I reconciled myself long ago to the fact that my parents aren’t the demonstrative, caring, supportive type. They’re too busy running Fortune 100 companies and making sure they stay on all the right social lists. In a good week, I see them a couple of mornings before school. In a less good week, not at all.

I could wallow in self-pity, indulging in destructive and unproductive behavior, hoping they’ll start paying more attention if my behavior gets bad enough. Or . . . I could act like an adult, accept that no one is going to coddle me in this world, and forge my life into what I expect it to be.

Not hard to guess which option I chose.

Or that Veronica chose the opposite.

I am long past regretting not fighting her bid to be co-chair. If I had known she’d be such a constant thorn in my side, I’d have made certain Emily won the position instead. Oh well, what’s done is done.

Pushing Veronica and her taste for losers aside, I do a quick check in the gold-edged mirror hanging above the foyer table. Not one escapee from my meticulously straightened, crisp chignon; subtle lip sheen still in place; princess-cut diamond studs—real, of course—glinting from each ear. I dust a small speck of lint from my sky-blue cashmere crewneck before deeming myself ready for public appearance. Waving off Natasha, who is only now emerging from the kitchen to answer the door—if she weren’t an impeccable chef, my parents would have fired her long ago—I release the dead bolt and grab the handle.

“Henri, you’re early,” I say with a charming smile, swinging the door wide. “I didn’t expect you until—”

My welcoming comment dies in my throat as I see that standing on my stoop is not the most sought-after pastry chef in the Bay Area, bringing me a sampling of petit fours to choose from for the tea. Instead, I see two girls, about my age. Who, despite wretched taste in clothes, hair that would make my stylist faint, and a pathetic lack of personal style, could be my twins.

Shock does not even begin to describe my reaction.

Not that I allow it to show on my face.

“Greer Morgenthal?” the one on the left, wearing generic blue jeans and a cheap graphic tee, asks.

I rest my hands on my hips. “And who might you be?”

She grins. “We’re your sisters!”

When she starts forward, arms wide like she’s going to hug me, I step back and thrust my palms out to deflect her approach. Her face falls. Is she certifiable?

“I don’t have sisters.”

“I should have printed out the records,” the overfriendly one says. “I just never thought—” She looks at my face and then the other girl’s. “I thought it would be obvious once you saw us.”

The other one rolls her eyes, her dark look matched by her gray cargo pants and fitted black tee. She looks like a walking Army-Navy surplus ad. I wouldn’t be surprised to find daggers hidden in her combat boots.

“I’m Grace,” the cheerful one says, recovering from her disappointment at my reaction. “And this is Gretchen.”

Gretchen crosses her arms in what could be a defensive move, although it is more likely an intimidation gesture. I cross my arms to match her stance. I’m not afraid of her, no matter how many scars and muscles she has.

When I don’t respond, Grace continues. “How funny, we all have names that begin with G-R. Grace. Gretchen. Greer.” She glances nervously from me to Gretchen and back. “Isn’t that cool? I wonder if there’s some special sig—”

“Stop making nice,” Gretchen grumbles, looking bored. “Get to the point.”

“The point?” Grace’s brow furrows. “Oh yeah, the point.” She looks nervously around. “Can we come inside?”

Inside? These girls may look like me, but I don’t know them. For all I know, they could be some new high-tech gang of genetically altered thieves who work their way into houses by posing as the owners.

All right, an unlikely scenario. That’s what I get for electing to read the collected short stories of Ray Bradbury for my extra-credit English project. Too much science fiction.

Still, these girls are strangers. I’m not about to grant them open access to our silver drawer.

“Um . . . no.”

Grace looks slightly taken aback by that, as if she expected me to swing the door wide and say, “Come on in and help yourselves to our priceless art and antiques.”

Undeterred, she repeats slowly, as if I have a hearing problem, “We’re your sisters.” She takes a deep breath, checks the empty street again, and blurts, “And we’re also descendants of the Gorgon Medusa.”

“Excuse me?” I exclaim, losing my well-practiced icy demeanor at her outrageous claim. “I’m sorry. Medusa?”

“You might have wanted to bury the lead a little on that one,” Gretchen mutters.

They are both insane. I curse myself for leaving my phone on the table, several feet away. Since calling for help is out, I nudge the door closed an inch.

“You know, the mortal Gorgon sister,” Grace explains, as if I’m not familiar with the myth. As if I haven’t had an entire semester of college-level classical mythology. Ignorance of the subject matter is not the problem here. “The one Perseus slew by looking at her reflection in his shield.”

When I don’t respond, she looks to Gretchen for help.

Gretchen, in turn, deepens her scowl.

“Of course, that’s not the real story,” Grace continues. “She really was a guardian. History has been rewritten to make her look like a monster. Athena’s involved somehow. Maybe another god too, but we’re not sure who, because Gretchen’s mentor has disappeared and we don’t know where else to—”