I’m a terrible sleeper, but must’ve dropped off at some point last night, because I dreamed that Billy and I were on the beach in Southampton. We were playing hide-and-seek in Hawkins Cove, but there was tension between us, and the mood was grim. Billy started to back away, so I tried to grab him, only his T-shirt was made of silk, and I couldn’t get purchase. To my horror, he slipped through my fingers and plunged over the side of a cliff, a ledge, something with a steep drop below. I woke up in a panic; and now, half-awake in my childhood bed, I’m flooded with feelings of loss and dislocation. Nothing seems real, as if time has rewound and I never left.

My phone dings; it’s Nate, texting:

u up?

Yes still in bed. You?

In an Uber, don’t let Dad leave

Leave?

To meet new lawyer and get Billy

Lawyer?

Typical Nate, leaving me with more questions than answers. I’m about to text him again when I hear a familiar voice in my doorway. “Hey, Sweet Girl. You up?”

Families are complicated. The name on my birth certificate is Cassandra Forrester. On my driver’s license, it’s Cassandra Forrester-Quinn. I live with Lawrence and Eleanor Quinn, and their sons, Nathaniel and William. I call Lawrence and Eleanor my parents, and Nate and Billy my brothers, except we aren’t related, not by blood. My biological parents are dead. Andrew Christian Worthington Forrester (forever known as CW) died when I was three; Rachel Richardson Forrester, when I was five.

“Cassie, honey?” Lawrence’s voice is like the ocean. It’s gravelly and relaxed, with a hypnotic quality that draws me in and calms me down. “I’m heading out.”

I don’t call Lawrence “Dad,” but he’s my father in every meaningful way. While I’m sure lots of daughters believe their fathers are heroes, mine is exceptional. (I bet we all believe this too.) Long before I was born, CW Forrester was Lawrence’s mentor, protector, and surrogate parent. So, when he and Rachel died, the Quinns offered to raise me. The idea was Lawrence’s, and he says it was a reflexive decision, that he didn’t think twice.

“I’m sleeping, Lawrence,” I say. “I raced home the second Nate called me. I got in very late—which you’d know if you’d stayed up. Or answered any of my calls.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” he says. “I conked out. But you keep sleeping. I have to run.” He turns away.

“Wait!”

“Cassie, what?” Impatient, Lawrence taps, taps, taps the door. “I’m in a rush.”