“But Spencer is here, after all. He stands at the back, just outside his office. “What happened?” he asks.My eyes burn from the pelting rain and the salt of my tears. “It’s raining,” I say, as if it weren’t completely obvious.“And you decided to lay out in it?”

“I shake my head, knowing that if it hadn’t been for me, Ben wouldn’t have been there in the first place. I try to tell him that, but he swats my words away with his hand and says he wants to show me something.“Sure,” I say, wondering if he’s really as nervous as he seems.He clenches his teeth and hesitates a couple of moments; the angles of his face seem to grow sharper. Finally, he motions to the pant leg of his jeans.There’s a tear right over his thigh.“I know you saw it in the hospital,” he says, exposing the chameleon tattoo through the torn fabric. “I felt you . . . looking at it. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I did this back home, before I ever came to Freetown. Before I ever met you.”“So it’s a coincidence?”His dark gray eyes swallow mine whole. “Do you honestly believe that?”“No,” I say, listening as he proceeds to tell me that a few months before he got to town, he touched his mother’s wedding band—something that reminded him of soul mates—and the image of a chameleon stuck inside his head.“I couldn’t get it out of my mind,” he explains. “It was almost like the image was welded to my brain, behind my eyes, haunting me even when I tried to sleep.”“And you got the tattoo because of that?”“Because I hoped its permanence might help me understand it more—might help me understand what it had to do with my own soul mate.”“And do you understand now?” I ask, swallowing hard.“Yeah.” He smiles. “I suppose I do.”I take a deep breath, trying to hold myself together, desperate to know what he’s truly trying to say here, and what I should say to him as well. I close my eyes, picturing that moment in the hospital when I held his hand and wondering if he would’ve recovered as quickly as if it hadn’t been for the connection between us—the electricity he must have sensed from my touch.”

“It’s all so confusing.”“Only to you it is. Wes and I tend to see things a whole lot clearer than you do. And, as luck would have it, he just happens to be here with me, hiding out from his dad. So why don’t you get your confused ass over here, too?”“Why is he hiding out?”“Because his dad paid Helga to come onto him.”“Helga the cleaning lady?”“Believe it. That woman may be sixty years old and carry her teeth around in a Dixie cup, but apparently she still has game.”“Heinous.”“To put it mildly.”

“What’s the verdict?” Kimmie asks, peering back at me.I stare down at the jumble of words. “I can’t quite tell yet.”“Give us a clue,” Wes says. “I love puzzles.”“That’s because you are one,” Kimmie jokes.I read them the list of words: ARE, ALONE, YOU, NEVER, EYE, WATCHING, ALWAYS, AM.Not five seconds later, Wes has the whole thing figured out. “YOU ARE NEVER ALONE. EYE AM ALWAYS WATCHING!” he says, making his voice all deep and throaty.“Wait, seriously?” I ask, completely bewildered by the idea that he’d be able to unravel the message so quickly. I look at the individual words, making sure they’re all included, and that he didn’t add any extra.“What can I say? I’m good at puzzles.”“Are you good at making them, too?” Kimmie asks. “Because it’s a little scary how you were able to figure that out so fast.”“Do you think it matters that the “eye” in the puzzle is the noun and not the pronoun?” I ask them.“Since when is it a requirement for psychos to be good in English?” Wes asks.“Only you would know.” Kimmie glares at him.“Plus, it’s a puzzle,” he says, ignoring her comment. “You have to expect a few quirks.”“I don’t know,” I say, still staring at the words. “Maybe there’s some other message here. Maybe we need to try unscrambling it another way.”“Such as ‘EYE AM NEVER ALONE. YOU ARE ALWAYS WATCHING,’” he suggests. “Or perhaps the ever-favorite. ‘YOU ARE NEVER WATCHING. EYE AM ALWAYS ALONE.’”Kimmie scoots farther away from him in her seat. “Okay, you really are starting to scare me.”

“Dear Jack:I have no idea who he was. But he saved me. From you.I watched from the doorway as he smacked, punched, and threw you against the wall. You fought back hard- I'll give you that- but you were no match for him.And when it was over- when you'd finally passed out- the boy made direct eye contact with me. He removed the rag from my mouth and asked me if I was okay.'Yes. I mean, I think so,' I told him.But it was her that he was really interested in: the girl who was lying unconscious on the floor. Her eyes were swollen, and there looked to be a trail of blood running from her nose.The boy wiped her face with a rag. And then he kissed her, and held her, and ran his hand over her cheek, finally grabbing his cell to dial 911.He was wearing gloves, which I thought was weird. Maybe he was concerned about his fingerprints, from breaking in. But once he hung up, he removed the gloves, took the girl's hand, and placed it on the front of his leg- as if it were some magical hot spot that would make her better somehow. Tears welled up in his eyes as he apologized for not getting there sooner.'I'm so sorry,' he just kept saying.And suddenly I felt sorry too.Apparently it was the anniversary of something tragic that'd happened. I couldn't really hear him clearly, but I was pretty sure he'd mentioned visiting an old girlfriend's grave.'You deserve someone better,' he told her. 'Someone who'll be open and honest; who won't be afraid to share everything with you.' He draped his sweatshirt over her, kissed her behind the ear, and then promised to love her forever.A couple minutes later, another boy came in, all out of breath. 'Is she alright?' he asked.The boy who saved me stood up, wiped his tearful eyes, and told the other guy to sit with her until she woke up. And then he went to find scissors for me. He cut me free and brought me out to the sofa. 'My name's Ben,' he said. 'And help is on the way.'When the girl finally did wake up, Ben allowed the other guy to take credit for saving her life. I wanted to ask him why, but I haven't been able to speak.That's what this letter is for. My therapist says that I need to tell my side of things in order to regain my voice. She suggested that addressing my thoughts directly to you might help provide some closure.So far, it hasn't done the trick.Never your Jill,Rachael”

“I roll the covers back up over him and take his hand, noticing how well our palms fit together and thinking back to just after the last time he saved me—when he took my hand and told me that we’d always be together.I lower my head to his chest and continue to squeeze his palm. Tears fall onto the bedsheets, dampening the fabric just above his heart. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, over and over again.A few moments later, there’s a twitching sensation inside my hand. Ben’s fingers glides over my thumb. ‘Sorry for what?” he breaths. His voice is raspy and weak.I lift my head to check his face. His eyelids flutter. The monitor starts beeping faster. And his lips struggle to move.“Don’t try to talk,” I tell him, searching for the nurse’s call buzzer.“Please,” he whispers, his eyes almost fully open now. “Don’t let go.”“I won’t,” I promise, gripping his hand even harder.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, stepping out of the car.“Waiting for you.” He closes the car door behind me. “I called you earlier and your mom said you’d be home around nine. You’re two minutes early.”“Should I go away and come back?”“What do you think?” he asks, encircling my waist with his arms.”