“Wait, that can’t be right.” I’d cried plenty as a child, hadn’t I? Surely at my mother’s funeral…?

Okay, I couldn’t actually remember much from that age, but I knew for a fact that I’d screamed bloody murder when I rode my bike off the sidewalk and into a rose bush, at eight years old. And again at eleven, when I accidentally ripped a hoop earring through my earlobe with a hairbrush. And again when I’d been dumped for the first time, at fourteen.

How long had I been making fatal predictions, without even knowing it? Had I thrown inconsolable fits in preschool? Or had my youth largely kept me away from death? How long had they been treating me like I was crazy, when they knew what was wrong with me all along?

My spine stiffened, and I felt my cheeks flush in anger. Every answer my uncle provided only brought up more questions, about things I should have known all along. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, teeth clenched to keep me from yelling and waking Sophie up. I’d missed so much. Wasted countless hours doubting my own sanity.

When what I really should have been doubting was my humanity!

“I’m so sorry, Kaylee. I wanted to.” Uncle Brendon closed his eyes as if he were gathering his thoughts, then met mine again, and to my surprise, I realized I believed him. “I started to tell you last year, when you were…in the hospital. But your dad asked me not to. The damage was already done, and he hoped we could wait a little longer. At least until you finished high school.”

That’s what they’d hoped I’d have more time for! Not life, but a normal, human adolescence. A noble thought, but somewhat lacking in the execution…

“I’m surprised your little farce held up this long!” I found myself on the edge of the couch as I spoke, Nash’s hand still grasped in mine. He was the only thing keeping me seated as I vented the geyser of anger and resentment threatening to burst through the top of my skull. “How long did you think it would be before I’d run into someone on the verge of death?”

Uncle Brendon shrugged miserably but held my gaze. “Most teenagers never see anyone die. We were hoping you’d be that fortunate, and we could wait and let your dad explain all this…later. When you were ready.”

“When I was ready? I was ready last year, when I saw a bald kid in a wheelchair being pushed through the mall in his own private death shroud! You were waiting for him to be ready.” For my father to finally step up and earn his title.

“She’s right, Brendon,” Aunt Val slurred, now slumped in her chair, her linen-clad legs splayed gracelessly. I watched her, waiting for more, but turned back to my uncle when she lifted her mug to her mouth instead of speaking.

“Why keep it a secret in the first place?”

“Because you—” AuntVal began again, gesturing in grand sweeps with her half-empty mug. But my uncle cut her off with a stern look.

“That’s for your father to explain.”

“It’s not like he hasn’t had time!” I snapped. “He’s had sixteen years.”

Uncle Brendon nodded, and I read regret on his face. “I know—we all have. And considering how you wound up figuring it out—” he glanced apologetically at Nash “—I think we were wrong to wait so long. But your dad will be here in the morning, and I’m not going to step on his toes with the rest of it. It’s his story to tell.”

There was a story? Not just a simple explanation, but an actual story?

“He’s really coming?” I’d believe that when I saw him.

Yet my chest tightened, shot through with a jolt of adrenaline at the thought: my dad had answers no one else seemed willing to give me. But I might have known it would take an all-out catastrophe to get him stateside again. He wasn’t coming to see me. He was coming to do damage control, before my aunt reversed the charges.

Uncle Brendon frowned at my obvious skepticism—he could probably see it swirling in my eyes. “We called him this afternoon—”

“I called him,” Aunt Val corrected. “I told him to put his ass on a plane, or I’d…”

“You’ve had enough.” My uncle was on his feet before I could blink, and an instant later he held his wife’s mug. She slouched in her chair, eyes wide in sluggish surprise, hand still curved, as if around the cup handle. “I’ll get you some fresh coffee.” He stopped in the threshold between the living room and dining room, Aunt Val’s mug gripped so tightly his knuckles were white. “I’m sorry,” he said to Nash. “My wife isn’t taking any of this well. She’s worried about the girls, and she’s a friend of Meredith Cole’s mother.”

Yeah, but she and Mrs. Cole were gym buddies, not conjoined twins. And I’d hardly ever seen my aunt drink more than a single glass of wine at a time—she said alcohol had too many calories.

Nash nodded. “My mother would be upset too.”

Yeah, but I bet she wouldn’t be drowning in brandy….

“How is your mother?”

“She still misses him.” Nash glanced at our entwined hands, obviously uncomfortable talking about his own family.

Uncle Brendon’s expression softened in sympathy. “Of course she does.” Then he turned into the kitchen and let the subject rest.

For a moment, we stared at the carpet in silence, not quite sure what to say next. We’d hit a lull in the single most awkward conversation of my life, and I wasn’t exactly eager to pick it back up.