from the dining room doorway.

“Oh, that was dramatic,” she said.

“Both of you, honestly.”

Celeste’s chest rose and fell.

Her eyes looked feverish.

“Get upstairs,” she hissed at me, “change out of that ridiculous outfit, and make lunch.

We will not mention this to Adrian.”

“You don’t get to decide that anymore.”

She stepped closer.

“Who will he believe? His mother or the woman who has been unstable for months?”

The word unstable slid into place with a horrible familiarity.

I had heard her use it on calls.

Softly.

Sadly.

Always when she thought I was out of the room.

Elise is overwhelmed.

Elise is sensitive.

Elise takes things personally.

I had not understood she was building a story in advance.

A cage made of concern.

Kiara leaned against the archway and folded her arms.

“Adrian hates drama.

He’ll be furious you dragged him into this while he’s working.”

“He already knows I was in the hospital,” I said.

Celeste froze.

Kiara’s smile faltered.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone.

My hand shook, but I held it anyway.

“I called him.”

Celeste’s voice dropped.

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth.”

For the first time, fear entered the room.

Not mine.

Celeste recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.

“Then we will explain your confusion.

Surgery does strange things to people.”

“And the text?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed.

I opened my messages and read aloud, “‘When you are finished dramatizing, bring groceries.’ That was you, Celeste.

Sent while I was in a hospital bed.”

Kiara looked at her mother.

“You texted that?”

Celeste’s lips thinned.

“Because I knew she was exaggerating.”

“You knew nothing,” I said.

“You didn’t call the hospital.

You didn’t call Adrian.

You didn’t even ask whether I was alive.”

“I am not responsible for every little crisis you invent.”

A sound came from the back of the house.

Soft.

A shift of leather against wood.

Celeste did not hear it.

Kiara did not hear it.

But I did.

The mudroom entrance sat beyond the staircase, half-hidden by a narrow hallway lined with old coats and umbrellas.

Adrian used it whenever he returned from the airport because it opened near the garage.

I had not heard a car.

The rain would have swallowed it.

My heart began to pound in a slow, painful rhythm.

Celeste stepped closer until I could smell jasmine and coffee on her breath.

“Listen to me carefully,” she said.

“You will go upstairs.

You will wash your face.

You will call my son and tell him you frightened yourself, that you overreacted, and that we have taken excellent care of you.

Then you will prepare lunch.

After that, perhaps, I will allow you to rest.”

Allow.

The word opened the final locked door inside me.

“No,” I said.

Celeste lifted her hand.

Not with the tray this time.

Just her hand.

I saw Kiara watching.

I saw the chandelier trembling slightly from the storm.

I saw my own reflection in the dark window: pale, damp-haired, bent with pain, but standing.

Then a man’s voice came from the hallway.

“No,” Adrian said.

“She won’t.”

Celeste’s hand stopped in the air.

Kiara turned so fast her shoulder hit the doorframe.

Adrian stepped into the foyer carrying a rain-dark coat,