The glow of the phone had hardly faded when the plan began forming in my head — not a linear thing, neat and finished, but a cluster of possibilities, instincts braided with memory. I’d sent the words because I wanted to see her reaction, because I needed to know whether she still listened for me in the dark. I hadn’t expected the silence to be so loud. I hadn’t expected Dante’s hands to find hers so fast. I hadn’t expected the way Camelia had asked the question that woke the old ache inside me and refused to let it sleep.

But plans are tools, and I am restless when I...