Outside, Lilith crossed the school parking lot toward the smoke-filled woods. She coughed, trying not to think about how good it had felt to make music with Cam and Jean. It was stupid to have jammed with them, stupid to hope for anything, because she was Lilith and everything always sucked and she never, ever got what she wanted in life.
Other kids didn’t hesitate when they were asked about their dreams. “College,” they’d say, “then a career in finance.” Or, “Backpack in Europe for two years,” or, “Join the marines.” It was as if everyone but Lilith had gotten an email that explained which schools to apply to, and how to join Tri Delt once you were there, and what to do if you wanted to be a doctor.
Lilith wanted to be a musician, a singer of her own songs—but she knew better than to believe it was possible.
She sat down at her spot by the creek and unzipped her backpack, reaching inside for her journal. Her fingers groped for the book. She reached deeper, pushing aside her history textbook, her pencil bag, her key ring. Where was her journal? She opened the bag wide and dumped out its contents, but the bound black book wasn’t there.
Then she remembered she’d taken it out in the band room when she thought she was going to sing. It was still in there. With Cam.
In a heartbeat, Lilith was on her feet and sprinting back to the band room, running faster than she knew she could. She shoved open the door, gasping for breath.
The band room was empty. Cam and Jean—and her black notebook—were gone.
Twelve Days
Lilith’s black notebook lay open on a bench in the boys’ locker room the next morning as Cam got dressed for school. When she’d run out of the band room yesterday, his intention had been to return the journal to her immediately. He’d looked for her at Rattlesnake Creek, but she wasn’t there, and he couldn’t drop it at her house because he didn’t know where she lived.
The longer he held the journal in his hands, though, the deeper the temptation became to open it. By sundown, he broke, and he’d stayed on the roof of the Trumbull gym all night, reading and rereading every one of Lilith’s brilliant, devastating songs by the light of his cell phone.
He knew it was wrong. A violation of her privacy. But he couldn’t stop himself. It was like someone had lifted the velvet rope outside Lilith’s heart and given him VIP access. Once, long ago, Cam had touched this tender, vulnerable side of Lilith, but now he could only glimpse it through her songs.
And these songs? They wrecked him. Each one—from “Misery Loves” to “Standing at the Cliff’s Edge” to Cam’s personal favorite, “Somebody’s Other Blues”—was dominated by suffering, humiliation, and betrayal. The worst part was knowing precisely where all this pain came from. Bearing the memories for both of them was torture.
The way Lilith looked at him now, like he was a stranger, was torture, too. Cam could finally empathize with Daniel, who’d had to start over with Lucinda every time they met.
Dressing in another stolen T-shirt and his usual jeans and leather jacket, Cam was so ashamed of the pain he’d caused Lilith that he found it hard to meet his own eyes in the mirror. He finger-combed his wet hair and was surprised to find that it felt a little thinner. And, now that he thought about it, his jeans felt a little tighter around the waist.
He leaned in to look at his reflection and was taken aback by a few age spots near his hairline—which, he could see, had receded a half inch. What was happening?
Then it hit him: Lucifer was happening to him, manipulating Cam’s mortal appearance to make winning Lilith’s love even harder. As if it wasn’t hard enough already.
If the devil was slowly stripping away the good looks Cam took for granted, what advantage would he have left? He would have to up his game. His gaze fell on Lilith’s journal, and suddenly he knew what he had to do.
The dismal, dusty library was the one place on Trumbull’s campus that actually had reliable Wi-Fi. Cam grabbed a chair by the window so he could see when Lilith’s bus arrived. It was a Saturday morning, which meant that under other circumstances Lilith might still be sleeping, but Saturday meant nothing in Crossroads. Lucifer had bragged that there were no weekends in this Hell. None of the other students noticed or cared, for instance, that their prom was taking place on a Wednesday.
Cam pitied them. They had no idea of the particular joy of a Friday afternoon at four o’clock, or the hedonistic thrill of a Saturday-midnight joyride that took all of Sunday to recover from—and they never would.
Through the library window Cam could see hints of orange light given off by the wildfires encircling Crossroads. He knew Lilith’s temper would rival their blaze if she discovered what he was about to do, but he had to risk it.