“You’re going to counseling. I’ve set it up with Campus Health. They got you in quick, since you’re a minor in the program.”

My heartbeat picks up. “I’m not going to therapy.”

I can tell by the surprise on Alice’s face that she didn’t know about the therapy part.

“Oh, you’re going.” His voice is as stern as I’ve ever heard it. “Or you’re coming home.” He lets that sit, then says, “Well? I’m waiting for an answer.”

I search for an excuse, but none comes up.

“Fine.”

“Twice a week.”

My hands squeeze into fists. “Twice a week.”

“Starting today.”

“Starting today?” I shout. “I have classes, Dad. Homework.”

He is unmoved. “Every Wednesday and every Friday, young lady. I sent Dr. Hartwood your class schedule. Get this: I was reading through the counselor profiles on the website and saw she got her undergrad degree right there at Carolina. Got her on the phone and asked about the timing and sure enough, she was there when your mom was.”

I grip my cell phone tighter. “This doctor knew Mom?” Alice straightens, interest plain on her face.

My father’s voice softens for the first time on the call. “Sure did, kiddo. Said they had a few classes together, believe it or not. Thought that was real nice, so that’s why I picked her. That and she’s a Black gal; not too many of us on that website.”

“Wow,” I murmur. My brain churns through the possibilities. Someone who knew my mother while she was here. Someone who may have a clue about how she got on the Order’s radar…

He takes my silence for worry. “If you don’t like her, we can switch—”

“No! I want to meet her,” I say, and flash Alice a thumbs-up. She relaxes more than a little bit and gets up to gather her school binders and books. “It’ll be good for me.”

I wait until Alice waves goodbye to go through the deluge of notifications from last night.

Four calls and a voicemail from Nick. Eleven texts, also from Nick. I start in on the Bo-Berry Biscuit and listen to the voicemail: he sounds slightly out of breath. “B. Tonight was—I guess I just wanted to check in. I’m glad you’re safe. I—I don’t know where to start. Call me. Please. Or text. Whichever.”

Not very specific, but maybe he was in the infirmary with listening ears nearby. The texts are more of the same.

He had tried to find me. He had been worried.

He’d called me “B.”

I suddenly feel sheepish, like reading his words and letting them wash over me like this is… embarrassing. Alice is gone, but I’m sitting on my bed feeling exposed. And warm. Good. Fuzzy. For no reason at all.