Chapter 1: Margot 1 MARGOT
Standing at the foot of my bed, I stare down at the two shirts I’ve laid out, wondering which one will make me look less like a liar. The flouncy pink one with roses is definitely giving Tenderhearted Romance Author (the exact image I’m aiming for), but is it trying too hard? The other option (crisp, white, sleeveless) has more of an edge, but is it too edgy? Will my readers take one look at the aggressively high neckline and know I’m hiding something?

I realize the same sort of wardrobe questions probably run through the mind of a serial killer preparing to take the stand. Except in my case, the jury will be hundreds of my most devoted readers, and instead of a court hearing, I’ll be feigning innocence during a live stream promotional event for my latest book. Which starts in—I glance at my alarm clock—twelve minutes. Shit.

I cross my arms over my bra in a futile attempt to self-soothe. After six novels and their subsequent book tours, one would think I’d have this whole living-a-lie thing locked down by now. Or that I’d at least be able to pick out a shirt. But according to my underboob sweat, one would be wrong. Because despite occupying the body of #1 New York Times Bestselling Author Margot Bradley (the title my publicist insists every interviewer, podcaster, and unsuspecting Starbucks barista address me with), I live in perpetual fear that my fans will somehow learn the truth about me. That beneath all the romance tropes and triple-orgasm sex scenes I peddle like snake oil, I’m more jaded about love than a former Bachelorette star, mid-divorce.

I know it begs the question: How can she write romance novels if she believes love is Satan’s pyramid scheme? To which I would answer: I haven’t always been this wise and all-knowing. No, no. Once upon my twenties, I experienced the sort of swept-off-your-feet, can’t-stop-staring-at-their-forearms, logic-melting chemistry that romance tropes are made of. I thought I’d found love in the heady rush of endorphins and desire, perilously tied to that most tenuous of human bonds—trust. I know the feeling of a two-point-three-carat engagement ring sliding onto my finger. Coincidentally, I also know how it feels when that ring slides off for good. How those helium-high feelings inevitably ignite on a spark of truth and explode, crashing to earth in a fiery inferno of pain and horror.

Too much? Maybe not. I’ve found that most people who reach their thirties have experienced at least one breakup that left them subsisting on dry Froot Loops because they were too busy inwardly collapsing to pour themselves milk. I also happen to know that the brokenhearted often seek comfort and escape through the billion-dollar romance novel industry. How? Because I’ve been one of them. I learned the hard way that in this bleak swipe-left world, romance novels give hope to the hopeless. They make you believe that a sensitive, multilingual, insanely jacked doctor named Hunter is just waiting in the wings of your life, ready to laugh with you about all the toads you dated while cuddling after your nightly synchronized orgasms.

Unless you’re me, of course, and bitter experience has taught you that Dr. Hunter isn’t coming—to you or in you. So instead, you use the faded remnants of your old hopes and dreams to write those romance novels that no longer provide you solace but still pay your bills and comfort others. And by others, of course, I mean my readers, whose unwavering loyalty deserves to be repaid in the currency they crave most. In golden-hour kisses. In snowed-in cabins with only one bed. And above all, in Happily Ever Afters.

More than anything, it’s this particular story element that cuts the deepest to write and (when I’m willing to admit it) makes me yearn for the time when my faith in love was nearly as unshakable as my readers’. But those days are long gone, and if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say my old belief in love everlasting is probably chilling with my engagement ring at the bottom of the Pacific. It’s why I’ve had to develop the perfect coping mechanism for every HEA I write but don’t believe in: my Happily Never After file. A top secret, password-protected document that contains alternate endings to every novel I’ve ever written. They’re the endings my characters would have faced if they were real people with real issues that no number of straining Henleys or rippling abdominal muscles could solve. It’s a brutal catalog of drawn-out divorces, monsters-in-law with spare house keys, parking-lot rendezvous with younger women, and unfortunate facial-hair choices. None of them are pretty, but they’re all the truth and, for me, an essential reminder to never let my guard down again.

But on bad days, when even my Happily Never After file isn’t enough to keep me writing weddings-and-babies epilogues, there’s one reason—one person—above all who keeps my fingers pounding the keyboard. A single fan I can’t bring myself to disappoint.

A knock makes me jump. I look over my shoulder, and just like magic, there she is. My sister.

