“Thanks, Mom.”

She tucked a strand of her short, straight hair behind her ear. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Miami has the world’s worst drivers,” my father muttered.

My mother’s lips formed a thin line as she busied herself by making a pot of coffee. My eyes flicked to the kitchen window and searched our backyard through the rain.

I was searching for Jude, I realized with an accompanying sting of shame. He was making me paranoid. And I didn’t want to be.

“Hey, Mom?” I asked.

“Hmm?”

“Did you take out my doll?” There was a chance that she, not Jude, had moved it, and I had to be sure.

My mother looked up from the coffeepot, confused. “What doll?”

I exhaled through my nose. “The one I’ve had since I was a baby.”

“Oh, Grandma’s doll? No, honey. Haven’t seen it.”

That’s not what I’d asked, but I had my answer. She didn’t touch it. I knew who did, and this could not go on.

I glanced at the microwave clock, wondering when Noah would get here. I had to behave normally until he did.

“So how was Day One of spring break?” I asked Daniel between sips of hot chocolate. The liquid was warm, but didn’t warm me through.

“We went to the Miami Seaquarium.”

I almost choked. “What?”

Daniel shrugged a shoulder. “Joseph wanted to see the whale.”

“Lolita,” I said, setting down my drink.

My father shot my brother a look. “Wait, what?”

“It’s the name of the killer whale,” Daniel explained.

“How was it?” Mom asked.

Joseph shrugged. “Kind of sad.”

“How come?” Dad’s forehead creased.

“I felt bad for the animals.”

My turn. “Did Noah go with you?” I didn’t honestly care. I just wanted to know the answer to my real question without actually having to ask it or call him. Namely, where was he now, and was he coming back?

“Nope, but he’ll be over in an hour,” Daniel said. “Mom, can he stay for dinner?” He winked at me behind my mother’s back.

Thank you, Daniel.

“How come you ask her and not me?” my dad asked.

“Dad, can Noah stay for dinner?”

He cleared his throat. “Doesn’t his own family want to spend some time with him?”

Daniel made a face. “I don’t think so, actually.”

“Who wants cookies?” Mom asked. I caught the look she exchanged with my father as she opened the oven and the smell of heaven filled the kitchen.

My dad sighed. “It’s fine with me,” he said, and handed me his cell. “Go call him.”

I backed slowly out of the kitchen, then raced to my bedroom. I dialed Noah’s number.

“Hello?”

His voice was warm and rich and home and my eyes closed in relief at the sound of it. “Hi,” I said. “I’m supposed to tell you that you’re invited for dinner.”

“But . . .?”

“Something happened.” I kept my voice low. “How soon can you get here?”

“I’m getting in the car right now.”

“Noah?”

“Yes?”

“Plan to spend the night.”

19

AN HOUR LATER, NOAH STILL HADN’T SHOWN. I was restless and didn’t want to be in my tainted room.

Daniel caught me lurking in the living room, pretending to read one of my parents’ books from college I had found in the garage. I was waiting for Noah, but there was no need to be obvious.

“What goes on, little sister?”

“Nothing,” I said, staring at the yellowed page.

Daniel walked over to me and took my book in his hands. Flipped it right side up.

Damn.

“You had one heck of a day,” he said softly.

“I’ve had better,” I said. “And worse.”

“You want to talk about it?”

I did, but I couldn’t. Not to him. I shook my head and clenched my teeth to hold back the ache in my throat.

He sat in the squashy black-and-gold-patterned armchair opposite me. “Don’t worry about the key, by the way,” he said casually.

I looked up from the book. “What key?”

“My house key?” He raised an eyebrow. “The one that was on my key ring you took without permission? The one I asked you about when you were in the . . . while you were away?”

“Your key was missing,” I said slowly.

“That is what I’ve been attempting to communicate, yes. But Dad had it copied today, so no big. Why’d you take it off the ring, though?”

But I wasn’t listening to him anymore. I was thinking about the pictures taken with my camera. The doll on my desk, taken from its box. The writing on my mirror.

The doors locked from the inside.

I didn’t take Daniel’s house key. Jude did. That was how he came and went without breaking in, and he could do it whenever he wanted now. The thought tore at my mind and the horror must have shown on my face because Daniel asked if I was okay.

The way he asked, like all he wanted to do in the world was help me, nearly broke me down. He was my big brother; he helped me with everything, and I so wished I could have his help with this. Daniel was the smartest person I knew—if only I could have his brain on my side.

But then this expression settled over his face. Tentative. Unsure. Like he didn’t know what to say to me. Like I was freaking him out.

It snuffed out whatever spark of hope I might have had. “Yeah,” I said with a tiny smile. “I don’t remember about the key.” I shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry.”

I hated lying to him, but after I did, Daniel visibly relaxed and that made me want to cry. Daniel cocked his head. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

No. “Yeah,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” he said lightly, and returned to his notebook. Then he began to write. Loudly.

And started to hum. I snapped my book shut.

“Am I bothering you?” he asked innocently.

Yes. “Nope.”

“Good.” He went back to his scribbling, scratching his pencil furiously against the paper, flipping pages of his book with an unparalleled level of noise.

He was clearly not going to let me stew in solitude. I gave up. “What are you writing?”

“A paper.”

“About?”

“The self-referential passages in Don Quixote.”

“You’re on spring break.”

“It’s due next week,” he said, then looked up. “And it amuses me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Only you would find homework amusing.”

