Chapter 7

The final bell rang at 3:30 PM, and the sky opened up.

A freezing Boston rain came down in sheets. Abigail had no umbrella. She zipped her jacket to her chin and stepped into it.

The Escalade was idling at the curb, Hank visible through the tinted glass, already staring at his phone. She jogged through the puddles, sneakers soaking through immediately, and reached for the rear door handle.

Hank's head snapped up.

He wasn't looking at her. He was looking past her, across the busy street, his body going completely rigid.

Abigail turned.

A girl in a white trench coat stood half-hidden under the striped awning of a small café. A gust of wind caught her hood and pulled it back, and for one brief, exposed second, Abigail saw her face - or enough of it. Long blonde hair. The unmistakable angle of a jaw she had spent two days memorizing from framed photographs on a pink bedroom wall.

"Debbra!"

Hank's voice came through the car door, raw and cracked, a sound she had not heard from him before. He threw the passenger door open.

He ran into the street.

He did not look at the traffic. He simply ran, and a yellow cab locked up its brakes ten feet away, tires shrieking on the wet asphalt, the bumper stopping less than a foot from his knees. The driver screamed out the window. Hank didn't even glance at him.

The girl under the awning turned at the commotion. Her face was obscured by the driving rain. For a second she was perfectly still - and then she spun and disappeared into a narrow alley between the buildings, swallowed by shadow before Hank had even made it across the center line.

He crashed through the cafe's outdoor tables and stood at the mouth of the alley, calling her name into the dark. His voice echoed back empty.

Abigail stood in the rain and watched him pace.

She had thought his cruelty came from coldness. She understood now that she'd been wrong. It came from something much harder to hate: grief. He had lost someone he loved, and he was held together by anger because the alternative was coming apart entirely.

When Hank finally walked back across the street, he was soaked through. His hair dripped into his eyes. He stopped in front of Abigail, and his chest heaved, and his face was a map of something terrible.

"This is your fault."

The words came out quiet. That was worse than shouting.

"If you hadn't come back," he said, "she wouldn't be out there."

Abigail opened her mouth. She wanted to say: I didn't ask to be born. I didn't ask to be switched. I didn't choose any of this any more than you did. But she looked at the red rims of his eyes, the way his hands were shaking, and the words dissolved. You could not reason with grief. You could only get out of its way.

He ripped the car door open. "Get in."

She climbed into the back seat and pressed herself into the corner. The Escalade tore from the curb. The rain hammered the roof.

Abigail stared at the back of Hank's wet head. She thought about a girl in a white trench coat, vanishing into an alley in the rain. She thought about the way Danita had said her name is Debbra - not was. Present tense. A refusal to let go.

Debbra wasn't a name in this family. She was a gravity. Everything in the Richmond house orbited around a girl who wasn't here, and Abigail had been dropped into the center of that orbit like a stone into a solar system - not evil, not malicious, just fundamentally, catastrophically in the wrong place.

The SUV took a hard turn. Abigail's head knocked against the window. Pain flared.

She kept her mouth shut. She kept her face still.

She was starting to understand that surviving this house was going to require a very specific kind of endurance - not just toughness, but patience. The patience to wait for people to stop hating you for something you didn't do.

She wasn't sure she had that much patience. But she was going to have to find it.