even admit to the right city?"

Realizing my volume, I glance over at Mrs. Campbell, who's dozing off, her pen slack in her hand. I drop my voice to a whisper anyway. "Why would they lie about that?"

"Technically, they d-didn't," she says. "The Millers were really vague about the whole thing, remember?"

I give her a pointed look, and Mags waves, looking contrite. "Right. Sorry. They said they were moving t-to California for some great business opportunity and didn't have a permanent address, but everyone knew it was about Julien. She'd b-been a mess all summer. They never let her out of their sight."

I feel my eyes growing wide. "So other people are suspicious too."

"h.e.l.l, no. Ridgeview's t-too small-town. They just thought the p-perfect little Miller girl had cracked." She shrugs. "It happens. It was still freaky though."

"Yeah?"

Maggie puts up her hands. "It's the Millers. Moving across the entire d.a.m.n country!"

"Thank you!" I say, glad someone has seen the pertinence of this fact. I chew the inside of my lip, still trying to work it out. "And it's even weirder that they don't let Julien keep in touch. It's like they cut her off completely. Do you think her parents did something illegal?"

Mags gives me a disbelieving look. "Mrs. Miller was a choir director. Literally."

"Okay, fine, but what about her dad? My parents never could stand the guy. I've heard my dad talking about him."

"Well, if they up and left for no reason, maybe, b-but they had a reason. A bat-s.h.i.t crazy d-daughter they wanted to hide."

I swallow hard, shocked at the idea of it, but a little afraid to ask whether or not she's joking. Because if all of this happened to Julien, it might still happen to me.

The flight attendant arrives offering drinks, saving me from my total lack of response. I sip my ginger ale and pretend to be mesmerized by the scenery outside my window.

Mom and Dad took me to New York once, and I remember flying over the city with my nose pressed to the gla.s.s. My eyes had to be the size of dinner plates. I couldn't even conceive of a city so immense, of so many buildings cl.u.s.tered around the brilliant green rectangle of Central Park.

Landing in Los Angeles is totally not like that. It's kind of like landing in Cleveland. Except I spot the Hollywood sign just before I hear the landing gear grinding down.

Maggie's mom must be even better in the kitchen than I think because we're whisked to the hotel by a chauffeured car. Granted, it's not a limo, but still. A sleek black town car with leather seats and television screens in the backs of the seats is a far cry from my decrepit Toyota.

Everything is green and alive in California, as if November doesn't even exist here. After spending every winter of my life in northern Ohio, I feel like I'm on another planet.

"Wow," I say, gazing out at the seemingly endless stream of palm trees and slick cars. "It really is kind of like the movies."

Mags grins at me. "First, we check out the beach."

"First, we check in to the hotel," Mrs. Campbell corrects us, slinging one arm around each of us as our driver unloads our luggage.

If this was my mother, we'd spend the next two hours inspecting the room and discussing safety precautions. But Mrs. Campbell's way more relaxed, so I know we'll see the ocean before we hit the sack.

Two hours later, the three of us make our way to Venice Beach. We try fish tacos and ice cream and laugh the whole way there. Maggie's mom heads into a coffee shop and we wander off to a bench for the best people watching.

I always kind of figured the wildness was exaggerated, but I was dead wrong. The boardwalk is like a giant, scrolling circus sideshow. An enormous guy with the smallest dog I've ever seen rides past on a bright green bicycle, almost b.u.mping a girl who's juggling at least five oranges. A couple of long-haired kids veer around them, speaking to each other in full-on Shakespearian.

Maggie and I shake our heads and trade our cones to try the other's flavor. It's maybe the most perfect day I've had. Unless you count the one I had with Adam, and I can't count that. I can't even think about that unless I want to cry.

I see Maggie out of the corner of my eye, her red-gold hair shining like a penny in the setting sun.

"Maggie?" I say, staring out to sea.

"Mm?"

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened between us?"

Her nose wrinkles, and I wish at once I hadn't said it.

"I'm n-not sure," she says.

