I couldn’t tell what this thing was inside me. Was it a good mood? It seemed like it could be.

But when I headed down the stairs of the House of Ruin, prison keys jingling merrily with the melody of escape, I saw my father standing in the foyer. He looked tidy and powerful, a barely sheathed knife in a gray suit.

I hesitated. That was my mistake. My father had been bred and trained to sense weakness. His eyes were on me in a second.

father: Isabel.

isabel: Father.

father: Don’t use that tone with me.

isabel: This is my voice.

father: You know exactly what I’m talking about.

I contemplated if I could go back to my room and rappel out the window. Physically, I could. Practically, it would stain my skirt. The point was to look excellent for Cole later. Hopefully, this wouldn’t last long.

Down below, my father gazed up at me. His eyes looked hectic, like they did when he was working on big cases.

father: We need to talk to you.

isabel: I’m on my way out.

father: This isn’t optional.

isabel: I encourage you to plunder the definition of the word optional as I leave.

father: Isabel — please just — please just come down.

This is important.

His voice had gone strange. I came down.

I felt an unpleasant jitter inside me, like when I’d heard the news about Jack.

I followed him into the kitchen. Because it was day, all the lights were turned off, but the sun was high enough overhead that it didn’t make it in the windows. It made the room seem cool and hostile. My mother was already arranged inside, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. She had dressed herself in contempt. Not her best look, but better than tears.

My good mood felt like an endangered species.

I tried to imagine what could possibly put those expressions on my parents’ faces.

I thought I knew. I just didn’t want to —

“We’ve decided to get a divorce,” my mother said.

There it was.

All of the suggestion and postulation and threatening and, finally, there it was.

“Of course you are,” I said.

“Isabel,” my mother chastised.

My father looked up sharply. He hadn’t heard what I’d said because he had been busy cutting the throat of my good mood on the center island. Luckily, the granite had been chosen to provide a wipe-clean surface for blood, orange juice, and disappointment.

I tried to think of how it would change things. I didn’t know if it would really make things worse. Or better. Or different.

Mostly I thought of how it meant now when I went away to college, I’d have to visit two separate houses if I wanted to see both parents. And I thought of how if Jack somehow magically returned, he wouldn’t recognize his family, because it had disintegrated.

And I thought of how statistically pointless love was and how unsurprising this all was in the relative scheme of things.

“Are you crying?” my mother asked.

“No,” I replied. “Why would I be crying?”

“Lauren said that Sofia cried a lot when she found out about her and Paolo.”

Both my father and I looked at my mother.

“When?” I asked, but I knew it was a pointless question as soon as I asked it. A divorce wasn’t like a wedding or a birthday party. You didn’t set a date and buy flowers. I thought about the photographs that used to adorn the entire entry wall back in our home in Minnesota. An assortment of wedding and honeymoon photos. My genetic material was quite attractive, and they were a striking couple in every photo. I’d like to say that even in those early images you could see the seeds of discord, but I’d be lying. They were beautiful, unposed photos of two beautiful young people in love with each other. They were in love before they got married and in love at the wedding and in love when they had baby Jack and baby Isabel.

But not anymore.

My father said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“We are talking about it.”

My mother shot my father a look as if this must be obvious.

“What about Christmas?” I asked. It was a stupid question.

A child’s question. I was immediately angry at myself for asking it. “Never mind. I answered my own question.”

My mother said, “Oh, honey, I don’t know. That’s months from now,” which made me wonder if I’d even said the never mind part out loud. I thought about it and I was pretty sure I remembered the action of forming the words.

I wondered if I should retrieve the body of my good mood for a proper burial, or if I should just leave it here in the House of Ruin.

My mother wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. I noticed it just then. My father wasn’t, either. I felt like laughing. A really hideous, cold laugh. Instead, I sneered a little. My face had to do something.

“What do you need from us?” my mother asked. She asked it with the exact cadence in her voice that meant she had been told by her therapist, Dr. Carrotnose, to ask me that. Divorceby-numbers.

“Your genetic matter,” I replied. My skin felt sort of hummy.

“And I already got that. So thanks. Congrats on your impending breakup. Well, making it official. I’m out.”

“This is unacceptable,” my father announced. He was right, but there was nothing really left to do but accept it.

“Isabel —” my mother said, but I was already gone.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

· cole ·

That day, the acoustic version of “Spacebar” wound its way through the Internet as we wound our way through “Air Kisses,” the track I’d decided to attempt to record that day.

I had to redo the lyrics on the spot — they were better with a female vocalist, anyway, but some of it was meant for me when I wrote it, and I didn’t want to hear Magdalene singing about Isabel, even if only I knew that’s what it was. While the others broke for lunch, I sat with headphones on, ducked over the Korg, writing a brandnew bridge. I recorded and rerecorded

my pulsing synth heartbeat. I made Leyla record and rerecord and rerecord her drum part, which she did without complaint or brilliance. Jeremy observed silently through the first few hours and then, in hour four, wrote a bass riff that made us all quiet. After that, Magdalene strutted into the booth and caressed the microphone and belted a vocal track that made us all loud.