“Cervantes comments on the narrative within the narrative itself. I think it’s funny.”

“Hmm,” I said, and reopened my book. Right side up, this time.

“What are you not-reading?” he asked.

I tossed my book over to him in answer.

“The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner: Written by Himself, by James Hogg? Never heard of it.”

“That’s not something I hear often.” And despite everything, it brought a smile to my lips.

“Indeed,” he said, studying the book. He turned it over, then started reading the summary on the back. “‘Part gothic novel, part psychological mystery, part metafiction, part satire, part case study of totalitarian thought, Memoirs explores early psychological theories of double consciousness, blah blah blah, predestination theory, blah blah blah—James Hogg’s masterpiece is a psychological study of the power of evil, a terrifying picture of the devil’s subtle conquest of a self-righteous man.’” He made a face. “Where’d you find this?”

“In the garage. It looked interesting.”

“Yes, you’re clearly riveted.” He stood up and handed it back to me. “But that’s not what you should be reading.”

“No?”

“No. Don’t move.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a minute later, carrying a book. He handed it to me.

I made a face as I read the title out loud. “One Thousand Obscure Words on the SAT?”

“Better get cracking,” my brother said. “They’re only a couple of months away.”

“Are you serious? I was just pulled out of school.”

“Temporarily. For health reasons. Which, by the way, is how Dad got the principal to change your F in Spanish to an Incomplete, so this Horizons thing is not a total loss. You can start your SAT prep now and take them in June, just in case you want to retake in October.”

I said nothing. Things like grades and SATs seemed utterly alien compared to my current problems. And I hated that we could talk so easily—so normally—about books and school and anything but what was really going on with me. I watched my brother write, the words flowing from his pen without hesitation. Give Daniel an abstract problem, and he can solve it in seconds.

Which gave me an idea.

“You know,” I said slowly, “there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

He lifted his eyebrows. Put his notebook down.

“Don’t move,” I told him, then bolted to my room. I grabbed a notebook and a pen off of my desk and ran back to the living room. I couldn’t tell my brother about my real problems because my brother didn’t believe they were real.

But if I told him they weren’t real, maybe he could actually help.

20

I WALKED BACK INTO THE LIVING ROOM AND GLANCED out the enormous picture window. Still no sign of Noah’s car. Good. He’d never go for this.

I sat down on the couch and positioned the spiral notebook conspicuously on my lap. “So,” I said to my brother casually, “At Horizons, they gave us this assignment,” I started, my lie beginning to develop. “To, uh, fictionalize our . . . problems.” That sounded about right. “They said writing is cathartic.” Mom’s favorite word.

My brother broke into a smile. “That sounds . . . fun?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Okay, so maybe fun’s the wrong word.”

“ ‘Stupid’ would be more appropriate,” I said, adding an eye roll. “They want us to work things out in a safe, creative space. I don’t know.”

My brother nodded slowly. “It makes sense. Sort of like puppet therapy for little kids.”

“I don’t know what that is, and I’m glad.”

Daniel chuckled. “Mom told me about it once—the therapist uses a puppet to indirectly address the kid’s feelings in an impersonal way; the child transfers her feelings to the puppet. Your assignment sounds like the teen version.”

Sure. “Exactly. So, now I have to write this story thing about me but not me, and I need help.”

“It would be my utmost pleasure.” Daniel hunched forward and rubbed his hands together. He was into it. “So. What’s your premise?”

Where to begin? “Well . . . something weird is happening to this girl. . . .”

Daniel placed his hand in his chin and glanced up at the ceiling. “Fairly standard,” he said. “And familiar.” He grinned.

“And she doesn’t know what it is.”

“Okay. Is it something supernatural weird, or something normal weird?”

“Supernatural weird,” I said, without hesitation.

“How old is she?”

“A teenager.”

“Right, of course,” he said with a wink. “Does anyone else know what’s happening to her?”

Just Noah, but he was as lost in this as I was. And everyone else I tried to tell didn’t believe me. “She’s told other people, but no one believes her,” I said.

Daniel nodded sagely. “The Cassandra effect. Cursed by Apollo with prophetic visions that always came true, but were never believed by anyone else.”

Close enough. “Right.”

“So everyone thinks your ‘protagonist’ is crazy,” he said, making air quotes with his fingers.

Everyone does seem to. “Pretty much.”

A smile appeared on Daniel’s lips. “But she’s an unreliable narrator who happens to be telling the truth?”

Seems that way. “Yep.”

“Okay,” he said. “So what’s really happening to you—I mean, her?”

“She doesn’t know, but she has to find out.”

“Why?”

Because she’s a murderer. Because she’s losing her mind. Because she’s being tormented by someone who should be dead.

I studied my brother. His posture was relaxed, his arms draped casually over either side of the patterned black and gold armchair. Daniel would never believe that the things that were happening to me, the things I could do, were real—aside from Noah, who would?—but it was important to make sure he thought I didn’t believe they were real either. I had to make sure he didn’t think I believed my own fiction, or I would set off his alarms.

So I lolled my head back and looked at the ceiling. Stay casual, stay vague. “Someone’s after her—”

“Your antagonist, good . . .”

“And she’s getting worse. She needs to figure out what’s going on.”

Daniel leaned his chin on his hand and raised his eyebrows. “How about an Obi-Wan slash Gandalf slash Dumbledore slash Giles?”

“Giles?”

Daniel shook his head sadly. “I hate that I never managed to persuade you to watch Buffy. It’s a flaw in you, Mara.”