“It’s eight till, Margot,” Savannah says, tilting her golden-blond head and glancing down at my underwear. “I didn’t realize your publishing contract included a striptease clause.”

“One live stream peep show for every new book launch,” I confirm, looking back toward my shirt conundrum. “According to my marketing team, sex sells.”

“And did marketing sign off on those granny panties?”

Placing my hands on my hips, I turn all the way around. “They’re retro-cut, thank you very much. Not granny panties.”

“They cover your belly button.”

“And?”

“Do they come with a hood?”

I stick out my tongue. “Come here and help me pick out a shirt.”

Savannah straightens and starts walking. Automatically, I scan her gait, visually assessing her pain level. She’s at the tail end of a flare-up, and I worry she’s pushing it by being out of bed so soon.

“Definitely the white,” Savannah says.

“What’s wrong with the pink one?”

“Nothing. If you’re planning on rolling a joint and pulling some tarot cards.”

“It’s not that flowy.”

Savannah picks up a sleeve that could conceal a family of raccoons in its billowy depths before letting it flutter to the bed. “Up to you. Just don’t get caught in any light breezes and sail away.”

I pull the white shirt on. “Good?”

Savannah smiles. “Beautiful. And are you planning on completing this ensemble with pants?”

I snap the very high, very beige waist of my underwear. “Over these beauties? No way. I’m working after eight on a Sunday night, and no one’s going to see me below the waist. Come on.”

I hold the door open for Savannah, who makes her way carefully toward me. On top of debilitating full-body pain, a flare-up of my sister’s cocktail of autoimmune disorders also leaves her with terrible balance. It’s disconcerting to see an otherwise healthy-looking woman in her midtwenties walk like a frail, elderly person, but I’ve grown accustomed to it the way anyone becomes used to something unbearable. By sheer necessity.

I track Savannah’s hand as it comes up to stabilize her on the doorframe. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get—”

“No, I’m fine,” she says, cutting off my offer to retrieve her cane. “Thanks, though.”

I bite back an argument. After four straight days of relying on me for even the simplest tasks, the last thing she wants is more coddling. It’s hard enough that she has to live with a caretaker (me). The least I can do is respect her independence when she’s capable of it.

“So who’s this interview with again?” Savannah asks.

“That romance podcast Stop, Drop, and Swoon. Ever hear of it?”

Savannah’s eyes light up as we make our way to my office. “Oh, I love that show! You better be on your guard, though; Sylvie doesn’t pull punches.”

“Good thing my book’s a literary masterpiece devoid of all flaws,” I say airily. I don’t bring up the crying jag of self-doubt and despair that happens on the eve of all my book releases.

I grab a throw blanket off the couch as we pass through the living room. Two years after moving in, I can still barely believe that writing romance novels has funded this midcentury dream of a house in Silver Lake. I might not believe in Happily Ever Afters, but living here and being able to care for my sister full-time comes pretty damn close.

Savannah grins. “True. Warmest Regards is an instant classic. I expect a representative from the Pulitzer committee will be calling any day now.”

I snort-laugh. “The only award Warmest Regards would win is a world record for most uses of the word ‘clench’ in a published work.”

“Better ‘clench’ than ‘moist,’?” Savannah points out graciously.

“There was definitely at least one ‘moist.’ Remember the hot-tub scene?”

“There was not!”

I shrug. “Better ‘moist’ than ‘member.’?”

“There’s nothing worse than ‘moist,’ Margot.”

“Except ‘moist member.’?”

Savannah makes a gagging face as we enter the dark office, and I veer left toward my desk. It’s strategically positioned in front of a wall of built-in bookshelves (the main reason I bought this house, if I’m honest), and as I turn on a lamp, all my color-coded books and framed photos are cast in a warm glow. Savannah beelines for the love seat across from my desk, and I toss her the blanket.

“Thanks,” she says, curling up like a cat. Within five seconds, an actual cat—or Savannah’s familiar, as I prefer to think of him—jumps onto her lap and makes himself at home with all the entitlement of his namesake, Mr. Darcy. “And for the record, I do think your writing deserves a Pulitzer. Your books bring joy and escape to all your readers, Margot.”

