KATHERINE

My gut reaction was to call Erland.

He answered on the second ring.

"Hey, Kat—" he started, sounding worried.

I cut him off. "Ignore what I said before. Don't call the police."

"Kat, what is—"

"I'll call you back in thirty minutes."

I hung up.

It bothered me to be so curt with my brother, but I had had long enough of a day.

I glared up at Betsy, more surprised than annoyed at her presence. "What the heck are you doing here?" I'd decided to sound annoyed.

Betsy's soft footsteps padded down the stairs. Sheepishness made her appear like a child who deserved a terrible scolding. She wrung her wrists.

"Well?" I asked.

"I-I thought you might need some help, Kat," she started, eyes glued to the floor. Her hair still hung about her shoulders, giving her a disheveled appearance that I was surprisingly happy for.

"Judging by the way you look, Betsy, you need more help than I." I glared at her. She seemed to shrink into the shadows under my unrelenting gaze.

I crossed my arms.

"I'm sorry about my part in this." Her hands fluttered at her sides, like doves fighting torrents of rain. "I bought you the ticket when your grandfather seemed like he would take care of Erland. If I hadn't shoved my hand in the wasps nest, you wouldn't be here."

"You know enough about my grandfather to know that he'll make a complicated mess just so I have to clean it up."

Betsy chewed her lip. "I first thought to take Erland back to my apartment, but you didn't answer when I called. . . I thought that, maybe this time, your grandfather was doing something helpful."

"Helpful, my ass," I grumbled.

Betsy let out a bark of laughter before it died in her throat. Her hand shot over her mouth. "Oh, my gosh, Kat. I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry," I said, chuckling under my breath, "Jokes are meant to be laughed at."

Betsy still looked distressed. "But we shouldn't be laughing at a time like this. Your mother is in the hospital, Erland is stranded God knows where, and you—"

"Wholeheartedly disagree," I finished, already feeling lighter in my chest. "We need to smile in the darker times of our lives." I grasped one of Betsy's fluttering hands. "And I need you in those times, too."

Betsy smiled wryly, though she squeezed my hand. "More like all the time, Kat."

I laughed, the action feeling my bones with an energy that was infectious, despite the exhaustion on the edge of my consciousness. Betsy untangled her hand from mine, her cold ring coming away from my palm.

"What?" I asked, swiping my hand across my jeans. "Were my palms sweaty?"

"Very," she replied jokingly, though her bright blue eyes held tones of concern. "But that wasn't why I took my hand back. Kat," she said, snaking her fingers between the crook of my elbow and my side, "you need to get to bed. You're asleep on your feet."

Truth be told, I was swaying. My consciousness was trying to fight the descending wave of sleep. The lack of lights on in my home wasn't helping. I had half a mind to protest but before I knew it, Betsy had brought me to the couch.

She adjusted the pillows and told me to lie down while she looked for a blanket. I didn't have the strength to tell her where they were.

By the time she found one, I was already sound asleep.

* * *

The scent of coffee wafting in from the kitchen drew me from my sleep. I blinked my eyes open to the blinding light streaming in from the living room window. I shot up from the couch, only to stub my toe on the coffee table. I swore.

"Kat?" said a pleasant voice. "Is that you? Are you up?"

"Yes," I hissed, tearing the blanket up in search of my phone. Desperate, I fell to my knees, pressing my cheek to the wood to look under the couch. Panic welled up in my chest like a dam about to burst. "Betsy, have you seen my phone?"

Betsy's face popped out from the kitchen. "If you're worried about Erland, I spoke with him after you fell asleep. Apparently," she said with a wry smile, "I'm just as much a criminal as I am your best friend. And because we are such great friends, I explained the situation as best I could to him." She disappeared back around the corner, swearing something about burning eggs.

"From what I understand," she continued, raising her voice so it would carry through the wall, "Camille and Erland got into an accident for two reasons. First, because Camille had a stroke—bless her heart—and second, some drunk forced her to fudge up a turn and landed them both in deep water.

"So your grandfather decided to send Erland to Alabama, even though he probably could've guessed that you would be on your way the second your plane touched down."

Betsy gave me a pointed look over her shoulder as I crossed under the doorway. For some reason, I felt as if I was about to reprimanded. I settled in a seat across the counter from her as she continued, her voice sharper than ever.

