“But you’re not going yet?” I shouted. Nothing but the static shouted back and I had to raise my voice another notch. “Dad? We haven’t even said goodbye.”

“I don’t claim to understand what you’re playing at, Freya . . .”

They must have been driving because the wipers were squeaking and I heard Zoë say, “Ooph!” as they bumped over a pothole.

“. . . but I don’t like it, whatever it is, and I’ll have no part in it. You’re on your own.”

“Dad!” Even with the point of a blade against my throat, I could only inject so much desperation into a single syllable. Perhaps my father heard petulance, or perhaps he didn’t hear me at all. Either way, with an angry fizzle of breath he’d gone, and although the attic was still thrumming with rain, Cory and I seemed to plumb new depths of stillness. A good minute went by before he lowered the knife.

I stared at the blank phone and wondered what was happening downstairs—whether the Schubert was still playing and the champagne still flowing, or whether everyone had begun to drift away. They would drift, now that Dad had left. They’d have to, if Cory didn’t go down soon and give them a reason to stay. Nobody would come looking for us.

“What did he say?” Cory took the phone from my hand and studied the screen, although there was nothing to see except my fingerprints. “Please tell me he hasn’t left . . .”

“Could you not hear?”

“Just tell me.”

I felt blindly for the wall behind my back. I would have liked some time to think.

“He got an urgent call from work. There was nothing else for it: he had to go home.”

Cory was listening in all seriousness, pinching his lower lip. This was like tightrope walking in the dark, each word another forward step, nothing to go on but instinct.

“He won’t have time to write your review . . .”

Cory’s knuckles whitened, and the plastic knife’s handle cracked.

“. . . but he still wants to publish one, so he’s asked me to write it instead.”

“You?”

The knucklebones were still sliding and straining beneath his skin. My mouth was dry, but I licked my lips and swallowed. The wall was too smooth beneath my palms—I needed something to hold on to, or I would fall over. I moved my feet apart for better balance.

“Dad said I’m to write it tonight and bring it to him tomorrow, and he’ll definitely get it into next Saturday’s paper.”

The handle made another cracking noise as Cory’s fingers relaxed a fraction.

“Definitely,” I repeated.

He thought for a moment. “When you say ‘bring it to him’ . . . ?”

“It’s got to be hand-delivered. By me.”