Her words echo my own daily justification for writing stories I suspect do more harm than good, but as I sit at my desk and open my laptop, my guilt is interrupted by a small burst of adrenaline when my Happily Never After document appears. I definitely didn’t open it today. Even more oddly, the page on the screen isn’t my latest alternate ending but one of my old venting journal entries I occasionally use the document for as well. Sad, bitter words leap out at me.

Signed over two hundred books at today’s event. Reader after reader told me how much my books mean to them while I did my best to pretend that they still mean something to me too. Honestly, it would be SO much easier to keep this deception up if my fans weren’t the sweetest people on earth. I know they want guaranteed happy endings—and I’ll give them anything because I owe them everything—but how can they be so fucking naive? Every time I hear another person tell me they’re waiting for their own Margot Bradley HEA, I die just a little more inside. I hate this mask I have to wear.

I glance at Savannah, terrified she’s found me out at last. It’s the only explanation for why my HNA doc is open. But she’s busy drawing little circles on Mr. Darcy’s fuzzy gray forehead with her fingertip. I forcibly lower my shoulders. If Savannah had seen the document, we wouldn’t be sitting here like nothing had happened. We’d be sitting here like we’d just felt the first ground-shaking tremors of the Big One. Except instead of an earthquake capable of swallowing Los Angeles whole, it would be this secret. The only one I keep from my sister.

“Hey.”

I look up from my screen, now devoid of any incriminating documents.

“There’s a reason you have the world’s nicest fan cult and a regular spot on the Times Square Jumbotron,” she says.

The permanent knot of guilt that resides in my stomach cinches a little tighter. “And that is?”

My sister gazes at me with hero worship I don’t deserve, and I flinch from the blow before it comes. “Because you write from the heart.”

It’s a gut punch, but to my chest. A tit punch. Somehow I force a smile as said heart seems to plummet through my body, the floor, and the ground itself until it reaches the earth’s core for incineration.

“Thanks for being here, Van,” I say. “I know you could be out with Cooper.”

Savannah smiles dreamily at the mention of her boyfriend, and I immediately regret bringing him up, even if it did distract her. My own feelings about love aside, I think my sister could do better. Not that Cooper isn’t nice (and an admittedly great Scrabble player), but he’s also a line cook/freelance photographer/surfer with two roommates in Los Feliz, without the time or resources to care for my sister in the way she deserves. I know it won’t last, and just like every time, I’ll be there for her during the fallout.

“You know I wouldn’t miss this,” Savannah says, reaching out and wiggling her fingers at me. “Not for all the moist members in the world.”

I laugh, wiggling my fingers back at her before taking a steadying breath. “Okay. Showtime.”

“So before we move on to reader questions, I have to ask—can you drop any hints about your next book, Margot?”

I smile at the grid of eager faces, zeroing in on the podcast host’s bright blue hair. “I really shouldn’t, Sylvie.”

“Okay, but what if I”—a click of a mouse—“unmute everyone and ask them to say ‘please’ in three, two, one…”

“PLEEEASE,” a chorus of voices rings out.

I raise my hands in surrender, laughing. It’s all a show; I’ve already gotten the green light from my editor to drop a small hint to fire up the rumor mills of Bookstagram. “Okay, okay. At the risk of being dropped by my publisher, the word is… ‘Alaska.’?”

The screams are wild, and I quickly lower the volume as Mr. Darcy leaps from Savannah’s lap and takes cover beneath the couch.

“Okay, muting going back on!” Sylvie calls out. “Everyone just try to breathe. Sip some tea. Squeeze a stress ball. I know this is a lot to process. Is Alaska the location? A person? A state of mind? I’m sure we’ll all be desperately unpacking Margot’s clue until her next release date, but just for tonight, I’d like you to focus your questions on what we do have our lucky little mitts on, and that’s Warmest Regards.”

I can no longer hear them, but all across my screen, participants are clapping or waving their dog-eared copies of my book. Seeing such devotion to my writing should feel better than anything in the world. In the early days, it did. But that was before all my stories began to feel only marginally less harmful than lead poisoning. There are no Happily Ever Afters, you sweet, hopeless romantics—

“Let’s start with JennyLin_Librarian. What’s your question for Margot, Jenny?”

“Hi, Margot! Hi, Sylvie! Love the books, love the podcast!”

