Her father looked around, confused. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he seemed to have a flash of lucidity.

“I’m fine, honey,” he said, grabbing the counter with one hand and pulling himself up. His movements were slow, labored, like an elderly person with arthritis. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

Maggie stared at him, trying to process the scene. “What happened? Did you slip and bump your head?” Her eyes went to the vomit. When Maggie was little, her mother seemed obsessed with concussions, the plight of a football mom, and Maggie remembered that throwing up could be a sign of a serious head injury.

“No. I think I may have gotten food poisoning. After dinner, I got this intense heat in my face and I threw up.” Her dad went to the sink and ran water from the faucet, cleaning whatever was in the basin. “I must’ve passed out. But I’m okay, I’m fine.”

What would make you so sick you’d pass out? Maggie’s eyes were drawn to the bottle of Scotch on the counter. It was nearly empty, less than a finger of brown liquid settled at the bottom. Her dad wasn’t much of a drinker—well, until lately. She started to put things together. He was passed-out drunk. Embarrassed to tell her.

“You’re home,” her dad said, more upbeat. He grabbed for the paper towel dispenser, unraveled a handful, and cleaned up the mess on the floor, casually, as if it weren’t strange at all.

“I thought you were staying at Harper’s?”

Maggie considered telling him about the party. About what had happened with Eric. She was still shaken up. But she, too, was embarrassed. Weirdly ashamed. But most of all, she worried that her dad might go off half-cocked. Call Eric’s parents. Or confront him, even.

“I wasn’t feeling well myself,” Maggie said. “I wanted to sleep in my own bed.”

“Can I get you something?” Her father opened the cupboard where they kept Advil and over-the-counter medicine.

“I’m fine,” she said.

He seemed to believe her. And he didn’t notice that she was dressed for a party, not a lazy sleepover. Just as well. Her dad didn’t need more to worry about.

Her father had a glint in his eyes, like he’d just realized something. Maggie felt a jolt, worried that he knew she was lying. But he rushed to his smartphone on the counter and gestured for her to come over.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said. His tone was excited, eyes manic.

He started thumbing the phone. “I got a video call. Right before I got sick.”

Maggie just watched him.

“It was her, Magpie.”

“Who?”

He looked at her intently: “Charlotte.”

Okay, he must’ve bumped his head. “What are you talking about?”

“She called. She seemed scared. I saw her. She was alive.…”