“Hiya, sweet pea. When you say Emma and her mother are ‘gone,’ do you mean—”

“I mean we found Rayna tied up in their house and her mother’s car is gone.”

Rachel sighs. “You should have let me put a GPS tracker on it when I wanted to.”

“That’s not important right now. Can you find them?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?” he says, but she’s already hung up.

He turns to Grom, who is holding a picture frame in his hands. His brother traces the outline of Nalia’s face with his finger. “How is this possible?” he says softly.

“It’s called a photograph,” Galen says. “Humans can capture any moment of time in this thing they call a—”

Grom shakes his head. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

“Oh. What do you mean?”

Grom holds up the picture. It’s an up-close black-and-white photo of Nalia’s face, probably taken by a professional photographer. “This is Nalia.” He runs a hand through his hair, a trait he and Galen inherited from their father. “How is it possible that she’s still alive and I’m just now learning of it?”

Galen lets out a breath. He doesn’t have an answer. Even if he did, it’s not his place to tell his brother. It’s Nalia’s place. Nalia’s responsibility. And good luck getting it out of her. “I’m sorry, Grom. But she wouldn’t tell us anything.”

3

THE MORE I stare at it, the more the popcorn ceiling above me resembles an exquisite mosaic. Yellow rings from a leaky roof add pizazz to the imperfect white mounds; the reflection of a parked car outside the hotel room highlights the design in a brilliant, abstract pattern. I try to find a name for this provocative image and decide on “Cottage Cheese, Glorified.”

And that’s when it becomes obvious that I’m distracting myself from thinking about the U-turn my life just took. I wonder if Galen is back yet. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if Rayna is okay, if she has a killer headache like I do, if chloroform affects a full-blooded Syrena the way it affects humans. I bet that now she really will try to shoot my mom with her harpoon, which reminds me again of the past twenty-four hours of craziness.

The scenes from the previous night replay in my head, a collection of snapshots my memory took between heartbeats:

Beat.

Galen reaching his hands in the dishwater. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Nalia.”

Beat.

A flash of Galen grabbing Mom’s sudsy wrist.

Beat.

An image of Mom growling as Galen turns her around in his arms.

Beat.

A still life of Mom flinging her head back, making contact with Galen’s forehead.

Beat.

A shot of Galen slamming into the fridge, scattering a lifetime’s motley collection of magnets onto the floor.

Beat.

Beat, beat, beat.

The still shots become live action.

Mom attaches to him like static cling, the knife poised midair, ready to fillet him like a cod. I scream. Something big and important sounding shatters behind me. The sound of raining glass drowns me out.

And it’s that one second that Galen needs. Distracted, Mom turns her head, giving Galen a breadth of space to dodge the blade. Instead of his flesh, she stabs the blade into the fridge. The knife slips from her soapy hands and clinks to the floor.

Beat … Beat.

We all watch it spin, as if what happens next depends on which direction it stops. As if the blade will choose who will make the next move. It feels like an intermission from delirium, a chance for sanity to sneak in and take hold. Ha.

Toraf passes me in a blur, bits of what used to be our bay window sparkling in his hair like sequins. And just like that, sanity retreats like a spooked bird. Toraf tackles my mother and they sprawl onto the linoleum in a sickening melody of wet squeaking and soft grunting. Galen kicks the knife into the hallway then belly flops onto them. The tornadic bundle of legs and arms and feet and hands push farther into the kitchen until only the occasional flailing limb is visible from the living room, where I can’t believe I’m still standing.

A spectator in my own life, I watch the supernova of my two worlds colliding: Mom and Galen. Human and Syrena. Poseidon and Triton. But what can I do? Who should I help? Mom, who lied to me for eighteen years, then tried to shank my boyfriend? Galen, who forgot this little thing called “tact” when he accused my mom of being a runaway fish-princess? Toraf, who … what the heck is Toraf doing, anyway? And did he really just sack my mom like an opposing quarterback?

The urgency level for a quick decision elevates to right-freaking-now. I decide that screaming is still best for everyone—it’s nonviolent, distracting, and one of the things I’m very, very good at.

I open my mouth, but Rayna beats me to it—only, her scream is much more valuable than mine would have been, because she includes words with it. “Stop it right now, or I’ll kill you all!” She pushes past me with a decrepit, rusty harpoon from God-knows-what century, probably pillaged from one of her shipwreck excursions. She waves it at the three of them like a crazed fisherman in a Jaws movie. I hope they don’t notice she’s got it pointed backward and that if she fires it, she’ll skewer our couch and Grandma’s first attempt at quilting.

It works. The bare feet and tennis shoes stop scuffling—out of fear or shock, I’m not sure—and Toraf’s head appears at the top of the counter. “Princess,” he says, breathless. “I told you to stay outside.”