In the blur of terror that followed Juliet’s call, I rented a car and drove through the snarl of traffic between Manhattan and Connecticut, doing eighty miles an hour when I could, slamming on the brakes when I saw taillights. Even though I’d tried calling Alexander as soon as I hung up with Jules, he wasn’t answering. He had a habit of keeping the phone off while he drove, which was not at all convenient at this moment. After leaving six messages, I called Carter and told him instead, hiccuping with sobs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “Good luck. I’m here for anything you need. If you want me to call Sister Mary or anything, if you need me to water your plants, let me know.”

The whole way there, tears streaked down my cheeks and I had to fight not to break down. My dad had been my idol growing up—always encouraging, upbeat and fun . . . not to mention the parent who actually liked me. He taught me to play poker and swim and never said art school was a bad idea. He told me I was pretty and never criticized my clothes, even in my goth stage. He came to visit me once a month in the city, and still held my hand when we were crossing the street. He couldn’t be dying. Not without me there.

All my life, there’d been a clear division in the family. Juliet “Perfection from Conception” was Mom’s; I, the lesser child in just about every measurable aspect except artistic ability, was Dad’s. He never seemed to think he got the short end of the stick.

“Please don’t die, please don’t die,” I chanted under my breath. Who else would root for me the way he did? Who else would be so . . . so delighted at every turn of my life? It seemed that all my childhood, Mom had lectured on everything from posture to how to clean the bathroom to grades, and Dad had been right behind her, sweeping away the criticism with a grin or a wink and maybe a trip to the ice cream parlor. Everything he did let me know I was loved, whereas everything Mom did let me know I was wrong.

There was a reason I rarely came back to Stoningham, and when I did, it was only for a day. And there was a reason my father came to visit me in the city, sleeping on the pullout couch, thinking it was the best fun ever. Those were always like old times, when I was little and afraid of thunderstorms, and Dad would tell me stories about girl warriors who rode monsters they’d tamed into battle.

My chest felt like it was being crushed. Where the hell was Alexander? Why wasn’t he calling me?