Chapter 4

By Sunday afternoon, the autumn sun shone brightly over Chicago, reflecting off the damp pavement outside Claire's brick townhouse.

Claire's guest room was small, but it was filled with the warm scent of dried lavender and clean cotton sheets. Willa sat on the edge of the bed, carefully arranging her colored pencils on the nightstand while Claire made pancakes in the kitchen downstairs.

My phone had been buzzing continuously on the dresser since seven in the morning.

Twelve missed calls from Dashiell. Eight text messages:

[Iris, bring her back. This is ridiculous.]

[I spoke to my mother. She agrees you're…