I’m silent for a moment. Dad said the same thing, more or less, but he insisted that they were both healthy. Now I’m starting to think he lied.

“Are you guys okay?”

“Physically? Yeah. Top condition.”

“Money problems?” I ask. Unlikely. Dad is the most fiscally conservative man I know. He has a great job. Mom was the one who made uncalculated money moves, and he still loved her.

Renn snorts. “No.”

“Mentally . . . is there . . . I mean, are there . . . ?” This is a hard one to articulate.

“It’s nothing like that. Nothing apocalyptic.” He sounds short, annoyed.

“Then what’s going on?” I press.

“It’s not for the phone. Just come home. You’ve been gone for years. I know you’re pissed with yourself, and honestly? Dad and I are pissed with you too.” It hurts to hear, even though I already knew that. “But now there’s shit to deal with, so it’s time to drag ass back home before it’s too late.”

Late for what? I’ve already lost you.

“I’m coming,” I say defensively, sitting up straighter in my bed. “At Christmas. I already told Dad.”

“Christmas is too far away. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”

“I can’t help that I have a job, Renn.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Your job’s the last reason you’re staying away. We both know that.”

A loud, lengthy honk pierces my ear through the other end of the line, followed by, “Are you coming, or what?” It’s the woman he’s seeing. I already hate her. Can’t she see he’s busy?

“Yeah, yeah,” Renn mutters, sounding completely bored with her existence. To me, he drawls, “Thanks for the gifts. Just remember next time that material stuff means jack shit. When we need you, you aren’t here.”

The line goes dead.

A storm rolls over Salem that day to complement my shitty mood. I have a shift at Witch Way Out, and I’m working on autopilot. Whenever the shop’s empty—and it’s mostly empty, seeing as nobody in their right mind is strolling the streets in this weather—I use the time to call Renn. I get his voice mail again and again. Something stops me from leaving a message. I don’t know what it is. Or maybe I do—I have no good excuse. He is right. They need me to be there for whatever reason, and I’m not ready to face the wreckage I left behind. I’m so much better at sending birthday gifts and cards and letters.

Dom texts me throughout the day to make sure I’m okay. I don’t bring him up to speed on my family drama. He has a day off today, but we can’t meet. I have to go and give a tour right after my shift. When I close the shop for the day and prepare the register for tomorrow, I hear a knock on the glass. At first, I think it’s hail.