Lunch with Davy isn't as eventful as I thought it'd be—he sits with us and eats his food and listens to our conversation without participating. We're talking about a show he probably hasn't seen, so I don't blame him for not having anything to add, but he doesn't seem inclined to start a new topic, either. He's content to be purely decorative.

When the school bell rings, though, he glances back and forth between us and visibly relaxes after Haley says, "Alright, see you later."

Color me intrigued.

Oblivious to this, Haley picks up his backpack and leaves, and then it's just Davy and me. People are probably watching, but I can't be bothered to check; I'm looking at Davy. He patiently waits for Haley to be out of earshot before he meets my gaze.

"Can I talk to you after school?" he asks.

"Why?"

"I just—I need to ask you something."

"Is it about Haley?"

He hesitates, jaw clenching. I can't believe he's even considering denying it. He lets out a sigh and admits, "Yes, it's about Haley."

"Okay. I'll be at my locker." When he starts to protest, I say, "I'm sorry, but I have work today, so I can't go anywhere with you. If this is a lengthy discussion or if you want more privacy, you'll just have to wait until tonight."

"Does Haley know you have work?"

"Uh, I think so."

"Okay. I'll come to your locker."

☽〇☾

When I leave my last class, Davy is already waiting by my locker, or three doors left from it. His arms are crossed, and so are his ankles as he's leaning against the lockers. He's so busy looking around that he doesn't notice me until I'm right beside him.

"Oh—hi."

"Hey," I reply.

He doesn't say anything.

I wait and wait, but all he does is watch me take books out of my backpack and replace them with different books from my locker. By the time I'm done, he still hasn't said a word. I sling my backpack onto my shoulder and raise a brow. "So?"

"Well, I . . ." His eyes wander while he unfolds his arms and folds them again. I can't really blame him for feeling self-conscious. He's hanging around with me. In public.

Honestly, the staring is not that bad today—I guess me coming to Haley's party actually helped in that regard—but things are not going to change overnight, and to Larkwood High, Davy Harding talking to Gus Reed is still a novelty. At least Davy's making an effort, even if it's to sate his own curiosity about something involving Haley.

"I'd like you to, uh, not make fun of me—before I say anything," he mutters.

"Okay."

"I just wanna know why you think I have . . . feelings for Haley."

"Ah."

I wasn't fully convinced it would be about that, but I had a feeling. A pretty strong feeling. It's kind of funny how oblivious Davy is. George calls Sam a simp, but his brother is not much better. He might be worse, actually.

"Why do you think you don't?" I ask.

"That's not an answer."

"Okay, but seriously. How do you think you feel about Haley, then? Be honest."

"I don't know."

"You don't know," I repeat, surprised.

"Yes."

"Well, there's your answer."

He runs a hand over his head with a sigh. "Yeah, that doesn't really clear things up."

"Look, I barely know you and even I can tell you're down bad. At the party, you were practically professing your love for him." When he frowns, I add, "You know, when you were talking about how amazing he is and all that."

"That doesn't mean I'm in love with them."

"Okay. If you say so."

He gives me an unamused look.

"Why did you come ask me about it?" I ask.

"I don't know. It was clearly a mistake, because you're not helping."

As he pushes himself away from the lockers and walks away, I call after him, "Am I not helping because you think I'm wrong or because you know I'm right?"

He stops.

He's not the only one. People have ears, unfortunately. I ignore them and walk up to him so I don't have to raise my voice. I doubt he'd appreciate it if I shouted about him being a lovestruck fool for Haley Sinclair. To be fair, I don't think Haley would like that, either.

"Let's walk," I say.

"I thought you had work."

"I have a few minutes."

"Fine. We can talk in my car."

I follow him out to the parking lot, to a white convertible.

