We were about halfway through eating dinner before I sensed the awkward tension between Rhonda and Dad. I had just swallowed a large gulp of water when I realized that they were both eating in silence, and Dad occasionally glanced over at me with a stern look. My stomach sank. I had been trying to follow orders, be helpful around the house, and not be a nuisance. Living with them was a privilege, and I was desperate to avoid being sent back to the Sheridan School for Girls.

“Is everything okay?” I dared to ask.

“Fine,” Rhonda said curtly, making it clear that she was lying. I liked Rhonda, but she could be passive-aggressive.

“You guys are being really quiet,” I said, convinced that in one way or another, they were fighting, and the reason for their fight had something to do with me.

After dinner, I loaded the dishwasher without being asked. Dad went straight to the living room to watch one of the crime shows he loved. Instead of walking over to the gym, Rhonda went upstairs to the bedroom she and Dad shared. I genuinely hoped that I hadn’t inadvertently offended her on our drive back from the assisted living facility. Later, while I was trying to do homework, my phone buzzed with incoming messages. When I finally took a break from what little progress I was making and took a look at my Instagram account, I saw that the messages were from Mischa. She was freaking out, claiming that weird things had started happening with increasing frequency, and she was pretty sure something very bad was imminent. Before I even read the fourth message in the string of short, urgent notes she’d sent, I tapped the contacts on my phone to call her. Hearing from her on the same day as having Mrs. Robinson tell me I was surrounded by angry loa was enough to completely shake me.

“Why are you calling me?” she asked.

“Because I don’t want to text about this stuff! You know my parents spy on my social media accounts!” I exclaimed. “What is going on? You haven’t touched any tarot cards, have you?”

“No! God! I said I wouldn’t, and I haven’t,” she insisted. With an uncharacteristic trembling in her voice, Mischa continued, “But listen. They’re mad at me for not listening. I don’t know how much longer I can keep resisting this.” She kind of sounded like she was hiding in a closet from a home invader, terrified of being overheard.

“What’s been happening?” I asked, trying to keep my voice low.

“Well, two new moons have passed since January, when I went missing, right? And no one died in January, so technically they didn’t get what they wanted from Violet before that new moon either. So I’m three behind.”

“No,” I argued. “You’re not behind. This was Violet’s problem, not yours.” Since January, whenever I’d touched base with Mischa, I had made a point of adamantly insisting that she not take responsibility for any part of the situation. Accepting responsibility was like taking ownership, and it seemed dangerous to me for Mischa to mentally acknowledge any of the burden of killing.