Cold floods all the way through my body. He’s not going to help me. He’s not going to help Dara.

No one’s going to help.

I run, breath high in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs. I hear my name, shouted again and again, until it becomes meaningless: just the wind, or the sound of the ocean, beating invisibly, ceaselessly, somewhere far off in the distance.

EMAIL FROM DR. LEONARD LICHME TO SHARON MAUFF, DATED MARCH 5, 10:30 A.M.

Dear Ms. Mauff,

I originally sent this email several weeks ago to an old address I have on file—I’m guessing you’ve reverted to your maiden name? When it continued to bounce back, I got your new personal email address from a secretary at MLK.

I’m sorry for all the phone tag. I just saw I missed your call this morning. Can you let me know some times you might be available to talk? I have some significant concerns I’d like to share with you, especially in advance of our family session on the sixteenth.

Best,

Leonard Lichme, PhD

EMAIL FROM SHARON MAUFF TO KEVIN WARREN, DATED MARCH 6, 3:00 P.M.

Kevin,

I received a very concerning email from Dr. Lichme yesterday and have been unable to get through to his office. Has he contacted you?

Sharon

P.S. No, I have no idea what happened to your golf clubs and think it’s inappropriate for you to ask me to look for them.

EMAIL FROM KEVIN WARREN TO DR. LEONARD LICHME, DATED MARCH 6, 3:16 P.M.

Dr. Lichme,

My ex-wife has just informed me that you recently reached out to her with “significant concerns.” Is there some trouble with Dara I don’t know about? And is there some reason that you didn’t reach out to me as well? Despite what Sharon might lead you to believe, I am still very much a member of this family. I believe I initially provided you with office and cell phone numbers for this very purpose. Please let me know when I can reach you and/or if you need me to provide you my phone number again.

Kevin Warren

EMAIL FROM DR. LEONARD LICHME TO KEVIN WARREN, DATED MARCH 6, 7:18 P.M.

Dear Mr. Warren,

It’s not Dara I’m worried about; it’s Nicole. But the fact that you would immediately assume otherwise is part of what I’d like to discuss with you and Sharon, preferably together, in my office. Will you be at the family session on March 16, I hope?

In the meantime, I still have your number and will try and reach you this evening.

Best,

Dr. Leonard Lichme, Ph.D.

EMAIL FROM KEVIN WARREN TO SHARON MAUFF, DATED MARCH 7, 10:00 P.M.

Sharon,

I finally spoke with Dr. Lichme. Have you talked to him yet? To be honest, I wasn’t too impressed. He suggested that you and I might benefit from Al-Anon, for example, to help “resolve our impulses to ‘fix’ Dara.” I told him he’s the one who’s supposed to be fixing her.

He said he’s actually more worried about Nick. Because Dara acts out, takes drugs, and hangs out with God-knows-who, she’s expressing her feelings and so she’s supposedly healthier than Nick, who’s never given us a day’s worry in her life. Isn’t that a pretty paradox? He kept trying to convince me that because Nick never shows any signs of being in trouble, she’s actually the one who is in trouble. And for this we’re paying $250 an hour (speaking of, you owe me your portion for the month of February. Please mail a check.).

I suppose he knows what he’s talking about, but I’m simply not convinced. Nick is a great big sister, and Dara is lucky to have her.

See you on the sixteenth. I hope we can keep it civil.

Kevin

P.S. I wasn’t implying you should look for my golf clubs (!). I simply asked whether you had seen them. Please don’t make everything a battle.

Nick

1:45 a.m.

As soon as I’m back on the highway, I grab my phone and punch in Parker’s number. For a second, I’m worried it won’t connect: my phone is flashing every five seconds, showing 2 percent battery. Come on, I think, come on, come on.

Then it’s ringing: four, five, six times before clicking over to voice mail.

“Come on,” I say out loud, and punch the steering wheel with a palm. I hang up and redial. Three rings, four rings, five rings. Just before I click off, Parker picks up.

“Hello?” he croaks. I’ve woken him. No surprise. It’s nearly 2:00 a.m.

“Parker?” My throat is so tight, I can barely say his name. “I need your help.”

“Nick?” I hear rustling, as though he’s sitting up. “Jesus. What time is it?”

“Listen to me,” I say. “My phone’s about to die. But I think Dara’s in trouble.”

There’s a short pause. “You think—what?”

“At first I thought she was just messing with me,” I rush on. “But I think . . . I think she might be involved in something big. Something bad.”

“Where are you?” When Parker speaks again, his voice is totally alert, totally awake, and I know he’s gotten out of bed.

I could kiss my phone. I could kiss him. I do want to kiss him. This fact is huge and solid and impassible, like an iceberg rising suddenly out of the smooth dark water.

“Route 101. Heading south.” I feel a growing sense of vertigo, as if the road in front of my headlights is in fact a long pit and I’m falling.

You can’t let me have anything of my own, can you? You always have to be better than me. Dara’s voice comes to me at once, a voice as loud as memory. And then I know: I am remembering. She said those words to me. I’m sure she did. But the second I try to grasp for the connection, to follow the slick handholds of memory down beneath the water, my mind is enveloped in the same numbing cold, the same undifferentiated dark.