I watch the long waves curling in, wishing my memory would come back like the tide. But in the end, maybe I don't want to remember. Maybe it's best to let it stay hidden in dark places.

"Whatever it is, I'm sorry for it," I tell her.

"Yeah. I know that now."

The train speeds forward, cutting down the California coast. I wring my hands and try not to think about where we're going. Or what we're going to see when we get there.

"This is why we're here, Chlo," Maggie says, reading my mind.

"How much longer am I going to be stuck in this train freaking out?"

"Not long now. But I'm sure you'll spaz in the cab too."

The train pulls into the station, and Maggie navigates us to a taxi without any fuss. Maybe it isn't such a big deal for her, but I'm freaking out a little about seeing Julien. If she's gone crazy now, am I next?

Still, the sunshine is positively balmy here. I peel off the sweater I'd worn over my tank top and let the warm breeze improve my mood. I could get used to a town like this. The sky is so blue I feel like I could pour it into a swimming pool.

Our cab driver plays reggae music and drives approximately nine thousand miles an hour. Sometimes I catch glimpses of the bay, a stretch of cobalt water dotted with the white triangles of sailboats. Then I'm back to holding on for dear life, watching Maggie grow greener by the second.

"Twenty-eight dollars," the cabbie says when he finally stops. I peel off a couple of twenties and hand it over. I don't bother asking for change. I'm too interested in being on solid ground again.

The house is nothing like I expected. It is a sleek, ultramodern tower, full of floor-to-ceiling windows and metal beams. It's a smaller version of the kind of house you'd imagine a rock star living in.

I blink up at the windows. I can't see anyone looking, but I still feel the chill of invisible eyes. Maybe I'm imagining it, but I turn away all the same, looking at Maggie instead.

"You okay?" I ask her. She's ghostly pale and breathing deep, thanks to the cab ride I'm sure.

"It's a miracle you're not wearing m-my lunch." She's not exaggerating. Maggie's dealt with carsickness since I've known her. Trips to camp were always a special kind of h.e.l.l.

We head slowly for the door, and even Maggie checks the address again. It doesn't seem possible, the Millers in this cold, steel-coated contraption. If the Millers I knew moved, they'd move to a cottage in the woods, where birds sing and pies are perpetually being cooled on windowsills.

The door swings open and a person who must be Mrs. Miller appears.

"May I help you?" she asks, looking at Maggie instead of me. She sounds like Mrs. Miller. She's wearing her standard summer uniform-a white polo and a khaki skirt-but Mrs. Miller does not sport nine-piece luggage sets under her eyes.

She also doesn't frown. Not ever. I saw Mrs. Miller at her father's funeral, and she smiled so much, I felt like crying for her.

Mags and I stand there, both of us trying to speak and not finding a single word we practiced the night before.

Mrs. Miller looks at me then, and the recognition is immediate.

"Oh!" she says, and her hand goes up to her mouth. Her eyes go wide, and every single bit of color drains out of her. For a minute, I'm sure she's going to scream. Or maybe even pa.s.s out. But instead, she just shakes her head, looking completely shocked.

"My Lord, Chloe Spinnaker. How did you find-" She stops herself, cementing that toothpaste commercial smile I know so well into place. "What on earth are you doing all the way out here?"

I finally find my voice. "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Miller. I'm so sorry we didn't call, but I didn't have a number."

"We brought you this," Maggie says, pulling out a gift bag of maple nut cl.u.s.ters, a handmade candy from a shop downtown that somehow finds its way into every Ridgeview home on Thanksgiving.

It's a weird tradition. Small town or whatever. But Mrs. Miller takes the gift like we're offering her a newborn baby to hold. Like she's never seen anything so perfect or precious in all her life.

"That's the sweetest thing," she says, still cradling her sacred plastic bag of candy. Then her smile falters, as if she's not sure what to do. She looks around once, and then her grin is back. "Won't you both come in?"

We follow her inside with little shuffling steps. I can feel Maggie's tension right along with my own. It's not like we hung out with these people. Or at least we didn't until I got sucked into the Secret Study Sisterhood or whatever.

