I had a complex system of labels for my email, but no category felt right. I drummed my fingers against the keys until I gave it the only solution I could, filing with the only two other emails I’d ever starred: a sale at Anthropologie that I neglected to buy from, and a tax-deductible donation that I subsequently failed to enter on my taxes.
“You’ll stay with me,” Natalie said the second I finished recapping my morning. She was still in bed, her toes wiggling beneath the duvet. “In my guest cove. Long as you need.”
The guest cove was Natalie’s converted-pantry guest room where her mother stayed every time she came into the city. She somehow made closet storage into interior design. The project, which she’d catalogued on Instagram, had been repinned thousands of times on Pinterest.
“But where will Helena stay?”
Natalie waved me off. “New rule,” she said, and the tension in my insides ebbed at our familiar phrase.New rule.Two words for when something monumental happened, when we really meant something. Our oath. It was why we shared our Uber ride locations, why we each kept a stock of pregnancytests, why we soaked berries in a vinegar-water solution before storing them. “We crash together in times of emergency.”
“I’m not sure that’s a new rule,” I said, but there it was: that full-body massage of relief.
Natalie hiked herself upright. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” she asked, her voice neutral.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“My phone died. I left it plugged in here.”
“Huh.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What is it?” Her uncharacteristic hesitation was deeply unsettling. The woman bullshitted her way through tests, job interviews, and dates like she’d orchestrated her life and they were her symphony. “Nat, tell me what’s up.”
“I texted Aili to wish her a happy birthday—she’s eighteen today. She’s furious she didn’t get a Soulmail yesterday.” She paused. “And she sent me an article.”
I tried to compute the conversation between Natalie and her teen cousin. “And?”
“The article is about you.”
I recoiled. “Me?What publication?”
Hesitation again.“People.”
“What’s it say?”
“Um.” Natalie checked my face, seemed to consider something, then went for it. “?’Kay. It’s called ‘Everything We Know About Olivia Jane Adler (Starting with her Middle Name!).’ There’s an exclamation point after ‘name.’?”
“Jane’s listed on my LinkedIn,” I said dully.
“Yeah.” Her head bent low over the glow of her phone. “Looks like they mined your socials for this. It has our grad year, that you majored in Journalism at NYU, your hometown. Names you as the daughter of homemaker Sally and fisherman Harold...” She glanced up. “Says you’re an only child.”
My forehead creased. This article’s writer had gotten their quiz answers wrong, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. My sister’s death wasn’t exactly a secret. But whenever Sabrina was brought up outside my parents’ accord, it yanked visible years off their lives. They liked to reference her at holidays, or venture into stories on their terms, but if someone else did, forget it. I’d rather dip a toe in molten lava.
Besides that, I knew that if the link between me and my sister was discovered, Sabrina’s memory would morph from a person to a factor. An event that happened to me, instead of a whole person who lived and made a couple terrible decisions and then dealt with a mighty struggle before she died. She deserved more than that.
“You know what they say. All news is true unless it’s false.” I flung myself onto the bed. “This is so bizarre.”
Natalie ran her fingers through her tangled waves. “It’s exciting, though, right?”
“It’s something.”
“There’s also mention of your viral engagement to...” Nat checked her phone. “?‘Wells Stratton, of the Hamptons Strattons finance family.’?”
“Marvelous.”
“I guess you really hit a nerve,” Nat said. “You’ve been working so hard—”
“Hold up.” I rolled toward her. “I work hard because I love what I do.” Nat mimed a yawn, and I made a face at her. “Hitting that nerve was right place, right time. Not everyone had access to a news organization yesterday morning. Add in me sharing that video of the Soulmails between the makeup artist and the driver—that moment was absolutely shocking to witness in person. I think it cut through all the online chatter, which is exactly what—”
