Inside her head, where she lived most of her life now, Izzy used a word that she knew would get her grounded for weeks if she said it aloud.

“Grab a cab,” her father was saying, “I’ll pay when you arrive.”

Why would he pay? Couldn’t Flora afford a cab?

Flora worked in a flower shop. It wasn’t a job Izzy had ever thought about. What did a florist even do?

Maybe money was a factor in the relationship.

Her father ended the call and Izzy held her breath. Please let it be something simple. Please don’t let it be as bad as it sounded.

“Dad?”

He turned, distracted. “Sorry. Poor Flora. What a morning.”

“What happened?”

“Her home has flooded. A pipe burst in the apartment above her or something. The ceiling came down. There’s plaster all over her bed. Everything is underwater and most of her things are ruined. Such bad luck. Can you believe that?”

She could believe the bad luck part. Since her mother had died life had poured nothing but crap on her. What she was less inclined to believe was Flora’s sob story.

Was her apartment really flooded, or was it a ploy?

Her father was being taken for a ride.

Izzy’s brain switched into journalist mode. The first step was to verify the story. She wasn’t going to be one of those journalists who were casual with the truth. Her readers were going to be able to trust every word she wrote and spoke. And she was starting right now. She was going to take a look at the “flood.”

“Poor Flora. How could you even think of asking her to grab a cab? She must be in such a state. We should go get her, Dad.”

“Get her?”

“If her stuff is underwater, how is she going to rescue it all by herself? We can all help.” And they could all witness the fact that the “flood” was nothing more than a figment of Flora’s imagination.

Izzy had a brief daydream where she became an undercover reporter, rooting out lies and dishonesty. Corrupt CEOs would hear her name and tremble. They’d be afraid to take her calls or give an interview because they’d know she was coming for them.

“What about your soufflé?”

Did a journalist following the scent of a story pause to worry about food? They did not.

She shrugged. “What does food matter when a person is in trouble?”

Her father reached out and hugged her. “You’re a thoughtful girl, Izzy.”

She wasn’t thoughtful. She was fighting for her place in this family, although he didn’t know that of course. “Let’s go. I’ll rescue the soufflé and you call a cab and get Molly ready.”

“I should probably tell Flora we’re coming “