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The Hamptons house had never been Macey’s favorite. She didn’t like sand, and her pale skin didn’t do well in the sun. But of all the things about her parents’ summer estate that Macey hated, the worst part had to be the people. Her summer was a revolving door of assistants and colleagues, and her parents’ old college friends who showed up for reasons that went far deeper than they seemed.

But that was okay, Macey told herself.

She wasn’t what she seemed to be either.

At least the Hamptons house had a gym and a library and whole host of satellite feeds that a girl could watch all night, scanning international news wires for information about a teenage spy on the run.

“Macey,” her mother said, barging through her bedroom door. “Still in bed,” she said. “How shocking.”

“I didn’t know you were back,” Macey said.

“Board meetings always conclude on Thursdays during the summer season,” her mother said as if Macey, the family disappointment, would have no need for that information. “Really, Macey, if you’re going to stay up until all hours of the night, at least try not to act surprised that there are people in this house who exist during daylight hours.” There were always people in that house, existing at all hours, Macey wanted to say. But didn’t. Where her family was concerned, there had always been a lot of things Macey didn’t say.

“Are you coming?” her mother said, stopping at the door. “You have a guest.”

Among the revolving door of people who came to the McHenrys’ summer house, none of them ever came for Macey. In fact, there was only one person Macey could think of who might show up, unannounced and looking for help. So before her mother even finished her sentence, Macey was out of bed and bolting down the hall, still in her pajamas, racing past the staff with barely a glance until she reached the sweeping staircase of the main foyer and froze, staring at the young woman below.

“She’s dead,” Macey said, looking down at Abby. She was in a trim black suit, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and wore only a trace of makeup.

“No,” Abby said. “I just came to see how you are.”

For a moment Macey wondered why Abby sounded so official, then she saw that her father was walking through the door and looking up at Macey.

“Oh, here she is,” the Senator said. “Macey, look who came to see you. Agent…”

“Cameron,” Abby said. “From the campaign,” she filled in as if Macey might have forgotten.

“Yes,” Macey said. “Hi.”

The Senator gave them both a smile. “Well, I’ll let you girls catch up.”

They could have gone down to the beach, or to her mother’s sunroom for tea. It was a house built for entertaining. But Macey led Abby to her cluttered bedroom and shut the door behind them.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

Abby shrugged. “Checking on you,” she said.

“You mean checking up on me?” Macey corrected.

“If you’ve heard from her—” Abby started, but Macey cut her off.

“I haven’t,” Macey said, but Abby’s look must have betrayed her skepticism because Macey snapped, “I haven’t. We aren’t the ones who’ve been keeping secrets.” Another skeptical look. “Well, we haven’t kept secrets lately. And we wouldn’t keep secrets about this.” Macey dropped onto her four-poster bed. “She ran away from us, too.”

Macey stood and walked to the window, looked out over the white sand beaches and the waves. It was a million-dollar view, she’d been told. She would have traded every penny for one glimpse of where Cammie might be. Macey watched Abby’s reflection in the window, and studied Abby’s eyes when Macey asked her, “Is there any news?”

“Not a peep,” Abby said slowly.

“Okay. Fine. Then tell me what I can do,” Macey said, standing. “Do you need money? Because I can get you money. Or resources. Dad has a jet…Just, Abby…” She made the woman turn to her. “Tell me there is something I can do!”

Then it was Abby’s turn to drop onto the bed. “We wait, Macey.” Outside, the waves broke along the beach. “School starts next month. If she’s not back for that, then… Until then, all we can do is wait.”

London was always deceptively cold in summer. It was the rain, Bex thought. Even the sunniest days would turn cloudy about 3:00 p.m. Drizzle would turn to showers, and the sky would stay gray for the rest of the day. It would have been enough to put Bex in a bad mood—if Bex had spent any part of her summer in a good mood.

So she stayed with her routine. Morning tea and scones. Afternoon run. Nightly call with Liz and Macey.

Wait for Cammie.

Always waiting for Cammie.

She felt the pavement beneath her feet, pounding it as she ran. When the rain began to fall, it blew cold in Bex’s face, but she didn’t fight it. It felt good, stinging against her skin and dripping into her eyes. She could cry, and no one would even know it.

But Bex didn’t cry.

Bex just ran harder. Faster. Into the heart of the city, past Buckingham Palace and the Queen’s guards. Down streets covered with double-decker buses and black cabs, Bex couldn’t help herself, she peered in every single one, thinking Cammie might be there, looking back.

She would have run all the way to MI6’s headquarters, broken in, stormed the place, pouted and screamed until someone told her where her best friend was. But MI6 didn’t know, or so her parents said.

Bex wished, hoped and prayed that her parents might be lying. She absolutely hated them for choosing to share the truth. When the crowds became too heavy, Bex slowed to a walk. She studied the face of every tourist, all the people leaving work, ascending out of tube stations and getting off buses, making their way home.

No Cammie.

Bex’s heart pounded, and she could feel her best friend in her bones. Cammie was there, Bex thought. Someone was there, watching her, and Bex could find them if only she could run faster, look harder.

Get higher.

And then she saw it, high in the air on the banks of the Thames, looking exactly like a bicycle wheel, spinning and spinning and going nowhere.

Bex knew the feeling.

She crossed the Thames, keeping Big Ben at her back. She didn’t want to think about time—how quickly it was passing, what every day—every minute—had to mean.

She just bought her ticket and stepped onto the Millennium Wheel, reminding herself there’s a reason people had started calling it the London Eye. She wanted to see as far as she could see. She had to scan the streets, look into the distance, and hope to catch a glimpse of Cammie.

It was too cold inside the car. Her wet shirt clung to her shoulders. Her hands shook. And as high as the wheel took her, she still couldn’t see where her best friend had run.

And Bex still didn’t know how to catch her.

The doors opened eventually. The tourists stepped off, moving on, but the wheel never stopped, and Bex stayed seated in the center of the tiny compartment, frozen. Unable to run anymore, to move.

Tears came, flowing down her face, but Bex didn’t even bother to wipe them away. There was no use in pretending anymore. Cammie was gone, and no amount of looking or running or climbing was going to help Bex find her.

So she stayed silent and still until the boy appeared in the open door and said, “Found you.”

“Zach—“ Bex started, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Come on,” he said with a smile. “We have work to do.”