“Thanks so much, Jenny,” Sylvie and I reply together as a square enlarges to show a young woman clutching a glass of rosé in one hand and a waterlogged copy of Warmest Regards in the other. She’s a familiar face at all of my digital book events, and a zing of guilt passes through my chest when I think of the loyalty and money she and so many others have given me to be here.

“Margot, I was wondering if any of your stories are inspired by real life?”

The irony of this question nearly causes an involuntary snort to escape my nose. But I master myself and take a sip of water. Smile warmly. “Great question, and thanks so much for being here, Jenny. Your support means the world.” I deliver my carefully worded answer, and the interview moves on. Question after question comes, and I glance at the clock. Savannah must sense I’m fading because she shoots a double thumbs-up at me and mouths the word “moist” to make me smile.

“Ooooh-kay,” Sylvie chimes. “It looks like our last question is coming from Truth_Seeker98. What truth are you seeking from Margot Bradley tonight?”

As usual, the participant’s square is enlarged, but because they don’t have their camera on, the screen seems to go black for a moment. And then a Word document appears. I blink against the sudden brightness of the screen, confused, until panic ricochets through me like a white-hot pinball. It’s my Happily Never After file. No. That’s impossible. But then the document starts slow-scrolling, and all my damning words appear.

“Oh, what’s this?” Sylvie asks, not understanding what she’s looking at. “Truth, is your mic turned on?”

My entire body begins to shake in a fine tremor as I rapidly scan words that were never meant to be seen by another human being. Alimony. Slashed tires. Viagra. This isn’t happening—surely this is some kind of stress hallucination. I try swallowing, but my throat is a rolled-up tube of sandpaper. And then a voice, creepily distorted, speaks into the silence. “My question for Margot is: How dare you?”

My spine goes rigid. “Who is this? How did you get this document?”

“Nothing is truly hidden on the Cloud,” the voice says ominously. “Imagine my surprise when I tried having a peek at your next manuscript and found this instead. The real endings to all your books. How you really feel about your fans.”

I close out the window in a knee-jerk attempt to rid it from everyone’s screens, but that doesn’t make the document disappear for anyone else. I’m left confronted with a grid of faces, all squinting and clearly reading. Sweet JennyLin_Librarian’s eyebrows make a pinched climb above her crooked glasses. A fresh surge of panic makes me want to slam my laptop shut and pretend it’s not happening, but I have to put out this fire somehow—

“Margot, what’s going on?” Savannah whispers, reminding me of her presence. “You okay?”

Sylvie’s voice is next, slow with awe. “What in the actual hell?”

“Sylvie, please,” I croak. “End the meeting.”

“Margot, what is this? Is this real? It says here that Avery and Caleb… get a divorce? That Caleb…” A sharp gasp. “Gets a beer belly?”

In every square, hands clap over mouths in silent horror.

“Look, Sylvie, I can explain,” I say.

“?‘So fucking naive’?” she reads, pink splotches appearing on her round cheeks as she finds my old journal entry. “Is that how you really feel about this community, Margot?”

“That’s not—Sylvie, just please end the meeting,” I beg.

Digitally distorted laughter interrupts my bargaining. “End the meeting? Do you really think I wouldn’t post this somewhere else? Everywhere else? Links have already been sent to every participant here tonight.”

I flash hot. Then cold. My vision swims as I fight down a wave of nausea. “H-how could you? Invasion of privacy. Totally illegal—”

“How could I? I think the real question here, Margot, is how you could lead millions of readers on like this. Raking in their hard-earned money while secretly laughing behind their backs. If this Happily Never After file proves one thing, it’s that you’re a fraud. And that’s why I’m calling on everyone here tonight to cancel Margot Bradley. If you believe in love—in Happily Ever Afters—never buy one of her books again.”

And with that, Truth_Seeker98 leaves the meeting. In the aftermath, there’s only silence and screen after screen of hurt and hostile faces.

“Well, Margot?” comes Sylvie’s somber voice. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

I open my mouth, but my brain is a skipping record, permanently stuck on the word Fraud, fraud, fraud, frau—

But then from behind my computer, Savannah stands up too quickly. She wobbles, and without thinking, I stand up too. There’s another offended gasp from Sylvie, and when I look down, I realize that my webcam is pointed directly at my sky-high granny panties. Perfect.

