“Agatha has an appointment with her specialist in Chicago today, so I need to scoot if we’re going to be ready to go.” She glanced at her watch, and her eyes popped almost comically. “Oh, goodness, it’s later than I thought.”

“Do you need help with Agatha?” I asked.

Her smile was so warm that it made me slightly uneasy for a moment. Who was this version of Laura?

“I was telling John this morning, before he left, how thoughtful you are. How is it possible for a sixteen-year-old to be so thoughtful? But no. I’ll be fine. Agatha ate already, so it’s just a matter of getting her dressed and doing her hair.”

“Okay,” I said.

Her gaze lingered on me. “But thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

She looked like there was something she was dying to say, but then she thought better of it and started to leave the room.

I headed for the table, a little relieved. The unfamiliar brightness of her energy was a little too much for me this early in the day.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. It made me jump, and Laura let out a tinkling little laugh.

“I startled you,” she said. “I apologize. I just wanted to say, Margot . . . I hope you know how much you mean to us. To me.”

What was I supposed to say to that?

Her eyes were searching, pinning me in place. Her voice got lower, whispery, excited. “And the thought that you’ll always be with us . . . that you’re really one of the family now . . . I’m thrilled.”

Then she scurried out, as if trying to save me from having to come up with a reply.

I stared after her, openmouthed, like a cartoon character who’s just seen a cartoon alien appear out of a cartoon flying saucer.

What was she talking about? Always with them? One of the family? I racked my brain, trying to remember our conversation. I remembered looking at the paintings with her the previous night. I remembered her saying something . . . What was it?

For a panicked moment, I was afraid I had agreed to be adopted. I had no interest in being adopted by the Suttons—none.

But that didn’t feel right.

No, it was something else.

Art school? No. What did art school have to do with anything?

Something to do with Mr. Albright? Working for Mr. Albright?

No . . . working for the Suttons. Being Mr. Albright.

An absurd image of myself flashed into my head, me in one of Mr. Albright’s suits, with a necktie and a briefcase, sweeping into the house with his robotic good cheer.

That was it, I was sure of it. Laura had asked me if I wanted to take over for Mr. Albright . . . someday.

And I said yes?