And then everything goes dark.

CHAPTER 32.

I open my eyes. I'm still, but only for a second. Then everything comes rushing back. Ariel. Abe. A scream bursts from my lips before I can stop it.

The door flies open, and my mom is at my side. Her arms are around me, and she pulls my head into her chest.

"Amanda, shh, it's all right. Everything is all right. You're home."

I'm in my bed. In Vermont? They took me back to Vermont? How? When? I'm so confused. I want to yell at my mom for everything she's done, but I don't. She's warm and comfortable and everything I need in this moment. I sink into her arms. My hands slide around her waist. Her fuller, curvier waist. She's wearing a long skirt and a tank top. A little roll of flesh peeks out over the top of the skirt. Her wavy hair hangs down her back. It smells like shampoo. I feel how strong her arms are around me.

She's better. She got better. How is that possible? I don't know if I care.

I pull her closer. "Mom, I think I had the most awful dream."

She smooths my hair and leans down to whisper in my ear, "It wasn't a dream, Amanda. I don't know what happened on that mission of yours, but you're never going on one like that again. This was not part of the agreement. Your father's already heard an earful from me."

My . . . what?

I pull away from my mom and look around. I'm in a bedroom, but it's not mine in Vermont. It's not my room at Annum Hall either. There's a pale-aqua duvet on the bed and a folded pile of clean clothes in front of the closet. There's a giant b.u.t.terfly mural on one of the walls, and a window that looks out over- I gasp and rush to the window.

I'm staring at Commonwealth Avenue, at the park that runs the length of the street, splitting it north and south. I'm in a brownstone on Comm. Ave. The most expensive street in Boston.

Do I . . . live here? I look down at a small white desk under the window. There's a neon-pink picture frame set on top of it, and I s.n.a.t.c.h it up. It's a picture of me and a bichon frise sitting in front of a Christmas tree. I set the picture down next to a notepad that has "AMANDA OBERMANN" printed on top, right next to six yearbooks lined up on the desk, all with "Phillips Andover Academy" printed on the spine. A painting hangs over the bed. It's the scene of a sailboat gliding across a blue Mediterranean.

I do. I do live here.

Ariel is dead. Alpha is alive. My dad is . . .

"Did you say my dad?" I ask as I look back at my mom. She smiles at me with her big peridot eyes.

"He was at the Hall, but he'll be home soon."

"I . . ." I what? I don't how to end the sentence. I don't even know how to start it. How did I even get here?

She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. My very healthy, very stable mother.

"Are you taking your meds, Mom?"

She lets out a throaty laugh. "Like you even need to ask? I take the same combo. Every day. Just like always, baby."

"I think I need to be alone for a little bit," I tell her. My head is spinning. Everything is spinning. I can't focus on anything except that boat above my bed.

"Of course." My mom drops her hand from my shoulder. She's almost out the door when she turns back to me. "But I'm serious. No more missions like that." And then she smiles again. "And the law requires that you listen to me for about three and a half more months. My baby girl-almost eighteen. Crazy."

She shuts the door. I stare at it.

What the h.e.l.l did I do?

I have a mother. I have a father. I have-I look toward my closet full of clothes and shoes, then to the Mac laptop on my desk-things. Nice things. Do I have brothers and sisters?

A phone rings, and I look toward the desk. I spot it right away. It has a turquoise case, and the screen is lit up. I grab it. Incoming call from Jess. Who is Jess? Do I answer or ignore?

I have to answer.

"h.e.l.lo?" I say.

"Dude, what happened to you today?" The voice is female, and it's familiar. "Did the Mola.s.ses Disaster take a wrong turn or something? I mean, I knew it was going to be intense, but-"

"Hang on. Violet?"

There's a quick laugh on the other end. "Well, I guess if you want to be all formal about it, Iris. Seriously, are you okay? You don't crack like that. Your dad's going to flip. I mean, he already has. He left here like twenty minutes ago, and I've been trying to find a sec to call and give you the heads up. You may have escaped today, but you're in for one h.e.l.l of a debriefing tomorrow."

A debriefing. Of course. Because I arrived back in the present completely confused and asking about someone who's been dead for like fifty years. I sink down onto my bed. Alpha's smart. I have to imagine my dad is, too. They know something is up.

"Amanda."

"Yeah?"

"You haven't answered my question. Are you okay? I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine. It was just like you said. The Mola.s.ses Disaster was a little more intense than I was expecting. But I'm fine. Promise." I hear voices in the hall.

My father is home.

"I gotta go," I say. "Thanks for calling. I-" There are footsteps heading toward my door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I hang up as my door opens. My father stands in the doorway, and my heart is beating so loudly in my chest I don't know how he doesn't hear it. He's staring at me, really looking at me, and I have no idea what he's thinking. This man is a stranger to me.

"Hey, Princess," he says. "Rough day, huh?"

"That's an understatement."

He smiles. It's warm and relaxed. "We'll talk about it in a bit. I picked up dinner. Spicy miso soup and a mango, salmon avocado roll, just for you."

