A crack of thunder jolts me awake.

Sitting up bone-straight, I fumble around, reaching for Mercy. When my fingers come back empty, I almost cry.

Then I remember.

She's gone.

A sweet-sick dampness is in the air. Peeling curly hair away from my eyelashes, I peer around the darkness. The old analog clock tick-tocks above the antique, wooden mantel, as loud as the repeated cock of a gun. It's too dark to tell the time.

Fragments of the afternoon piece together. After Maryanne's panicky visit, I left Sheila's with a hundred questions buzzing in my head. I drew the curtains when I came home, collapsing on Aunt Shannon's vintage, rose-motif couch.

The dream needles at me. I stare at the green, velvety drapes on the bay windows and the vintage floor lamp standing between them.

My skin prickles as if someone's watching me.

Another slap of thunder rocks the house. It shudders the fringe on the lampshade.

Mercy, I have so much more to say to you.

In the dream, my twin wore a white, cotton dress that swayed at her ankles. A wreath of baby's breath adorned her head. Standing in a field of tall sunflowers, she waved at me. Her almond-shaped eyes disappeared into her smile.

Mercy wasn't mad, after all.

It felt like I was a thousand yards away, my feet sinking in wet mud as I called to her. She couldn't hear what I screamed.

One time when we were seven, Mom forgot Christmas and tried to make it up to us by buying one of those old-school, red Viewmasters from the thrift store. She told us to share.

In my dream, each click of the Viewmaster changed the scene, bringing us together in slow motion. Mercy in her frilly, white dress, baby's breath slipping from her curls. Me with bile burning the back of my throat, click click click, until she was close enough for me to touch. She smelled like I remembered: Dove soap on sun-kissed skin.

The sunflowers around us bent their heads as I wept. I tried to stomp my feet clear of the mud, but the more I did, the more I sank. She took my hand. I stopped struggling and grazed the softness of her cheek, the curve in her ear. Her face was a mirror, but I didn't shrink away from what I saw.

"Mercy, Mercy," I whispered.

Though Mercy's mouth ran a mile a minute, no words came out. It was like one of those old black-and-white silent movies Mom watches when she's drunk.

As I tried to make sense of Mercy's muteness, the ground under her burped, gurgled, and opened like a wide yawn. It sucked sunflowers and dirt into its belly. The mud didn't pull me under. It shackled my legs and made me watch the earth take her.

Before my sister fell into the hole, the look on her face said everything her mouth couldn't: Why?

I said: I'm sorry.

Thump thump thump

A pounding at the door.

It shakes the memory of Mercy's panic-stricken face away.

The floor is cold. Even through socks, the chill is jarring. The rumble in my stomach reminds me I haven't eaten since Mom's rubbery eggs this morning.

Shivering, I feel around dusky, blue shadows for the light switch, smashing my hip against the wing-backed chair in the foyer.

Through the peephole, Mom is wrapped in a thin blanket, her knees buckling as Colt Colby supports her under one arm. He uses his free hand to bang his fist against the screen door.

I asked you to bring her home, Mercy.

What the hell is he doing here?

I unlatch the front door and unlock the screen, opening it with a squeaky hiss.

Wet wind drives leaves across the covered porch while the night stretches behind them. A Sheriff's car is pulled into the driveway, its high-beams illuminating us like we're on stage.

"Can I bring her inside?" Colt asks, averting his eyes. He hoists Mom up with a grunt.

Something about seeing him cradle her unsettles me.

"Mom, you okay?" She's almost limp when I grab her from his grasp.

"Hi, schweetie." Her words are muddy like her mouth's filled with honey. Like she's on something.

So here I am again. Wrestling with Mom. I slip and crash us against the doorframe.

"Don't hurt yourself." Colt leans forward to catch us, but I slap his hands away.

"Don't touch me!"

Why is the sheriff sitting in the car and watching? Why is Colt Colby on my porch? A flash of red fury. How dare he bring my mother home like this?

I stand Mom upright, almost losing my step again. After guiding her to the chair in the foyer, I gently rest her head against the floral-patterned wallpaper.

"Wait right here," I whisper.

"I wanna go to bed, Mercy," she slurs, her eyes as heavy as her head.

I blink.

Whatever drugs she's on haven't wiped the ghost of Mercy away.

"I'll be right back, Momma."

Colt is at the threshold where I left him, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his red Supreme hoodie. The wind howls. But the porch is all dark and shadows now; the sheriff's car is no longer in the driveway.

Though the wind bites me, I don't waste any time. "Where was she? What did you do to her?"

His face flushes as red as his hoodie. Perfect, golden brows furrow. His lips are full and pink. To my annoyance, I wonder what they feel like.

"My dad took your mama to a hospital and called my mom. She's a doctor," he explains. "They only gave her something to calm her down. Sheriff McCay brought her home in his car, and my daddy told me to meet him here and check on you."

"I don't need you checking on me." I ball my fists, squinting my eyes over his shoulder. "Where did the cop go?"

Colt attempts a lop-sided grin, gesturing to a silver Range Rover parked at the curb. How did I miss that?

"I told him he could head on home. I'm a big boy. I can take it from here."

I want to tell him to stop smiling at me because I can't tell if it's sweet or creepy. Instead, I ask, "Where is her shirt? It's very valuable."

"What shirt?"

"The shirt your dad took her away in."

"I don't know nothing about any of that. I'm just doing what my daddy said to do."

A wet leaf sticks to the cuff of Colt's jeans. He scrapes it off with the toe of one his red-and-white Jordans, his expression softening.

"Are you doing alright?" He asks, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes, the ones that remind me of That Awful Thing, take in my wild hair and shaking hands. But he doesn't leer like Ethan did. There's a tenderness in his gaze.

He's cute. And he knows it. But I'm not as easily charmed as these countrified bitches around here.

"Don't ever come by here again," I warn, backing inside the house.

"Wait! Before you slam that screen in my face," Colt holds his hands up in surrender. Shivering in the wind, he suddenly looks small. Demure even. Maybe that's why I let him say the next part.

"I picked up some burgers from Silver's. For you and your momma. I got myself one too. I know you've had a hell of a day, but I can show you that not everyone in Pachuck is a psycho. I'm starved. We can eat together. That is, if you're hungry."