As soon as we enter the hospital, the doors whoosh shut behind us and the lobby is empty but for a woman with two kids and a man whose hand is wrapped in a towel. At least, until Harrison steps out of the wide double doors that lead into the treatment rooms of the ER. His features contort with rage.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Her body is still warm, and you’re bringing your whore into the hospital with you?”

Commodore rolls out behind Harrison and smacks him in the chest. “Hold your tongue, boy. This isn’t the time or the place.” The old man looks at Lincoln. “You need to say your good-byes quickly. They need to . . . move her.”

I loosen my grip on Lincoln’s hand so he can walk ahead of me, but Lincoln squeezes back tighter. Stronger together, I remind myself.

“Thank you for waiting for me, sir.”

Commodore inclines his head, and Lincoln walks us past Harrison.

“I can’t believe he’s going to take her in there. Mother would—”

“Enough,” Commodore snaps, and Harrison actually listens. “This family has lost too much. Today is for mourning. Tomorrow, you can have your anger. Then we all need to try to find some peace.”

With my hand clasped firmly in Lincoln’s, I follow him into the room where his sister sits beside a sheet-covered body. McKinley lifts her tear-streaked face, and another swell of guilt hits me.

Lincoln doesn’t release his hold on me until McKinley rises from her seat. She throws herself into her big brother’s arms.

“She’s gone. Just like Father. She was fine . . . and then she was gone.”

The anguished words hollow me out until my knees threaten to give way. I step back, intent on making myself as small as possible in the corner of the room. Regret pummels me as I watch them grieve the loss of their only remaining parent.

“I’m so sorry, Mac. So sorry.”

“I don’t know what happened. She was arguing with me, and she just seemed to lose it . . . Then she collapsed, but it wasn’t like the other times. I knew this was really bad.”

Lincoln’s features pinch with pain, and I hate that I know what he’s thinking. She was arguing with McKinley about us.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he says, holding his sister close as she soaks his shirt with her tears.

Last time I was in this hospital, I was the girl who had just become an orphan. Today, that girl is McKinley, and I wish I could spare her the grief that I’ve felt for the last decade. The edges may dull, but the pain never goes away. And the guilt. Lord, the guilt. I don’t know if that ever fades, because mine hasn’t.

A noise comes from the hall, and we all look toward the doorway to see a man in a white coat peeking his head into the room. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. I’ll come back when you’re . . . finished.”