CHAPTER 7

Mia came home the next day.

Not because she was better. Because she insisted on leaving the hospital.

Mom helped her through the door. Mia leaned against her like a sheet of paper. Her face was all angles now, skin stretched over bone.

But the worst part was her eyes.

Bloodshot. Swollen. Unfocused.

She had not slept since my wish.

"She couldn't sleep at the hospital either," Mom said, easing her onto the sofa. "They gave her sleeping pills. Nothing worked."

Mia wrapped herself in a blanket and trembled.

Martin knelt in front of her and took her hands. "Sweetheart, Dad's here. Close your eyes. Try."

"I can't." Her voice was raw. "The second I close them, my brain keeps moving. My bones feel loud. Dad, am I dying?"

"No. No, you're not."

His voice broke.

I stood in the hallway and watched.

Mom saw me.

The look in her eyes had changed. It was no longer suspicion.

It was fear.

"Clara," she said softly. "Come here. Look at your sister."

I did.

"You really don't know anything?"

"I told you. I don't."

Mom stared at me for five seconds, then turned away first.

That night, Mia lay on the sofa and did not sleep.

Neither did I, not much. My wish kept me awake until almost four. I dozed for two hours and woke at six with sand behind my eyes.

I could function.

Mia could not.

By morning, she sat upright on the sofa and stared at the wall without blinking. Mom called her name three times before she answered.

"Breakfast?" Mom asked.

"No."

Mia stood, swayed, and nearly folded at the knees. Martin caught her.

He came out of her room ten minutes later.

He stopped in front of me at the dining table.

"Clara."

"Yes?"

"I'm begging you."

His knees bent.

The sound of them hitting the tile was dull and heavy.

A man in his fifties knelt in the middle of our living room.

Mom rushed out of the kitchen. "Martin! What are you doing?"

"I'm begging her!" he shouted, tears spilling down his face. "Mia is falling apart. Three days without sleep. She won't survive this."

He turned to me.

"Clara, I know it's you. I don't know what you did, but I know. Tell me what you want. Money, an apartment, an apology. Anything. Just let Mia go."

The room went still.

Mom stood frozen with a plate in her hands.

I looked at Martin on his knees.

For fifteen years, this man had owned every room he stood in. His daughter got whatever she wanted. His stepdaughter got what was left.

Now he knelt.

I had waited years to see someone in this house lower his head to me.

I felt nothing.

No joy. No pity. No victory.

Because he was not kneeling for me.

He was kneeling for Mia.

Even with his forehead nearly at my feet, his heart was still with her.

"Get up," I said.

"Promise me first."

"I can't promise anything. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Clara!"

I stood, stepped around him, and walked to the door.

Mom blocked me. "Clara, tell us the truth. Did you-"

"Do you have proof?"

She stopped.

"No proof, then don't accuse me. I'm going to work."

I left him crying behind me.

In the elevator, my phone buzzed.

A voice message from Mia.

I played it.

Her voice scraped out, hoarse and shaking.

"Clara, I know it's you."

Two seconds of breath.

"I've known since we were kids."