THIRTY–EIGHT Claire waved good-bye to Becca that afternoon as Owen’s car pulled back out of her driveway. She eyed the plastic still stretched across the back windshield of the Honda before she slipped inside the house. She raced into the kitchen, hung her coat on the hook beside the back door, and found a note that Dr. Cain had left pinned to the front of the fridge: Claire, his crooked handwriting proclaimed. Left new phone in your room. Be home before you leave for dance.—Dad. She raced upstairs and tossed her backpack onto her dresser, knocking the pale pink scarf onto the wood floor. It landed with an unexpected clatter. Claire frowned as she picked the silky scarf up, finding her new phone tangled up inside it. She tossed it onto her bed and plugged it into her charger. Good, she thought. I didn’t bang it up. And with a new phone, I won’t have to worry about any more texts from Rachelle. She attacked her closet, going through the just-in-case clothes she’d brought along with her—the dressier variety.
