The truth was, I’d been jealous of him even though I didn’t even know him. I’d been jealous because he’d had my father’s affection.

Would I truly be forced to marry this stranger now? This deformed monster they only whisper about?

I shake my head, clearing the thought. One thing at a time. First, I need to see my father with my own eyes. I think about how Dad was supposed to go to that meeting, too. He’d gotten sick at the last minute, though.

“Evangeline, goddammit! Get down here!”

My sister stiffens at the sound of our mother’s voice.

“You’re going to miss your bus, and I can’t drive you to school today.”

Eva turns to me. “I’m sure she has a very important hair or nail appointment. Or maybe she’s having her face lifted,” she whispers. “Again.”

We giggle, but it’s strained.

“Evangeline!”

“I’d better go.” She moves toward the door, then doubles back, opens a drawer in her desk, and shoves an extra-large Snickers bar into her backpack. “Breakfast will make me fat, according to Mom.”

“You don’t get breakfast?” Evangeline is like a twig already.

She shrugs her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m more worried about Dad and you than breakfast.” She hugs me again. “I love you, sis. I’m glad you’re here even though I know you don’t want to be. I’m glad to have you close again.”

For how long, though?

I follow her out the door and watch her fly down the stairs. Our mother stands at the front door with her arms folded disapprovingly. They don’t say goodbye as my sister rushes out the door just as the bus turns onto our street.

My mother closes the front door, and Abel walks out of my father’s study, holding his phone to his ear. Has he taken over Dad’s office already? He meets my gaze and checks his watch, then disconnects the call.

“I told you to wear a dress,” he says as I descend to the first floor.

“I didn’t feel like it,” I tell him and turn toward the kitchen to get myself a cup of coffee.

“You’ll learn.”

I have my back to him so I can’t see his face, but something too self-assured in his tone gives me pause. But then my mother walks into the kitchen, and I turn my attention to her.

“Are you feeding Eva?”

“Of course I’m feeding her. But I’m also careful of her weight. Her metabolism isn’t like mine, you know.”

I look her over, raise my eyebrows. “I thought that was Dr. Abrams.” Dr. Abrams is her plastic surgeon.