“Where are we?” she demanded, looking around.
“At my house,” I explained.
“Why are we here?”
“Because you’re staying with us. Remember?”
“It’s a mistake,” she said. “I don’t want to be here. I need to go home.”
“Let me just make you a cup of tea. You’ll feel better.”
“Call Paul,” she insisted.
“Okay. We can call him. But it’s so early. It’s not even five in the morning. Let’s have some tea. Are you hungry? Maybe we can have a little breakfast? A poached egg? Then we’ll call him, okay?”
I turned, opened the closet, got another quilt down from the top shelf. I brought it over, laid it on top of the bedcovers. “That’s better isn’t it?”
She leaned back with her head against the pillow. “Be right back,” I said. “One cup of mint tea coming up.”
“I don’t like mint tea,” she said.
“You liked it yesterday. You said it was your favorite.”
“Chamomile,” she said.
“Chamomile it is.” I went into the kitchen and made the tea, being careful not to make it too hot. I wanted to warm her up, not have her scald herself. I carried it back in and set it on the bed tray.
“This is all wrong,” she said, gazing around the room, then down at the cup I’d brought in.
“The tea?” If she told me she wanted mint, I might lose it.
“No. The tea is fine. But how did I get here?”
“Paul brought you.”
“He needs to bring me back home, then. It isn’t safe. Please. Let’s call him. Right now.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mother, I—”
From upstairs came a scream. A loud, frantic scream that seemed to split the air apart, make the walls vibrate. It went on and on, getting higher, louder.
This was the sound of Olivia in pain. Terrible, terrible pain. The only time I’d ever heard her scream like this was when she broke her arm last year.
“I told you,” my mother blurted out, eyes wide and terrified. “It’s not safe.”
I turned away from her, bolting out of the guest room and for the stairs.
SEVENTEEN
OLIVIA WAS SCREAMING, HIGH-PITCHEDand desperate, as I raced through the dining room and living room, took the stairs two at a time, Moxie right behind me.
How could Olivia still be breathing, screaming this hard, this loud without a break?
Mark was in the upstairs hall nearly to her door. He’d turned the lights on, and they seemed impossibly bright. His eyes met mine and we exchanged a look of pure panic.
My heart was racing, jacked on adrenaline. The door to Izzy’s room opened across from us. “Mom? Dad?” she asked, blinking at us.
Mark slammed open Olivia’s door and we both rushed in expecting… what? Something terrible. Because that’s the kind of screaming it was.
