Deena’s still out on the driveway talking with the police officers. While she found time between cataloging the house for any missing items and watching the police dust for prints to tell me she loves my hair, somehow I don’t think it made the right impression on the law-enforcement end of things. I was interviewed four times, most of the questions revolving around whether I knew anyone who might have done this.

I know a grand total of three people here that I’m not related to, and somehow I doubt Tyler is the smash-glass-doors-and-destroy-rooms type.

“Why didn’t you call the police?” Sirus asks, shaking his head as I hold the dustpan for the shards of glass. No prints anywhere; all that’s left now is cleaning up the mess.

“Didn’t think of it.”

“Honestly, Isadora, you don’t live in the middle of the desert with a bunch of gods anymore. There are a lot of dangerous people around. You should have left the house immediately.”

He’s right, of course. It never crossed my mind.

“If something had happened to you . . . I’m just so glad no one was home.”

“Do they think it’s someone with a grudge against Deena?” She knows most of the officers who showed up, and she works for the government, after all.

“She’s never been in criminal prosecuting. The loonies she deals with are usually rich, entitled loonies. They’re the suing type, not the violent type.”

He still looks uneasy. We all are. Knowing it was that simple for someone to come into the house? Everything feels different now.

The front door closes, and then Deena walks in and leans against the wall, surveying the broken door with an exhausted expression, hand absently rubbing her stomach. “They think it was someone looking for prescription drugs. You must have scared him off before he could get through all the rooms.”

“I am the scariest,” I say, dumping another load of shards into the trash with a discordant tinkling.

“I’ll take over here,” she says. “When we’re done with the glass and get something taped up over the door, I’ll help with your room.”

“It’s okay. It’s my stuff, I’ll clean it up.”

“I’m so sorry. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “Just random, right?” But it feels personal. It feels like chaos caught up to me and let me know it’s here with a vengeance.

I walk up the stairs and stand on the threshold of my room, staring at the destruction, and I can’t help but shiver, putting my hand on the back of my neck. I pick up the photo in its frame. The crack in the glass runs right between my mother and me.

6

In the history of mythology in ancient Egypt, Isis is not only the mother of Horus, she’s also occasionally his wife. While deeply disturbing to me, this has less to do with actual relationships and more to do with the balance of power and worship. As Hathor fell out of favor, my mother gladly stepped in and usurped her followers, thereby taking her roles, her domains, and even her husband.

Eventually the gods settled into their most commonly worshipped forms—in this case, Isis as mother and not wife, and Hathor as very annoyed wife, still angry over the loss of her worshippers and favorite cow-horned headdress.

Isis has never apologized. More followers meant more worship, more tongues whispering her name, more hearts turned toward her in times of crisis. To a member of a constantly shifting pantheon of gods desperate for relevance, this was worth occasionally stepping in as the ceremonial wife of her favorite son.

Worship is everything.

But seriously, gross.

TUESDAY AFTER FRIDAY’S BREAK-IN IS THE FIRST time I’ve been home alone since then. I wait on the curb in front of Sirus’s house. An unfamiliar car pulls up with an older woman in the driver’s seat. Tyler leans over and waves at me from the passenger seat, so I climb into the back.

“Thank you so much for the ride,” I say. “Sirus is stuck at the airport with a delayed flight. You saved me.” I’ve actually been out here waiting for an hour. The back door is replaced and a security system installed, but it still feels . . . creepy in there alone.

“No problem! You can thank my mother, Julie. Or as I like to call her while my clunker’s in the shop, my personal chauffeur.”

Julie’s just a bit smaller than Tyler, and I realize why all Tyler’s nice clothes look like they were made to fit someone else: they actually were. Her voice sounds almost the same as her daughter’s. “If you keep referring to me as your chauffeur, I’m going to start charging you.”

“Volunteering does make me the big bucks. It’s about time I started helping out around here. Do you prefer imaginary checks, or imaginary credit cards?”

“I take nonimaginary dish washing.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m afraid my dish-washing account got closed for overdrafting.”

They laugh, teasing each other back and forth, and it feels so easy and comfortable. Which for some reason makes me uncomfortable.

“So, Isadora. Tyler tells me you’re from Egypt?”

“Born and raised.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Just the desert. And the quiet. There are a lot of people here.”

“That’s the downside to San Diego. Once you live here, you never want to live anywhere else. Unfortunately everyone else already lives here.” She smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “Would you like to come for dinner sometime?”