“Well, I think that concludes tonight’s episode of Stop, Drop, and Swoon,” Sylvie says coldly. “Rest assured, dear listeners, as ground zero for this major hit to our community, I will be holding space for your reflections and feelings and reporting on them as the story unfolds. Please send your comments in at—”

I slam the laptop closed. “Savannah, wait!”

But she’s already left the room, her blanket tossed to the floor.

I find her in her room, sitting on the bed in the dark. She’s busy reading something on her phone. Between the blue glow from the screen and the moonlight streaming in through the window, she’s rendered silver. If it weren’t for the slow tears spilling down her cheeks, she could be a statue.

My voice cracks into the dark. “Van, listen. I can explain.”

“Is it true? Did you write this?”

For a moment—only a moment—I consider lying. But I can’t keep this secret from her anymore, and after what’s just happened, there’s no point in trying.

“Yes,” I say, shame fogging out of me like from a smoke machine. “I wrote it.”

Her voice hitches. “And this is your worldview? That love never works out in the end?”

I cross my arms as if I can shield her from the sharpened ice chip that occupies my chest instead of a heart, but I can’t bring myself to answer her. She does it for me. “This is about Adam. Isn’t it?”

Adam. Hearing my ex-fiancé’s name spoken out loud after such a long time purposefully not saying it feels like brushing against an electric fence. I barely get the words out: “Can we not talk about that right now?”

“Oh, Margot,” she says softly.

“I’m so sorry—” I begin, but Savannah surprises me by tossing her phone on the bed and standing up. Without another word, she walks to me and throws her arms around my neck.

For a long moment, I stand there in the dark, shakily inhaling the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo while relief nearly buckles my knees. She doesn’t hate me. As though she hears me think it, Savannah grips me tighter: I could never hate you. Hot tears spring from beneath my closed eyelids, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is the only kind of real love. Everything else is cubic zirconia.

When my breathing finally eases, we release each other at the same moment, and I stare at her through mascara-blurred eyes. “What the fuck am I going to do, Van?”

Savannah sighs and then, like a small miracle, one of her twin dimples appears with her half-smile. “I think I have an idea.”

The next few days suck. They suck like the whirlpool that pulled the Titanic down. On top of all the appointments and hassle involved with reporting the HNA leak to the authorities and increasing my computer’s security, I’ve helplessly watched as my reputation has gone up in higher and higher flames. My agent, my editor, and my publicist form a trio of triage, each desperately trying to stop the hemorrhaging. But despite their Herculean efforts to save my ass, it’s no use. My career has cracked open like an egg, directly into Satan’s skillet. I have no choice but to abandon all social media, where me and my oversize panties have become the flame-throwing target for every betrayed Bookstagrammer, Goodreads troll, and sycophant on the Internet. When I manage to sleep, I dream in hashtags: #HappilyNeverBuyingAgain #BeerBellyGate #Boycott MargotBradley #PantiesofLies.

The final blow comes five days after the HNA leak. My usually crisp and buttoned-up agent calls in tears to let me know that she tried everything, but my next publishing deal—which we were still in the process of negotiating—is dead in the water. There will be no Alaska book. There will be no more books, period. All is lost.

The next morning, I sit at the kitchen bar staring blankly into the perfect latte heart Van has crafted for me. I have savings. Enough to last us a good while after my royalty checks completely dry up. But what then? Savannah’s freelance illustration business does okay, but not well enough to keep us in Silver Lake, eating the organic, grass-fed, non-GMO, grain-free, pesticide-free, everything-free diet my sister’s body requires (or else). I become profoundly aware that, at thirty-one years old, I have no salable skills besides writing. It’s the only thing I do well besides caring for my sister and finding deals on Net-a-Porter.

In short, I’m screwed. And yet a small, obstinate part of me is proud that I didn’t deny the truth. If anything, this ordeal has simply proved yet again that Happily Ever After is a lie designed for the tenderhearted and gullible—something I refuse to ever be again.

“Your face is doing that loading-wheel-of-doom thing.”

I look up from my coffee as Savannah comes back into the kitchen with her laptop. “Sorry,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Just wondering if Amazon might consider rebranding their stock of my books as a toilet-paper alternative. Might keep us in the black.”

