“Mm,” I say, my stomach turning.

“She was never secure in herself, so it’s wild to me that she raised us. She had her own shit, but she was always really encouraging with us. She didn’t just give us mom compliments like ‘You’re beautiful.’ She really saw us.”

She’s not wrong. “Yeah. I’ll give her credit where credit is due.”

As soon as I say it, I know it’s not true. I can’t. Can’t do it.

“If only she paid more attention,” I say. “Or I don’t know. Listened to her children.”

Scarlett sits up. “I’m having a girl.”

“Really?” My heart might explode.

“Don’t get all . . .” she says, gesturing vaguely in my direction. “You have to resolve things with Mom. I have to know you’re not going to resent her for the rest of your life.”

“Okay,” I say, my joy deflating in spectacular fashion. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’m about to go on a date. Why would you bring that up now?”

She opens her mouth to speak, then changes her mind. She stands up and comes over to where I am in front of the closet . For a second, I think she might hug me, but then she pushes me out of the way.

“Let me,” she says.

—

An hour later, I’m scrutinizing myself in the full-length mirror in Scarlett’s bathroom. My palms are sweating. It’s not just the wolf haunting the fringe of my reflection, the wolf that I see every time I look in the mirror now, that I know isn’t really there behind me.

It’s that I’m nervous.

I’m actually fucking nervous!

Scarlett ended up lending me clothes. A pair of high-waisted black jeans and a lacy black blouse with ruffles and billowy sleeves. I protested the top as too nineteenth-century widow but was overruled.

“I can’t wear my own clothes anymore,” Scarlett lamented. “You have to wear them for me.”

I put on some mascara and tinted lip balm. I brush my eyebrows out. I realize my neck looks naked and go to my room to find an appropriate necklace. I select a silver choker.

I hear a faint sizzling noise as I attempt to clasp the chain around my neck.

Then I smell it. Smells like woodshop. Like . . .

I gasp. The necklace falls from my hands as I hurry into my bathroom. I close the door behind me and lock it. I hesitate before looking into the mirror.

There’s a slim dark line around my neck, like someone just tried to choke me with piano wire. It’s still sizzling.

I reach up and carefully run my index finger across the line. I watch myself wince.

I button the blouse all the way, but the collar is too low. I try to cover it up with my hair.

A shadow creeps into my reflection, and I look away.

I lift up the blouse and check the status of my side. Lights off, the remaining marks won’t be noticeable. But my neck?