Chapter 4
Summer's POV
I woke up to someone shaking my shoulder, their voice urgent but hushed, and for a moment all I could hear was the screech of metal tearing apart, the explosion of glass, the terrible final crunch of impact.
"Summer? Summer? We need to go to home room, we're going to be late."
The voice was familiar but wrong, too young and too close, and I jerked upright so fast my vision swam, my heart hammering against my ribs. My face was wet—had I been crying?—and my whole body felt overheated, sticky with sweat. I couldn't tell if I was still trapped in the nightmare or if I'd somehow woken into something worse.
"Hey, are you okay?" The voice came again, softer now, concerned. "God, Summer, you've been crying. Did you have a bad dream?"
I blinked hard, trying to focus. I was in a library—I could tell from the high ceiling and the smell of old books—but it wasn't any library I recognized from my adult life. This was smaller, more intimate, with afternoon sunlight streaming through a domed skylight and falling in patches of colored light across wooden tables.
And the girl leaning over me, her hand still on my shoulder—I knew that face.
"Mia?" I heard myself say, my voice hoarse and confused.
She looked exactly the way I remembered her from high school: short hair cut just below her ears, small delicate features, thin eyebrows raised in concern. But that didn't make sense because the last time I'd seen Mia Harper was three years ago on TV, when she'd stood outside the courthouse and told the cameras that I wasn't a criminal, that I was a victim too.
"Yeah, it's me," Mia said, giving me a strange look. "Are you sure you're okay? You sound really weird."
I stared at her, my brain struggling to process what I was seeing. She was wearing a St. Jude's uniform and she looked so impossibly young, like someone had rolled her back a decade. Her face was smooth and unlined, her eyes bright with energy, and when she bit her lip nervously I could see the tiny chip in her front tooth from gym class sophomore year.
Sophomore year.
I looked down at my hands where they were pressed against the table, and they were wrong too—smaller than I remembered, nails painted cheerful pink instead of neutral nude, palms smooth and uncallused.
"Summer, you're seriously freaking me out," Mia said, her voice climbing higher. "Should I get the nurse?"
"I'm fine," I managed to force out, though my voice shook. "I just—I need a minute."
Mia hesitated, then nodded and started gathering my things. "Okay, but we really do need to go. Ms. Thompson is going to kill us if we're late."
Ms. Thompson. The name sent another shock through my system because Ms. Thompson had retired years ago. But if she was here now, if Mia looked like this, then that meant—
We walked out of the library together, Mia chattering about chemistry homework, and I tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The hallway was exactly as I remembered—scuffed floors, navy lockers, bulletin boards covered in club announcements—but everything felt slightly off, like I was looking at a photograph of my own memories.
"Did you hear about the new student?" one girl said as we passed.
"Oh my God, yes! I saw him in the office this morning and he's gorgeous. Like, seriously gorgeous. Way hotter than Evan."
"I heard he's some kind of physics genius," her friend replied. "Tyler said the school threw money at him to transfer here. Full scholarship plus signing bonuses."
Mia leaned closer to me. "I heard he's from South Boston. And that he got in some kind of trouble at his old school? The whole thing sounds kind of sketchy."
My heart started racing, pounding so hard I could feel it everywhere. A new student. A physics genius. From South Boston.
No. It couldn't be.
We were almost at the classroom when someone came barreling around the corner, crashing into a desk in the hallway. The desk slid sideways and caught my foot, the heavy wood pressing down on my new white Adidas and leaving a dark scuff mark.
"Oh shit! Sorry, sorry!" the guy said, flushed with embarrassment.
"It's okay," I said automatically, but I wasn't paying attention because my foot was throbbing, aching in a way that dreams didn't ache. When Mia crouched down with a tissue to wipe the scuff mark, I could feel every movement against my skin.
Dreams didn't hurt like this. Dreams didn't have this kind of detail.
"You're really out of it today," Mia said, looking up at me. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
I nodded and let her pull me to the classroom. Ms. Thompson appeared in the doorway with test papers, and the chaos died instantly.
"I swear to God, if I have to tell you people one more time to keep it down," she said sharply. "This is a school, not a zoo." She set the papers down, then turned to face us. "Now, I assume you've all done last night's physics homework?"
I stared at her, taking in every detail—the perfectly pressed black suit, the severe bun, the glasses that caught the light. This was Ms. Thompson exactly as she'd been ten years ago, before retirement softened her edges.
"All right, settle down," Ms. Thompson said, glancing toward the door. "Come on in. Don't be shy."
I stopped breathing.
A boy stepped into the classroom.
He was tall—at least six-two—with dark brown hair that fell across his forehead and deep gray eyes that seemed to cut through everything they looked at. He wore the standard St. Jude's uniform, the navy blue blazer fitted perfectly across his broad shoulders, the white shirt crisp beneath it, dark slacks that somehow made him look older than seventeen. Over the blazer he had on a faded grey hoodie, slightly worn at the cuffs, and his shoes were old Converse—the only things that hinted he might not belong in this world of old money and privilege.
But God, he was beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, that mouth set in a hard line that made you want to know what it would take to make him smile. He moved with a kind of controlled grace, every step deliberate, his expression completely unreadable.
"This is Kieran Cross," Ms. Thompson said briskly. "He's transferring here from Boston Latin. I expect all of you to make him feel welcome." She gestured toward an empty seat. "Kieran, you can sit there for now."
The whispers started immediately—"so hot," "kind of intense," "physics competition"—but I couldn't focus on any of it because all I could see was him, walking past my desk without even glancing in my direction, his face a perfect mask.
This was Kieran at seventeen. Not the cold billionaire who'd controlled every aspect of my life. Not the husband who'd touched me like I was something he owned. Not the man who'd smiled as he sank beneath the water, who'd mouthed I love you with his last breath.
This was Kieran before all of that. Before the fortune, before the marriage, before the death. Kieran when he was still just a boy trying to survive in a world that didn't want him.
He slid into the empty seat and pulled out a notebook, his right hand moving across the page in quick, precise strokes. That hand. That hand that had pushed me toward safety at Walden Pond, that had reached for me even as he drowned.
The tears came without warning, and I had to bite down hard to keep from making a sound. Mia squeezed my hand under the desk, worried and confused, but I couldn't explain. How could I explain that I was crying because I was looking at a boy who was going to die in ten years, who was going to sacrifice everything for me, who I'd never really known until it was too late?
I grabbed Mia's phone and checked the date.
September 11, Friday.
September eleventh. The day Kieran had transferred to St. Jude's Preparatory Academy. The day everything had started.
I looked at him again, at the way he hunched over his notebook like he was trying to disappear, and I felt something crack open in my chest. He looked so young. So guarded and alone, surrounded by kids who'd never known what it meant to struggle.
I came back, I thought. I came back and you're alive. This time I'm going to see you. This time I won't look away.
"Summer?" Mia whispered. "Are you really okay? You're crying."
I wiped my eyes quickly and managed something like a smile. "I'm fine," I said, and this time my voice was steady. "I'm better than fine."