No, not twin—Phoebe. Twin is an impersonal word. Four letters, one syllable, no smell of incense or ginger snaps or oil paints. No long dark hair coiled in a haphazard knot at the back of her neck. Twin could be anyone. But no one else could be Phoebe. I press my hand to my chest, where a fresh ache is blooming.

God, if I’m this upset, what is Mom going through?

The tires spin as Brecken takes off from another light, pulling me back to the present.

“We’re going to wreck before we even get to I-80,” Harper says when the tires grip.

“It’s going to be fine,” Brecken says.

“It’s not fine. None of this is fine.” There’s a hysterical, desperate edge creeping into her voice. I think it’s of all those messages on her phone. All those hints that something isn’t right.

“Hey,” Brecken says. His voice is low and soft. Pitched for Harper alone. I see his shoulder move, like maybe he’s touching her arm. “We’re going to be fine. We are.”

“This isn’t the plan,” she says, her voice soft and panicky. “I can’t get in a wreck. You know I have to get home.”

“I hear you,” Brecken says at the next stop. Then he does touch her, fingers slipping down the white fabric covering her shoulder. “We’re not going to wreck, okay?”

There’s a long, loaded pause between them that makes me feel intrusive. I glance at Josh, who’s watching them, too. He looks away, checking my response, I guess. I bite back a grin, but he just looks at his book. He definitely needs to stop taking himself so seriously.

“You better?” Brecken asks Harper softly.

I’m not looking, but I can hear the soft hiss of his fingers on the fabric of her shirt. The thunk-shhhh of the wipers. The soft sighs of Kayla’s snores. Again? Why is she asleep so much? Is it some kind of medical condition?

“Okay,” Harper whispers.

For lack of anything better to do, I check my own phone. The battery is getting low, and I burned my backup battery in San Diego when my flight was delayed. I have a charging cord in the back, but there’s no point in calling my mom right now. I’m not talking to her in front of these people because I will end up asking about Daniel, or she will end up embarrassing the crap out of me with her panic. It’s going to have to wait.

I shut my phone down and try to adjust my seat belt so it isn’t cutting as painfully across my stomach. When the signs for 33 North come into view, my shoulders relax. My cramping stomach has ratcheted into real queasiness on the local roads, so I’m more than ready for a larger highway again.