"I'm so sorry," Mrs. Miller says. "What's your name again?"

"Maggie. Maggie Campbell."

"Oh, of course! Noreen's daughter."

"One and the s-same."

She leads us into the kitchen, and I go cold all over. It's like being in The Twilight Zone. The room isn't just similar to the one in their old house in Ridgeview. It's as close to a carbon copy as it can be.

The same rooster clock sits above the kitchen sink. The same country dish towels hang on the k.n.o.bs of the cabinets. All of the baskets and antique crocks I remember from her old house are lined up on the concrete countertops, doing their best to battle the sterile feel of this place.

Mrs. Miller serves us hot chocolate, though it's got to be eighty-five degrees outside. Still, we sip it politely while she prattles on about the proper way to stuff a turkey. Maggie, a devout vegetarian, pales noticeably as Mrs. Miller instructs us on how to remove the bag of giblets after yanking out the turkey's severed neck.

And then, when she's finished rewiping the counter and discussing poultry technique, her smile shuts off. It's so abrupt, it's like someone flipped a switch. I half expect her head to spin around or something, but she just picks up her own mug and then sets it down again without taking a drink.

"I suppose you're here for Julien," she says.

Maggie and I exchange a quick look. I smile tightly.

"We are."

"I'll call her down if you like. She's just up in her room," she says, her smile so brief it's like a twitch. "But I should warn you..."

"Warn us?" I ask.

Mrs. Miller folds her hands, one on top of the other. "Girls, I don't know how to say this. We'd tried very hard to keep this all quiet..."

Her voice has trailed off, but I know she's not done. So we wait. And after a bit, she blinks a few times and seems to come back to life. "Julien has been...ill. We didn't want people's pity, so we decided it would be best not to reveal her diagnosis."

"Diagnosis?" Maggie asks.

"She has...schizophrenia." It's like the word is being choked out of her. She pauses to take a drink of her cocoa, and I can't help thinking she's trying to wash that word right out of her mouth. "Apparently, it's a disease that runs in my husband's family. Julien was beginning to show symptoms in the last month we were in Ridgeview."

"Is that why you left?" I ask, and immediately decide I shouldn't have. It's like laying all my cards on the table.

To my shock, Mrs. Miller nods. "We wanted a fresh start for Julien. Her disease has taken a very aggressive course. We wanted her to get the best treatment, and there are doctors here that were recommended to my husband. To both of us."

No, this isn't that simple.

"I was s-so surprised Mr. Miller could leave his b-business," Maggie says.

Mrs. Miller cringes like she's been dunked in ice. Her shoulders tense, and her eyes cut away.

"Can we see her?" I ask again, trying to bring back the open lady who seemed so ready to talk before. "I've really missed Julien."

"She misses you too," she says, smiling sadly. "She should be out of the shower, so I'll go get her. Now, again, she has been medicated, but even then her handle on lucidity isn't consistent."

"So it c-comes and goes?" Maggie asks, frowning.

Mrs. Miller's face is crunching with sadness, so I try to explain, drawing from the little I've read. "Schizophrenia can force people to sort of detach from reality. She might be fine one minute-"

"And then she might start talking about The Wizard of Oz as if it's happened just next door," Mrs. Miller says. Her expression is pleasant again, but her eyes hold so much pain, my own chest aches.

"Are you sure you're prepared for this?" she asks.

No. No, I'm definitely not. But I nod anyway.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Mrs. Miller leaves us to wait in a small living room with crushed velvet couches and antique tables. It's all very Jane Austen. All that's missing is a guy in a starched shirt. And maybe tea service.

We sit on the edge of the couch with our hands in our laps, too freaked out to say a thing. I hear voices at the top of the stairs and then footsteps descending. I don't even know how it's possible, but I tense up more.

Julien enters, dressed in khaki shorts and a couple of blue tank tops layered over one another. Her hair is still long and pale, curling at the edges just like a shampoo commercial. And her smile is the carbon copy of her mother's. White and wide. And one hundred percent normal.