That’s how Dad and I get by: mostly honest but sometimes not.

“Which friend?”

Precisely the question I was hoping to avoid.

“A guy from my English class. We have an essay.” Again, truth. Jackson is in my class and we do have an essay, just not one we need to work on together.

“That boy Luka?”

“No.” I take a deep breath, remembering how Jackson told his mom all about me. “His name’s Jackson,” I say. “Jackson Tate.”

Dad frowns even harder. “Why can’t he come here?”

“Do you want to call his mom and ask?”

Dad rears back in surprise.

“Sorry,” I say, meaning it. “Dad, seriously, I’m not doing anything sketchy. Have a little faith.”

He mulls that over for a few seconds, then asks, “What about Carly?”

“Group project.”

His expression lightens. “Oh, okay.”

Uh-oh. I think he took that to mean we’ll all be working together. I choose not to disabuse him of that idea.

“Keep your phone on. And call me to let me know if you’ll be home for dinner.”

“’Kay.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek. His arms close around me and he hugs me a little tighter and a little longer than usual. He smells like fabric softener and spicy shaving cream, just like he did when I was little. He doesn’t smell like beer. I close my eyes and hug him tighter, too.

Then he lets me go.

I swallow, hesitate. After my pep talk to myself about letting Dad take ownership of the drinking thing, I know I ought to leave it alone, let him make his own choices. I shouldn’t push. But there’s this part of me that needs to be in control, and that’s the part that says in a rush, “There’s this meeting. Actually, meetings. Plural. They have them on the weekends and during the week after work. We could go tomorrow. I think there’s one on Elmwood in the morning. And one at the church on Park in the afternoon. I’ll go with you, if it’s allowed. We could check online.”

Does he know that I mean AA meetings? Will he take the hand I’m offering?

He stares at me for so long I think maybe he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. Then he scrapes his palm along his Saturday-stubbled cheek and says, “Not yet, Miki. I’m not ready yet.”

Disappointment settles on my shoulders like a cloak. Then it kindles and flares to full-on anger. I fight the urge to snap at him, to ask if something terrible has to happen before he is ready. But then I remember what the website said: If you want to drink, that’s your business. If you want to stop, that’s our business.

I cool down a little, enough to recognize that he didn’t shoot me down. He didn’t admit that he has a problem, but he didn’t pretend that he doesn’t. This is progress.

He says he’s not ready yet? Maybe tomorrow or the next day he will be. Dad has to want to make this someone’s business other than his own or it won’t work.

I have to keep the door open.

I want to say something else, but I have no idea what. So I just do this awkward smile-with-my-mouth-closed-and-nod thing as I heft my backpack and head out.

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHEN I GET TO JACKSON’S HOUSE, THE GARAGE DOOR’S OPEN and the garage is empty. Jackson’s black Jeep sits on the drive exactly where Luka and I left it. Was that only yesterday?

I take a deep breath, fortifying my resolve, and stride up the walk to the front door. No one answers my knock. I ring the bell and wait. Ring it again.

Worry uncoils in my gut. Could the Committee have lied to me? Could this be another crazy test? Yes on both counts. My trust in them isn’t exactly intact.

I frown. Wait . . . did they even promise they would send him back? Or did they just imply it?

What if he’s still trapped there? Still being hurt—?

I need to know.

I jog around the side of the house. A quick check up and down the street ensures that there’s no one in sight. I glance at the neighbor’s house. The blinds are closed. No one’s watching me. I don’t even know why I’m worried that someone is. It’s not like I’m going to break in or anything. I’m just going to scout things out.

The hairs at my nape prickle and I spin around, checking behind me. Nothing there. I’m freaking myself out.

I turn back around, unlatch the gate, and duck into the backyard.

I need to see Jackson. I need to know the Committee sent him back. Not just because I need Jackson to be okay, though that’s the biggest part of it. I also need to know that despite the weird shit they did yesterday, the Committee’s still the good guys.

Someone needs to be the good guys.

The backyard is bordered by flower beds, pink and purple impatiens giving their last gasp as the weather gets colder. There’s an apple tree tall enough to get me to the second-story window on the left. Jackson’s room? I have no clue.

Refusing to give what I’m about to do too much thought, I drop my backpack on the ground, leap for the lowest branch, and climb.

Disappointment punches me as I settle on a branch that’s level with the window, and see that it’s not Jackson’s bedroom. It’s a sewing room with a long table pushed against one wall and a smaller table with a sewing machine set at right angles to it. The door to the room’s open and I can see the hallway beyond with its cappuccino walls and hardwood floor. I sit on the branch, deflated. What now? The tree isn’t positioned in a way that I can get at either of the other two windows, and I think that sitting here yelling Jackson’s name isn’t the plan of the century.