In the end, yes, I went back to your brother. Does it matter that it wasn’t right away? Does it matter that we both knew by then that our marriage was falling apart?

Of course it doesn’t. But even then, I was given a gift. This time, it was Ariel.

Ariel moaned out loud, her fingers curling into the paper. She squeezed her eyes closed, every inch of her growing hot and sick and hurting. But she couldn’t stop now.

Just as with Miranda, you loved Ariel from the moment she came into the world. I saw the love in your eyes as you held Ariel for the first time. I never had the heart to tell you Anthony was her father, not even as a way to hurt you more when I still couldn’t find a way to make you want me. But Anthony knew, and I’ve paid dearly to keep him quiet.

But that’s the past.

Anthony Kane might love me in his own equally selfish way, but he cares more about himself and money than anything else. Do not, I repeat, do not ever let him convince you otherwise. If you are reading this, then I’m no longer in a position to continue funneling money to Anthony in order to keep Ariel safe. Please don’t let him hurt her. Please don’t let him use her to hurt you. Hopefully by the time you read this, I will have been able to pull it all together so that you have everything you need to make sure he can’t.

I have done a lot of things I’m ashamed of. Despite how I got them, the best thing I have produced in my life is our daughters. Ours. Yours, Gabriel. Both of them. I can only hope my sins won’t get in the way of you keeping both of them safe.

Victoria

Ariel couldn’t breathe. What did it mean? How could Anthony hurt her? A scream pounded inside her, wanting to get out. Panic licked at her as her greatest fear was realized, the one that she had been too afraid to say out loud: Anthony really was her father, and Gabriel Kane didn’t know. Yet.

After he read this, would he turn her over to Anthony?

“No,” she whispered.

Her fingers closed around the small key, deciding she should figure out what the key opened before she told anyone about it. Inch by inch, she went through her mom’s study, biting her lip hard to keep the tears away. Maybe her mom had a safe somewhere with money to pay off Anthony. She picked up decorative boxes and frames filled with photos—photos of her, Miranda, Dad—looking for something that needed a key.

There was nothing. Her mom would never have hidden the box or whatever it was in the bedroom, not the one she shared with Dad. Ariel stuffed the envelopes in her backpack and left the study. She peered down the stairs. Most of the kids were in the living room playing weird dare games. She could just make out a girl shoving marshmallows into her mouth, one by one, the kids egging her on and then laughing when she spit them out. Seriously, idiots. But there was no sign of Miranda or Dustin.

She ran down the stairs, through the dining room, through the swinging door into the kitchen, then into the den. A bunch of kids were in there now, but still no Miranda. Ariel kept going to the stairway leading to the basement.

Nerves made her slip and clatter down the thin wooden staircase, catching herself on the banister, stumbling into the dark space, but she managed to find the tiny chain that worked the lightbulb. The bulb cast a weak light, not much, but she managed to find a flashlight, then went through the basement. She was hardly breathing as she went through old metal lockers with no locks, cabinets, boxes. Nothing that needed a key.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she cried, slamming the lid on a trunk, dust puffing up in the dank air.

Crashing down onto a low work stool, she dropped her head into her hands. She was covered in dust and grime, her wild hair tangled, her clothes filthy. But she still didn’t have what she needed.

She sat up all of a sudden. Would their mom have told Miranda something? Was that why Miranda had said they would talk later?

Ariel hurtled up the stairs from the basement, her backpack banging side to side on her shoulders like a pendulum as she ran. In the den, two kids were now making out on the couch, the TV blaring, beer cans lying about the tables like crumpled tin soldiers. She raced through the swinging door from the den to the kitchen and then to the dining room and found a girl crying at the table, a friend trying to console her. She didn’t stop. In the foyer, another girl stood on the stairs sipping a beer, a guy leaning up against the banister, probably trying to convince her to go upstairs to one of the bedrooms.

Ariel ran past them. Her shoulders had started to ache, so she pulled off her backpack as she entered the living room. Just then a cheer erupted, startling her. Two boys were stuffing the fireplace with old newspapers and flicking burning matches onto the paper. Every time they got a leap of flames, they cheered.

These dopes were still trying to make s’mores. “You can’t do that! You’ll catch something on fire!”