Kurt would lose his shit over this one, too. It's an Alvarez, one of the oldest car brands in the world, but Davy doesn't seem to care much about its value. I wouldn't say the inside of the car is messy, per se, but it's not very orderly, either. Wrappers and an empty plastic bottle are on the backseat, and there's a conspicuous stain on the upholstery. At least it doesn't smell like smoke. No matter how hard Haley tries to keep the smell out by opening the windows, my sensitive nose can't be fooled. This car just smells like leather and plastic, as it should.

The roof is up, so when we get inside, we're shielded from everyone's nosy ears. Despite this—again—Davy doesn't say anything.

"Dude," I say.

"Something was different this weekend, okay?" he blurts. "He was . . . They were softer. And it fucked with my head."

"Softer?"

"Yeah, I don't know. They got a bad headache after the party, and then when I came over the next day, they said they were really tired. But they weren't just tired. They were super . . . sensitive, for some reason. It was weird."

"Wait, I need clarification. Emotionally sensitive or . . . physically?" I can't imagine Davy would even think twice about talking to me about sex. He didn't seem to care about mentioning it around me during the party, either.

He blinks. "Both, I guess. I was gonna say physically, but yeah, both."

Huh.

I wonder if it had something to do with drinking my blood.

When I think about it, Haley didn't seem more sensitive than usual after he stilled his hunger—if anything, it was worse before—but I left pretty soon after George came in, and we didn't talk much the day after, so I don't know what kind of mood he was in. He never told me how drinking blood affected him anyway, other than it feels good to not have to worry about the constant hunger. He didn't even know his eyes looked like he'd done drugs, so maybe he's not aware of it.

No, he's got to be. I don't know about the headache, but he told Davy he was tired, which I know, for a fact, is a lie. He said not drinking blood made him tired, so he should be about ready to run a marathon right now.

Either way, Davy's got other things to worry about.

"So he was more sensitive than normal, and that made you realize you have feelings for him?" I say, turning my head to face him. "What are you gonna do about it?"

He doesn't deny it this time. "I don't know. It doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Haley doesn't like me, so whatever."

"Why do you think he doesn't like you?"

"He basically told me," Davy says.

"Basically."

"Yeah, basically. Last week. He—they asked if I liked them. I said 'no,' and they said 'good.' If they liked me, they wouldn't have said that."

"Have you considered they might be lying?"

"Why would they lie?"

"Because you said you didn't like them, Davy. That's not very encouraging. And I'm not saying he was lying, because I have no idea how he feels about you, but he might be. Don't write off the possibility before you've even raised it."

"Maybe you should ask."

I roll my eyes with a sigh. I'm more interested in knowing why Haley acted the way he did considering it's probably related to him being a shapeshifter, but I guess I can ask him about Davy's feelings, too. "Fine. I'll ask."

☽〇☾

Stacie's is quiet that night.

It usually is on Mondays, which is why it's my favorite work day, but it quickly becomes my least favorite day when someone familiar walks into the store, and it's not George this time. I pretend I don't see her until she notices me, which doesn't happen for several minutes as she's grabbing things and dumping them in her basket. Then she turns toward the cash register and freezes.

I wave. "Hello, Margie."

She comes toward me and drops her basket on the counter as she replies, "Good evening."

"Can vermin touch your groceries?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes.

I barely look at the items as I scan them. "Is your table mine now?"

For a long moment, she stares at me. The beeps continue. The tension is palpable. (I'm glad Stacie is in the back.) Eventually, she replies, "I guess it's ours."

"Ours? Wow."

"I don't mind your company. Haley's I've learned to . . . endure."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that."

"I know the feeling's mutual."

"You know he only thinks you're a bitch because you act like one, right?" I look down at the tube of toothpaste in my hand. "These are on offer. Two for one."

"I only need one."

I scan it and move on.

"Of course I'm aware I act like a bitch," she says, "though I prefer to call it brutally honest. I don't think I need to sugarcoat things for rich pretty boys like Haley Sinclair. He's got enough people sucking up to him."

Well, she's not upper class, that's for sure.

Also, Haley's not a boy.