"So, please explain to me, Katherine, why Nicolas Masiello, prince among bastards, texted you—" she spun away from the stove, procuring my phone from her back pocket "—and I'm quoting here, 'Katherine, it's Nicolas. Erland is with me. He is safe. Give me a call when you can.' Now," Betsy said, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow, "why would your brother be staying with your good-for-nothing ex? And how did you get his number anyway?"

My face reddened. He must've gotten my number from Erland.

"That is none of your business," I snapped, reaching for my phone. She danced out of reach, waving a wooden spoon.

"Try me, Katherine," she said, seriousness darkening her porcelain features. "I will smack you if you try to keep the truth from me here. What exactly happened yesterday?"

I opened my mouth to retort something irrevocably rude, but I held back. At the hospital, I had lashed out at Betsy, even when she had no reason to be there but for me. Here she was again, making me breakfast—and ensuring that the police wouldn't swarm the house in the middle of the night due to a frantic Erland on the other line—and I was being a bitch.

So I told her what happened. I mentioned Nick at the airport, and how when we parted ways, he said would take care of Erland.

"He also said he would make sure I keep my job," I said, chewing my lip, "but I don't know how he could possibly do that."

Betsy, who had taken the seat across from me and rested her elbows on the counter during my story, got to her feet now. "Kat," she said thoughtfully, crossing the room to the stove, where she removed a pan from the heat, "did he ever tell you where he worked?"

I blinked. "No. . . . But what does that have to—"

"Shush," said Betsy, scooping scrambled eggs onto a plate. "I wasn't finished." She paused to carry the pan to the sink, after which she poured a two cups of coffee and balanced it all like a waiter at rush-hour on her walk to where I sat. "Eat," she ordered. "I'll talk."

I hesitantly lifted a fork to my lips. Her cerulean eyes watched my hand all the way up.

"From what you've told me of your history with Nick," Betsy started slowly, drumming her manicured nails over the counter, "he owned a bookstore before the wedding, right?"

"And after," I said, accidentally spitting out a bit of egg. My face reddened, but Betsy calmly flicked the yellow fleck off the counter.

"What happened to it?" she asked, fixing her cool gaze on me.

My fork paused mid-air. "I—I don't really know. I know we took out a loan for it together, and I signed my name as co-owner of the store, but once he left . . . once he left, he never asked to split payments anymore."

Betsy gave me a curious look over her coffee cup. "If he didn't pay it off, Kat, they would have gone after you to pay, right? Since you co-signed."

I shrugged. "I guess so, but I assumed he paid by some means or another."

To my surprised, Betsy laughed so hard, she snorted. "That idiot. He's probably still knee-deep in failed ventures." She paused, a thoughtful look flickering across her features. "But at least he's got the decency to take in Erland for the time being."

"Knowing him," I added, grinning, "you would think he would live above a bar."

Betsy raised an eyebrow. "Is he?"

I shook my head. "From what I heard from Erland last night," I said, pushing my empty plate away, "Nick's place is pretty sweet."

"Mr. Masiello is one strange man, don't you think?" Betsy picked up my plate, placing it in the sink to be washed later.

"You bet."

I downed the last of my coffee. A bit too bitter for my liking, but at least the dregs weren't so foul as when I would make it. When I set my cup down, I found my phone at the edge of the table. My eyes flickered up to Betsy, but she seemed preoccupied with soaking the pans.

8:36 - Nick: Katherine, Erland is with me. He is safe. Give me a call when you can.

10:42 - Missed call from XXX-XXX-XXXX

10:45 - XXX-XXX-XXXX - Ms. Malloy, this is Mr. Collins. Please give me a call back when you can.

I checked the time. It was 11 o'clock and I was already itching for a drink. How the heck am I going to retrieve Erland, take care of my mother, and keep my job?

It had taken me months to find a job at Wayward Press. Competition for an opening at a publishing house such as that one was crazy, and no employee ever seemed to want to leave. What would happen if I had to resign? I shuddered at the thought.

It would be disastrous.