They didn’t even look at her.

Two girls sat on the hearth, pulling out the graham crackers and chocolate, shoving marshmallows onto a couple of pens. The fire was messy, ash getting everywhere. Just the sight of the chocolate made Ariel desperately wish she was back in New York, sitting at the counter island in Portia’s kitchen, watching her work her magic with food. If only she’d never come out here.

If only she’d never gotten in the car with her mother.

Tears beat behind her eyes like prisoners trying to escape. Someone started retching and she jerked around. A kid was vomiting into one of her mom’s decorative brass pots. Three boys circled around him, laughing hysterically. “Lightweight! Lightweight!”

One of them held a bottle of vodka. Probably her dad’s. Already empty.

Just then, one of her mom’s tasseled pillows flew by her head. “Who the fuck are you, little girl?” a boy shouted, from where he slouched on the sofa, beer can in hand. Another boy, somehow looking older, sat there, his brow furrowed.

She dropped her backpack and picked up the pillow, hugging it tight. “None of your business. Where’s Miranda?”

A bunch of them whipped around to face her.

“Freakin’ A. It’s Miranda’s sister.”

Ariel hardly recognized Miranda’s new friend Becky. She had on a ton of makeup. “What the hell are you doing here?” Becky demanded. “You’re supposed to be in the city.”

“Becks,” another girl said. “Cool it.” Then she smiled at Ariel, sweet, too sweet. “You want to play with us, Miranda’s sister?”

“No. And you better get out of my house before I call the police.”

The girl just laughed. “Seriously, you’re not that uncool, are you? Come on, do shots with us.”

Her face felt hot and sweaty, her heart pounding even harder. “Where’s Miranda?”

“What a baby!” Becky said, turning away. She saw Ariel’s backpack and yanked it up. “Do you have any money in here?”

Ariel grabbed for it, but Becky leaped out of the way and started pawing inside. Journal, pens, multicolored socks spilled out. “That’s mine!” Ariel yelled.

“We need money for booze,” Becky said, staying out of reach. “Your dad’s a freaking millionaire, everyone knows that. But all he had in this place was a few stinking bottles of Ketel One.”

Ariel grabbed for the pack again, but Becky smirked and tossed it to another girl.

Ariel pivoted and leaped for the other girl, who only laughed and threw the pack over her head to one of the guys, who tossed it to another kid in the foyer.

It was like a game playing out in slow motion, until she realized that Becky was laughing even harder. She turned around to find the girl was holding her journal.

“‘Musings of a Freak,’” Becky read, giggling madly. “You are a freak.”

The music swirled through Ariel’s head like notes swimming through melting marshmallow. It took a moment to figure out that this awful girl was reading her thoughts out loud—her frustrations, her hopes, her fears—for everyone to hear. Part of her was mortified, and some other part pulsed with fury. But something else clawed at her and stung her nose.

Smoke still puffed out into the room instead of going up the chimney. The boys making s’mores didn’t seem to care. One of them threw back a shot, then tossed his plastic cup into the fire, making the smoke smell so bitter she could taste it on her tongue.

“Hey, moron—” she heard someone say, but then a big pop sounded and the fire flared up, and still none of the smoke went up the chimney.

“Shit,” one of the boys said, falling back a step.

“Yeah,” another said. “Son of a bitch, you’re a moron.”

Somebody threw a glass of beer on the fire, but it didn’t go out.

“Oh, no,” Ariel cried, swiping her nose with her sleeve, as it only got worse. She grabbed a beer can from the table and ran forward, too, but the can was empty. The fire popped, a flying ember hitting her sleeve. She stared in shock as her shirt started to burn.

“Damn.” The cool boy from the sofa pushed up, tore off his jacket, and wrapped her arm with his coat. Then he grabbed a full water bottle from his pack and threw the contents onto the flames, and the fire sizzled and hissed as it went out. “Seriously, morons,” the guy muttered.

Ariel dropped the empty can, and still, she couldn’t do anything but stare, her mouth open.

The guy leaned down and looked her in the eye. “You’re okay, kid. Got it? Now go home. Get out of here. You’re too young to get involved with this crazy shit.”

Her lip trembled.