"And what did I do to deserve your wrath?" I ask.

She shrugs.

I stare at her, then press the TOTAL button on the cash register. "34.15, please."

Her debit card takes care of that.

"I respect you."

"What?"

She sighs. "You subverted my expectations, and everyone else's, for that matter. That's noteworthy. I don't know how you did it, but I commend you for it. Doesn't mean I want to be your friend. Just . . . for the record."

I frown. "Thanks, I think?"

"Also, I will not complain about your friend, but you'd better keep those other silver spoons away from our table." She points her card at me. "Haley's the only tolerable one."

"I can't make any promises," I say, smiling. I don't think I could keep Davy away from Haley even if I tried.

She narrows her dark eyes at me.

I point at her groceries. "Do you want this bagged?"

"Sure."

☽〇☾

When I come home to find Haley's car in front of my house, I wonder with amusement if he's somehow learned how to read minds. For all I know, it could be a side effect of tasting my blood; an invisible link between our minds that only he can decipher.

He's in the living room with Kurt, seated at the dinner table, where they're both peering at the screen of Kurt's phone. By the sound of it, it's playing a video.

Kurt pauses it when I walk in. "Welcome back."

"Hey," I reply, throwing my jacket over an empty chair. "What's going on here?"

"We're just watching a video about cars," Haley says.

"Nerds."

Kurt laughs and gets up. "Don't worry, we won't bore you with the details. I'm going to bed." He pauses, then adds, "Don't be too loud."

"Okay. Night."

Haley waves him goodnight and waits for him to leave the room before he turns to me. "I need your help finding Cavanaugh."

Oh. I almost forgot he asked me about her this morning. I take the seat across from him with a sigh. "I don't know what I can tell you that you don't already know, but alright. I just need to ask you something first. It's about Davy."

"Davy?"

"Yeah, he came to me today because he was . . . concerned, I guess. He said he came over this weekend, and you were really tired and sensitive. But you weren't tired, were you?"

"Um." He leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his mouth. "Yes and no? I had what I like to call a blood hangover. You know, when I . . . drink someone's blood, it's like taking a drug, but the effect wears off after a few hours, which leaves me feeling pretty fucking exhausted, actually. I wasn't that tired anymore when Davy came over, but I, uh, I did use it as an excuse."

"For what?"

"You know that hunger I mentioned?"

"Yeah?"

"When I don't get any blood, it's like . . . Well, it's like there's a person constantly screaming at me about looking for somebody's blood to consume. All day. Every day. When that screaming stops, everything suddenly becomes really"—he raises his hands, spreading the fingers—"clear."

"So you get more sensitive because . . . there's no distraction?"

"Yeah," he says, dropping his arms on the table. "It's not like I normally don't feel anything. The sensations are there, just like you can still hear other things around you when someone is screaming. You're just not paying attention to it because the screaming is so loud, and forcing yourself to pay attention to anything else takes effort. It's easier to drown out the noise with more noise."

"And that's why you don't enjoy . . . boring sex. It's not loud enough."

"Exactly."

"Okay, that makes sense," I say, nodding. "Doesn't explain why Davy said you were also more emotionally sensitive, though."

"What? Why did he say that? My emotional state doesn't change."

I shrug.

"I don't even—" He makes a face. "Okay, I guess we had a pretty heated discussion about . . . He was just being a dense idiot. I lashed out at him."

"About what?"

"Nothing."

I raise a brow.

"Stop that. I'm not telling you."

"Since when do we keep secrets from each other?"

"It's not a—I just don't wanna talk about it."

"No, tell me. What was he being a dense idiot about?"

I swear, I'm gonna scream if these two are into each other and somehow completely oblivious about the other person's feelings.

Haley lets out a sigh. "I was proving a point, okay? We were talking about what you said about me at the party—that I think nobody cares about me or whatever. Davy wouldn't give a shit about me if I wasn't rich, and he confirmed it. He doesn't even understand why it matters; he thinks him caring about me should be enough, as if he wouldn't have been a complete asshole to me, like he was to you."

