"You've been staring at that thing for hours."
I looked up from the faded leather-bound diary, its spine cracking under the strain of age. Finlay stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a storm in his gaze.
"This isn't just a diary," I said, brushing my fingers over the embossed initials on the cover: L.A.V.—my mother's. "It's a warning."
"From who?"
"From my mother, apparently." I flipped to the page that had stopped me cold. "Look at this."
He moved closer, his warm breath against my cheek as he leaned over to read.
"If you choose to end this, you will lose everything," he read aloud. He straightened, his jaw tightening. "Cryptic much? What does it mean?"
I slammed the diary shut and met his gaze. "I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out."
"And if it's true?"
"Then I guess I'll
