I gasp. Mom never talks about my dad. I’ve never had a real explanation for his disappearance—maybe it was a mental health breakdown, or stress, or he simply abandoned us. Talking about him hurt her so much, I learned never to ask questions.

“After your father…left, Eric was the one who got us this apartment and my job. Because the one thing he could never give me was an answer. I think he will take my call about Jinx.”

“I…I hope so. I really miss him, Mom.”

She touches her index finger to my chin. “You are so your father’s daughter.” She pauses. “I know he’s no match for Jinx, but do you want your beetle baku back in the meantime?” asks Mom. She detangles herself from me, then walks over to a small box next to our television, where Slick is lying—inert.

She picks him up and brings him over to me, ready to be leashed and recharged. I take him, seeing no other option. Sitting in my palm, I take a second to admire the engineering needed to create even a level one model scarab beetle baku. So much technology is hidden within his elegant greenish-purple carapace, a whole host of functions perfectly balanced within such a small package.

I plug him in to the leash at my ear, and he starts up with a tiny whirr-click.

>>Hello, Lacey.

I immediately detach him and throw him down onto the couch, my heart beating wildly.

“Lacey, what’s wrong?” Mom asks.

Bile rises in the back of my throat. Something happened, something that ended up with me lying in a puddle, getting soaked through with freezing water, leaving me with hypothermia and in the hospital for a month with unexplained memory loss—and I have a feeling Slick was involved.

But that’s impossible. Bakus can’t harm their owners.

“I…I don’t know,” I say, still staring wild-eyed at Slick. I force myself to pick him up. I turn him over, staring at the rubbery pads of his feet, not quite sure what I’m looking for.

“I think Slick’s not the only one in need of a recharge,” says Mom.

I yawn in reply. My head feels as if it’s loaded down with bricks. Maybe she’s right.

Mom leans down to kiss my forehead. “Maybe it was too soon to give you your baku. You don’t want to be bombarded with messages and social media right now. Let’s get you to bed. And tomorrow, we will tackle everything else, okay?”

“Okay. Night, Mom,” I say, heading toward my bedroom.

But a loud knock at the door stops me in my tracks.

4

I hang back as Mom opens the door. Wariness sets my teeth on edge. Who could it be? We haven’t buzzed anyone in, and we don’t get many random visits from our neighbors.