"Oh. I mean—"

"And then he got all mopey about it."

I grimace, thinking, Yeah, that's what happens when you tell someone who likes you that him caring about you doesn't matter . . .

Honestly, I'm surprised Davy didn't tell me about this part of the conversation when I asked why he thought Haley didn't like him. This is so much worse than Haley saying "good" in response to Davy claiming he doesn't like them. It's not that I think Davy should be excused for how he treats the lower class—he's still a privileged asshole with anger issues—but that doesn't make his feelings for Haley any less real.

Who's the dense idiot now?

"Is this, like, your defense mechanism?" I ask.

"What?"

"You're keeping him at a distance on purpose."

They give me a look. "Yeah, obviously."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? I told you why."

Yes, I know they don't want anyone to get close to them in fear of losing them. I know how ready they are to cut people out, to give them the cold shoulder for not following their instructions and ideals perfectly. What I don't understand is why no one deserves a chance to try.

You'd think I'd be more apprehensive. I have all the reason to mistrust all of these rich bastards, Haley included, but I'm giving them a chance, because I want to believe people are capable of being kind to others. I want to believe they can change. And I am scared—I'm always worried Haley is going to tire of me despite everything he says—but I don't think pushing people away is the answer.

"Look," I say, leaning forward to catch his gaze, "all I'm saying is . . . you could give him a chance."

He makes a face. "Whatever. Can we get back to Cavanaugh?"

"Okay. What's the problem?"

"There are too many Cavanaughs."

"Too many female Cavanaughs whose first name start with a P? In St. Richard?"

"You'd be surprised. On social media alone, I found like four." He takes out his phone and shows me a list. "I found a Piper, but she passed away several years ago, and she was like eighty, so it probably wasn't her. Now, I've got a Penelope, a Phoebe, a Peggy, and a Pauline, all somewhere between twenty and fifty years old. Any of those sound familiar?"

"Well, it wasn't Phoebe. It was definitely a P."

"Great. That narrows it down a lot."

"Give me a break. I was thirteen."

"Do you know how old she was?"

"No, but I think we can cross anyone out who's younger than thirty since she was already an adult seven years ago."

"Okay, that eliminates Pauline." He taps on the backspace button and sighs. "But this is just everyone who's on social media. Who knows how many more P's there are?"

"Why not ask your mom for help?"

"Dude, I can't just ask her to find a random person for me."

"Why not?"

"She's gonna ask questions."

"What about your dad?"

"No. I love him, but he's useless. I wish we could ask your mom for help."

I lean back, rolling my eyes. "Yeah. Me too."

"What about your dad?"

"You wanna try finding a Michael Williams in God-knows-where?"

"Really? Michael Williams?"

"Yup."

"Okay, back to P. Cavanaugh," he mutters. "What are the chances she's not on social media? What are the chances she's not even in St. Richard anymore?"

"I don't know, but maybe we should just work with what we do know and then . . . we'll go from there. Show me what those two look like."

He looks up Peggy and shows me her profile picture, and I see a woman in her late forties with graying hair, glasses, and a friendly smile. Her other pictures show a husband and two kids. A dog, too. I know looks can be deceiving, but she really doesn't seem like a person who would sell information about mythicals to desperate mothers.

Penelope is younger—thirty-two, according to her profile. When I scroll through her posts, I find about three different boyfriends, but they don't appear in more than two or three of her pictures. The rest are selfies, or pictures with friends. No kids. No pets.

What stands out to me the most is her face, though. Her smile is exactly the sort of smile I would expect to see on a snake's face.

"Does she look sort of mischievous to you?" I ask.

"She looks hot."

"Helpful."

Haley laughs. "No, you're right. She does. Do you think it's her?"

I shrug. "Could be."

"Okay." He underlines Penelope's name in his list. "Suspect number one."

☽〇☾