A significant portion of Mom's pension had gone to paying for the cost of my wedding. I promised myself before the engagement that the wedding would be the last thing I'd ever rely on her to pay, but my shaky circumstances dictated otherwise. Before the car accident, Mom never ceased to remind me that it had been a mistake on my part to move out last year. And it dawned on me that she was right. That's because every month now, she splits her pension between paying 50% of the rent for my house and the majority Erland's education, to which I contribute what I can: a tidy sum of $200.

At least Mom's house is paid off. Worst come to worst, I could sell it.

While I was wrapped up in my thoughts, a warm arm went over my shoulders. Betsy's lavender perfume wafted around me, comforting. I took a deep breath. She spoke first.

"Sweetie," she said, squeezing me tight, "is there anything I can do to help?"

A terrible thought occurred to me. Could you pay off my lease? Another came flying out of the darkness: If not, could you retrieve Erland in Alabama? My bitterness wrapped around me, almost suffocating.

How about putting that money to good use instead of buying more expensive jewelry?

I breathed in the scent of Betsy's perfume, feeling her arm across my shoulders, her weight on the edge of the couch, and the bitterness fled into the ground. Shame sat in the dregs of my grief. I couldn't ask her to do that. She already gave me so much: she never had to refer me to her husband as a secretary.

She can type 100 words a minute, Rick! she'd said, or some variation thereof, in the intention of impressing him.

Anyway, she must've said something good because a week later, he'd offered me a part-time job as Clint Harwood's interim secretary (his actual secretary was out on maternity leave, and sure to be fired thereafter).

And how had I repaid this kindness? By quitting on multiple occasions, turning down two raises out of angry pride, and yelling at Betsy at the hospital when all she had done was support me. I couldn't take another job under Rick again—nor would Betsy offer me one when she suspected he was cheating. There was only one option left.

Alabama.

The job as an editorial assistant could change everything.

Since I'd signed the lease on this place—and consequently lost my job—my emergency fund has been depleted down to a quarter of its former security. It would probably only sustain me another month here. Not to mention the six months left on the lease . . .

If I stayed here, I would only drown under rent, the utilities for Mom's house (thank God she'd paid the mortgage off years ago), Erland's summer plans, the ever-growing stack of hospital bills, and whatever else the world wished to throw at me. Even if I emptied out my bank account and wiggled what I could out of mom's pension in order to pay for some of those things, I would have to come up with enough dough to cover the hospital expenses. All without an income of my own.

Going to Alabama, however, would get me a salary. I could call on some old friends—Matthew Burgess, for one—and maybe he could house me for a few months. I'd pay rent but still significantly less than if I found an actual place. Since I was already going to take the job at WP before the accident, Mom and I had decided that her pension would only cover half of the rent. My work would bring in the other half. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like I had not choice but to go.

The only thing was Erland.

I couldn't impose upon a friend to house me and my younger brother. But, if I sublet this place—the lease agreement never specifically said I couldn't—I could use the money to get a good place in a decent neighborhood. I could wait out the six months left on the lease, cover Mom's medical bills with the combined efforts of her pension and my earnings at WP, and Erland could just transfer back to Harvey High over winter break, after finals. He would only miss one semester!

Not only that, but I would be out of the influence of my grandfather. He had sent Erland to Alabama with the hope that he would create a mess. What a cruel turn of events if his nefarious plans only placed luck in my favor. He would be incensed. He would also be unable to give me hell. He'd been the one to throw me into this financial mess in the first place. That selfish bastard cost me my previous job. He wouldn't be able to do anything this time.

After I mulled this over for another minute, I pitched my ideas to Betsy.

Rent a place in Alabama and sublet the one here to pay for it, and use the combined money of my salary and Mom's pension to pay medical bills. I elaborated on my reasons: to get away from Gramps, save up money, and—I realized this as I was almost overcome with tears as I spoke—to get a break.

"What do you think?" I asked.

Betsy took a moment to think about this, too. She heard the numbers, and though her own situation was laced with fantasy and luxury, she still knew that it was like to have to sacrifice.

"What about that lawyer guy, Kat?" she said, sounding a little worried. "He's supposed to be helping you with your mom's case against the drunk driver."

I glanced over at the papers on the table. The documents had fallen a little out of the vanilla folder. Mr. Collins' card sat on top, gleaming with silver embossed letters. My attention flitted back to Betsy.

"I'll leave it to the police this time, Betsy," I said. "Besides, they won't charge me $450 an hour for their services."