I clicked my phone screen off and tossed it on the empty seat beside me, staring out the window for the remainder of the drive back to the Hoyden, succeeding in blocking out the sound of Dad and Arthur discussing books and authors and whatever else.

They kept it up even after we parked, so I grabbed my own gift bag, and headed into the inn.

Ayisha was still at the front desk. I frowned at her.

“Aren’t you supposed to be gone?” I asked, more harshly than I’d intended. It earned me a steely-eyed look in return.

“Yes,” was all she said back to me and I knew she would volunteer nothing else.

Grandma Jo entered behind me and was equally surprised to see Ayisha. But she skipped over curiosity and landed straight on, “Val didn’t show?”

Ayisha shook her head. “Car problems.”

Grandma Jo held her tongue. “Thank you for staying, Ayisha. What are the chances I can keep you until five?” She sounded hopeful.

“I already called my mom to tell her I’d be staying longer.”

Grandma Jo relaxed. “Thank you,” she said with a sigh of relief. “I really appreciate it.”

This meant I was going to have a slight overlap with Ayisha since my shift at the inn started at five.

Right then Dad walked into the lobby while chatting with Arthur and Aunt Esha, Dr. Raymond having been ditched at some point.

And I needed to get out of there.

I didn’t bother to look in Arthur’s direction despite the fact I could feel him watching me head upstairs. I went to my tiny room that wasn’t really my room, flopped across the twin bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

At some point, my phone rang, and surprisingly I didn’t jump like I had with the Johnny Mathis “Sleigh Ride” blast. I recognized the ringtone at once—the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz—which meant my mother was calling. And before you get mad at me at the tune association, Mom was the one who picked it out because she thought it was funny.

I answered, but kept staring up at the ceiling tile.

“Hi.”

“Finley!” She sounded relieved.

“Hi, Mom.”

“I’m so glad to hear your voice. And not on voicemail.”

I was having an unexpected emotional reaction to hearing her voice, too, but I kept that to myself.

“What’s going on, Mom?” I asked with uncharacteristic directness. But I could feel my emotions roiling in a way I wasn’t used to and I couldn’t keep them inside.

“Oh, honey . . .” Her voice was laden with overlapping emotions; I detected hesitation, sadness, maybe some regret, though I may have been wanting to hear that.

I sat up on the bed and pulled my knees to my chest. “Never mind, I don’t want to know . . .”

“Finley—”