“For a brief while I thought. Early on, when she had powers. I pulled away. She gave me looks and I thought she knew something certain. But she didn’t. And over time I let myself forget. Something I would think about once in a while, with a lot of regret. Less as—”

She stopped herself. Wiped at her eyes again.

“So you think I’m Mark’s?”

“I can’t talk about this,” she said. “Not like this, not right now—”

“You can’t give me the one answer?” I pressed her. “The important one?”

“I can’t,” she said, tensing up. “I can’t.”

“Mom,” I said. “Carol. Don’t dodge this.”

The word seemed to sting her.

“Victoria.” Crystal’s voice was gentle, the false emotion no longer there. “She can’t.”

I looked at Crystal, saw the hurt and apology on her face.

“The head injury,” Crystal said. “She really might not be able to.”

That’s not fair, I thought.

“I’m going to step outside,” I said.

“Okay,” Crystal said.

“Sorry for… dropping this on you. For dredging this up.”

“Okay,” Crystal said.

“Mark’s your father,” my mother said, to my back. I paused, then headed through the kitchen.

I escaped to the balcony, opening the door. I hadn’t removed my coat or boots, so I was going to be warm enough, for the most part. Snow was almost knee deep, where it had piled against the sliding door. It formed little hills atop the balcony railing.

It was so cold my nostrils instantly froze, the moisture in my eyes threatening to do the same.

I could see the distant portals from this high ground. The weather patterns. The sliver of heat on the horizon, where the sun was starting to rise and battle its way past the cloud cover of the snowstorm.

Verifying one piece of data gave evidence to the rest, and too many of the rest made my skin crawl. My fingernails dug into my sleeves, but found the jacket and the bandages that were still there too impenetrable.

Fingernails. Fingernail. I pulled my hand back, and undid the bandage. I looked at the fingernail with the black of gathered blood beneath it.

I gripped the railing with the one hand that had been partially degloved. The hand with the fingernail that wasn’t supposed to be there, that marked a violation I had no clue about.

Digging my fingernails into the wood of the railing-top, I pressed down until pain stabbed its way across my hand, transformed in shape and intensity, redoubling, as I pressed down more and more, with the nail that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Until the nail cracked, broke, and tore at the bed. I continued pressing down until the last of the nail gave, and my first knuckle scraped against ice-crusted wood, raw nail bed scraping against the flat of the wood, singing with pain.