“Not a terrible idea, actually. But I think you’re going to like mine better.” Savannah turns her laptop around on the kitchen island to face me. On the screen is a website featuring a beautiful aerial photo of a rustic lodge surrounded by a smattering of log cabins. All the buildings and pathways are nestled within a pristine wilderness that seems worthy of a David Attenborough voice-over. Overlaid on the photo are the words “North Star Lodge” and, below that, “Your Alaskan Adventure Awaits.”

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s where you’re going, obviously!”

I look up at her with dead shark eyes. “Savannah, the Alaska book isn’t happening. There’s no need for a research trip.”

“This wouldn’t be a research trip per se. This would be a Reinvention Trip.”

She says these last words with actual jazz hands. Before I can comment, she launches into what is very clearly a rehearsed motivational speech. “So you were knocked on your ass. So what? Do you think Taylor Swift gave up after her recording company screwed her over? No. She started rerecording her own albums and emerged as a new woman. A better woman. And when people still tried to dim her shine? Do you think she threw in the towel? No. She slapped the world back with her Eras Tour.”

“Thank you for this enlightening history of your favorite pop star, but I’m not going to Alaska.”

I push my stool back to get up, but she grabs my wrist, shackling me across the kitchen island. She stares at me with the surprising ferocity of a honey badger. “No, Margot. You’re my favorite pop star, and that’s exactly why you have to go.”

I meet my sister’s light brown eyes, a perfect mirror of my own.

“You can’t give up writing,” she declares, tightening her grip. “I won’t let you, because you’re too good at it and you love it too much. If you’re not allowed to write romance anymore, then you just need to try something else. You need to get away and find out what that is.”

Against my will, my mind conjures an alternate universe in which going to Alaska is a possibility, and what it would mean for me. A fresh start. An opportunity to write something new. No meet-cutes. No perfect endings. An escape from L.A. and the Category 4 shitstorm that is your life. Alaska. With every new thought, Savannah’s unhinged plan somehow makes more and more sense to me. Something like hope—or maybe it’s just desperation—blooms in my chest. That is until the hard boot heel of reality comes down and crushes it like a cigarette butt.

“But I can’t leave you,” I say.

At this, Savannah only smiles and lets go of my wrist. She’s prepared for this. “Oh, yes, you can. You forget, dear sister, that I have a wonderfully devoted boyfriend. Cooper is going to stay here with me.”

The words “No. Absolutely not” jerk out of me.

“Why not?” Van says simply. “I’m twenty-eight, not sixteen. I pay rent—”

“Which I’ve never asked for—”

“Which entitles me to have guests over.”

“And what happens if you have another flare?” I demand.

“Then I have another flare! Cooper and Mom are more than willing to help me.”

I bite my lip. “And how long does this scheme of yours dictate that I’d be away? A week?”

Savannah lets out a laugh like I’m an adorable simpleton. “A week? No. You’ll be gone for six weeks.”

I choke on my coffee, which I’d sipped in an attempt to look poised. I’m just winning at life over here.

“Six weeks?” I manage eventually. “No, no. You’ve lost your sweet little mind.”

“Au contraire,” she says, wagging her pointer finger at me. “My mind has never produced such genius. Six weeks is exactly what you need to produce your next manuscript.”

Despite the lunacy of this plan, my mind is racing. After everything that’s just happened to me, there’s only one thing I want to write about: murder. A grisly departure from the saccharine stories I’ve been writing for years, and an outlet for my true-crime podcast addiction. Already, the beginnings of a story are swirling like mist in my mind. A murder set in a remote Alaskan landscape. A frozen body found years later by backwoods hikers. A down-on-her-luck detective sent on probation with something to prove.

I glance up to see Savannah with two fists against her mouth, holding in her excitement, and it’s the final nail in my coffin.

“Okay,” I say on a sigh, resigned to never being able to deny my sister anything. “I’ll consider it.”

Savannah squeals, and the biggest smile I’ve seen from her in months blasts across her face. “Oh, thank God! Because I already booked it!”

“You did what?”

“You’re leaving in five days! And don’t worry, I know Alaska’s cold in November, but I already ordered you all the gear you’ll need.”

I’m stunned into speechlessness. Savannah comes around the kitchen island and gently lays her hands on my shoulders. “I know this is a lot to take in. But you always take care of me, Margot. This time let me take care of you. Please.”

I stare into my sister’s eyes and see a capableness and determination I’ve rarely seen there. I swallow.

“Okay. Alaska it is.”