“She did.” Romola smiles at me like I’m something cute and helpless. A kitten, maybe. “As if anyone could stop Marguerite from doing what she’s set her mind to.”

“Stop talking about her.” Those are the first words I can force out. “You’re dealing with me now. Talk to me.”

“She’s right,” Dad says, stepping aside to make room for me. He’s wearing the same sort of stiff-yet-formfitting clothes as Romola and I are, but in a deep oaky brown. “Come on, sit down.”

Numbly I walk toward his chair. As I sink into the seat, Conley motions to Romola. “Get Marguerite some water. Maybe a cup of tea. I think she could use it.”

If Wyatt Conley thinks I’m going to thank him for that, he’s living in a dream world. I look past him, directly at my mother, who sits calmly with her hands folded across the desk. To her I say, “Romola told me you were the founders of Triad Corporation. All three of you, together.”

Mom smiles. “Yes, that’s true.”

“That’s impossible.” My voice breaks, so I make fists beneath the table, digging my nails into the heels of my hands until it hurts. I’d rather claw myself bloody than let Conley see me cry. “You wouldn’t. You and Dad would never—you wouldn’t want to make a ton of money or rule over the multiverse. That’s not who you are.” They wear the same sweaters until the wool unravels; Mom wouldn’t know “this year’s handbag” if someone hit her with it. It’s not that they’re stingy, and we’re not poor—my parents just don’t care about things very much.

They all exchange glances, before Mom replies, “Money matters more here, I’m afraid. In your world, and so many others—they pretend other elements of existence are more important. Here, we’re more honest. Everyone needs to prove their value to their sponsor or employer. Unwillingness to maximize profit is often considered a moral failing.”

“Not by us,” Dad chimes in. “We recognize the shades of gray involved. But Triad employs tens of thousands of people. Their welfare is in our hands. Their futures, too. We wouldn’t want to let these people down.”

My initial reaction is to snap at them: Oh, so you’ll betray me, not to mention yourselves, just so Triad’s office workers get a slightly higher Christmas bonus. I guess that makes it okay to ruin people’s lives. However, Romola’s words of warning echo inside my mind—there’s no such thing as a nation here. Only corporations. Your fate rises or falls with your employer.

It’s an incredibly messed-up way to live, but at least I see how my parents could’ve gotten involved.

Dad pats my shoulder. “Triad isn’t only about profit. That’s simply the only part you’ve had a chance to see. I told you we should have called her here before.”

That was directed at Conley, who nods. His clothes are all in a dark emerald color, the shade associated with Triad and its logo. “I understand why you’re upset with me, Marguerite. My other selves can be . . .” He searches for the right words, then finishes, “total assholes.”

I can’t help it; I laugh.

Conley smiles, overly encouraged. “I apologize for the way they’ve been acting. Their worlds don’t even have the same demands for money. For them, it’s nothing more than a power trip. And I’ll be the first to admit their methods leave much to be desired. We began this collaboration assuming that we would all benefit, but I’m the first to admit that it’s turned—exploitive.”

“Why do you work with them, if you think they’re so awful? Why did you even start this—this conspiracy?” Collaboration, my ass. I push my chair back from the table, farther from Conley, and look past him to my mother. “Why didn’t you stop when the other Conleys started kidnapping people?”

“Oh, darling.” Mom’s eyes fill with tears. “You have to understand. Your father and I—all three of us—by now we’re doing this for the same reason.”

Dad quietly adds, “We’re doing this because this is the only way we’ll ever get Josie back.”

The curving, blank walls of this room turn out to double as enormous viewscreens. On each one, a different video of Josie plays.

On the left: A family video from when Josie and I were younger, one with all of us sightseeing in some kind of glass-domed hovership. Dad’s holding the camera. He goes back and forth from focusing on the seashore below to pointing the lens at each of us in turn. Everyone dresses in monochrome, all pink or all yellow. I’m wearing my hair back in a ponytail—as unflattering here as it is at home—and wearing gray. Onscreen I try to ignore Dad’s filming while I take my own pictures, maybe to use as sources for artwork later. Mom keeps talking about how coastal irregularities always mirror fractal patterns. Josie just turns her face toward the sunshine, soaking it in.

On the right, Josie and Conley are at some kind of fancy party. To me his clothes don’t look that different from what he’s wearing now, but Josie’s wearing a long, melon-colored sheath dress, which wouldn’t look out of place back in my own world; the fact that she’s not wearing jeans would be enough to prove this is a very special occasion. Candlelight flickers from tapers mounted on the wall. Josie’s chestnut hair is pulled back on one side with some sort of tropical flower pinned at her temple; it ought to look ridiculous, but it doesn’t. Instead, she reminds me of some 1940s movie goddess—sultry and luminous. Conley’s arm is linked with hers, and he gazes at her like she’s the brightest light in the room.

The broadest screen, the one behind us, plays a video with the Triad Corporation watermark on the lower right-hand side. The brilliant aquamarine color of Josie’s formfitting outfit reminds me of one of the wetsuits she wears to go surfing. Around her neck hangs a slightly different version of the Firebird. She’s sitting at a desk, talking with her hands; I realize this is a post-mission debriefing. Josie sounds efficient, but enthusiastic. “Apparently Greco-Roman paganism had survived in dimension 101347. Temples to Zeus, Apollo, Athena, and Aphrodite were located on most major streets, but I also saw worship of other cultures’ deities, such as Odin and Isis. Various forms of paganism must have coalesced over time as . . .”

I can’t take it all in. Overshadowing all these videos, all this information, is the cold truth my parents have told me: in this dimension, my sister is dead.

“She volunteered,” Dad says, in a way that makes me think he must repeat this to himself very often. “Josie wanted to travel through the dimensions. Her sense of adventure . . . nothing was ever entirely enough. Always, she wanted more.”

Conley keeps staring at Josie’s face on the screen. “So when she offered to be our first traveler—to be this dimension’s perfect traveler—it seemed so natural to say yes. Who could do it better? Who would love it more?”

Nobody, I realize. Josie has always looked a little wistful when we talked about our travels in different worlds. At home, though, she’s on her own scientific adventure, immersed in oceanography—pun intended, since it makes her and Dad laugh every time. She never volunteered to be a part of our parents’ work. In this world, however, she followed in their footsteps.