What do I say to that? I've never eaten sushi before in my life, and I can't even think about food right now.

"Okay, great," I say.

My father is still smiling. He raps the door with his knuckles-once, twice. "Your mom's going to meet with Leslie"-who?-"so it's just you and me tonight. Come on. We don't have to talk about the Mola.s.ses Disaster if you don't want. It can wait until tomorrow."

I can't get a read on this man at all. What did Violet say? That he flipped? The man in front of me is calm and collected. Is this a test? I'm so confused. Should I follow him? I think I should follow him.

I push up off the bed and follow my dad down a hall lined with paintings and into a kitchen that opens into a living room. The kitchen is sleek and modern, with white cabinets, a six-burner gas stove, and a stone backsplash. The living room has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over Comm. Ave. There's also a gallery wall. I recognize my mother's signature on a few of the paintings. I stare down the hall, toward another open door that must lead to my parents' bedroom. I hear mom softly singing a Madonna song that was popular before I was born.

I drop onto a red leather bar stool and lean my elbows on the counter, next to a plastic takeout bag. Fragments of thoughts begin, but then they're ripped from my mind before I can blink. My mother is well-thought gone. My father is alive-thought gone. I have a home-thought gone.

My dad takes the Styrofoam containers from the bag and slides a bowl of soup and a sushi roll in front of me.

I stare at the soup, a cloudy mess of broth and seaweed, and I think I might be sick. I push it away and stare at the sushi while my dad stares at me, almost as if he's waiting to see what I'm going to do. Or maybe I'm being paranoid.

"You know what? I'm really not hungry." I stand and tuck the stool under the counter. "I still feel a little out of it, so I'm just going to . . . go."

My dad nods slowly. "Of course, Princess. You do what you need to do." He kisses the top of my head.

I walk to my room as fast as I can without looking too obvious, then shut the door behind me and lean my back against it. I take a breath that comes out like a gasp.

What is happening here? This life-what is this? Two parents. Two seemingly healthy, functioning parents. They're the silent prayer I offered up to the universe more nights than I can count. Those nights Mom locked herself in her room and wailed so loudly I couldn't sleep, those nights I could have used a dad to comfort me, those nights I wished I had someone who loved me unconditionally.

No.

I do have someone who loves me unconditionally. Abe.

I've lost the one guy who's ever mattered to me. This life, this home, these parents-they're all an illusion. I can't stay here. This is not a dream. This is a nightmare.

And I need to wake up.

I will find a way to wake up.

Acknowledgments.

Writing a book can feel like a solitary endeavor at times, but it is undoubtedly a team effort. And I am so grateful to have the following people on my team.

Thank you to everyone (really, everyone!) at Skyscape. Marilyn Brigham, for loving the series in the first place; Miriam Juskowicz, for taking the reins and making me feel like I was in great hands; and Robin Benjamin, for wielding a (figurative) red pen and transforming this book from a hunk of dialogue into a cohesive story. Thank you to Phoebe Hw.a.n.g, this book's copy editor, and to Angelle Pilkington, this book's proofreader, for making these pages as perfect as possible. Many thanks to everyone who worked tirelessly to market this series, especially Erick Pullen, Timoney Korbar, and Andrew Keyser. And thank you to Cliff Nielsen, Katrina Damkoehler, and the entire art department, for designing such beautiful covers.

Thank you to my agent, Rubin Pfeffer, for your patience, wisdom, and ability to keep everything running smoothly behind the scenes.

Thank you to Kerry Cerra, Mich.e.l.le Delisle, Jill Mackenzie, Kristina Miranda, and Nicole Cabrera. I am forever grateful I sent a random e-mail to a group of strangers a few years ago, asking them to take me under their wing. It was one of the best decisions of my life. And mountains of grat.i.tude to Susan Dennard, Corinne Duyvis, Katy Upperman, and Jenni Valentino, for loving these characters but also for not being afraid to tell me when their plotlines were seriously lacking.

A special thanks to Christina Farley, Jessie Humphries, and Lori Lee. I couldn't have survived this crazy year without the support and encouragement of my Skyscape ninjas. Our chat sessions keep me going! And to the authors who make up the wonderfully supportive OneFour KidLit community, thank you for keeping me sane (and usually in a hilariously entertaining way).

Finally, I am forever grateful for my family. To my parents, thank you for your unwavering support. To Hilary and Patrick, thank you for the years of enthusiasm. To John and Jill, thank you for being the best in-laws I could ask for. To my husband, Scott, thank you for believing in me, even when I didn't necessarily believe in myself, and for giving me a good reality check when I needed one. And to my girls, Vivian and Audrey, thank you for inspiring me every day and pushing me to be better. I love you.

Photo 2013 Stacey Brandon Photography and Design.

MEREDITH McCARDLE attended the University of Florida and received bachelor's degrees in both magazine journalism and theater. She is also a graduate of the Boston University School of Law. She spent seven years working as a commercial litigator by day and writing at night before committing to writing full-time. She lives with her family in South Florida.

Learn more: www.meredithmccardle.com.

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