A buzzing. Mom lives in Whittier, and Ruth knows but didn’t tell you. The skin tightens round my mouth. What could have brought her back here? I glance at the picture once more, rub the back of my neck. Dad must know she’s back. Why else would he have this picture out? But has he told me? I slide closed the reminder. Have I made it too difficult for him to be honest with me? I pull at the ends of my hair, overcome by a mixture of feelings that twist into a painful knot.

Dad never made excuses for Mom, never pretended that she was anything but a woman with an addiction. But he also never spoke ill of her, never blamed her for leaving us. I wanted him to, though; maybe even a part of me needed him to blame her. Instead, he shouldered what she’d left behind—a broken daughter, a failed marriage, and his own smashed heart—and moved on in his typical good-natured, optimistic Vance Hines way. In the picture, he holds her like she’s a delicate flower that might wilt. My heart aches. I don’t think he’s ever stopped loving her, and I think he’s always held out hope that she’d come back. I flick the picture farther away. Did he invite her back? The thought gives me a pang. What if she breaks his heart again? My hands curl into fists. I remember the look on his face when she showed up at graduation: mouth open in a silent shout, hands held out empty in front of him like they were useless.

She will hurt him again; I just know it because I don’t think she can help herself. She’ll never change. In my notebook I write, Mom lives in Whittier and Dad knows—hesitate, then add—tell Mom to leave before she hurts us all over again.

I’m walking out when a guy around my height walks into the office, head down, phone resting between his ear and shoulder and flipping through a stack of mail in his hands.

“Again, I’m sorry, but it’s n . . . n-ot my job to remove . . . dead flies, Mrs. Johnson.”

A warmth radiates from my chest, transforms into a heated jolt that shoots through my body. It can’t be. But I would know the familiar cadence of his words anywhere. Tate.

“Yes, yes, I know that Vance always—holy shit!” The phone falls from his hands, and his eyes meet mine, and I can’t feel my skin or the floor under my feet, and I don’t think I’m breathing.

“Tate?” I whisper, even though I have no doubt from the way he talks, the slant of his eyes in the corners, the shape of his mouth, and his midnight-black hair—