“Oh.” Sonny must have texted Chett while I’d still been on the phone with his mother. “Okay. Well, so he must have told you that—”

“Yeah, that you’re in Little Bridge, and you said you’d check on my birds?”

“Um . . . birds, as in more than one?”

“Yeah, I have eight of ’em?” Chett’s voice rose at the end of his sentences to make it sound like he was asking a question, even when he wasn’t. “They’re cockatiels. I put ’em in the attic because I was afraid it was going to flood. But now I heard on the news that it didn’t, it was more of a wind event? I live on Roosevelt, so maybe you would know. Did it flood over there?”

I was still trying to absorb the bombshell he’d just dropped on me. “Did you say you have eight cockatiels?”

“Yeah, eight of them. I left ’em plenty of food and water, but if the power is out I imagine it’s getting really hot in that attic. Cockatiels are sensitive to heat. Do you think you could go over there and check on them? I rent a room at 804 Roosevelt. There’s a key under the welcome mat in front of the door. I’m in room three. You shouldn’t have any problem getting in.”

“Um . . . okay.”

“I can’t thank you enough, ma’am, this is real nice of you. Also, I know a bunch of other people from the college who can’t get back to their pets, either. Would you mind if I gave you their names?”

I hesitated with my pen poised over the HOME notepad. “A bunch of other people who left their pets behind?”

“Well, yes, ma’am, I know it sounds bad, but we’re students so it wasn’t like we could afford hotel rooms or anything. We’re all staying at this one girl’s grandma’s condo in Boca, but her grandma said we couldn’t bring pets on account of she’s allergic to animal dander. We thought it would be okay to leave our animals behind because we’d only be gone a little while. We didn’t know the bridge was going to—”

I cut him off, as I could sense a growing hysteria in his voice. “It’s okay. I’m not judging you. I know you love your pets.”

“We do, ma’am.” I could hear tears in his voice now. “We do love our pets. My ’tiels are my life. I thought I’d be right back, but then when I tried to drive back this morning, the sheriff—”

“It’s okay,” I repeated gently. “Just give me your friends’ addresses and . . . uh, well, I guess what kind of pets they have, and how I can get into their homes, and if they have spare keys under the mat, like you do, or any other way I might be able to get into their place.”

Chett happily obliged. By the time he was finished, I had filled a whole page of the HOME notepad.

I also had writer’s cramp.

“So will you call us?” he asked eagerly. “Will you call us and let us know how it goes? Because I’m real worried about my birds. They’re just the sweetest things.”

“I’ll call you, Chett,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

All I could think about was how much gas all of this was going to take. Ed was going to kill me.

But since Ed was also an animal lover, I knew he’d be happy to donate to the cause.

Probably.

Speaking of which, I knew I had one last—and much more difficult—call to make. Which I did as soon as I’d hung up with Chett, finally dialing the number I’d been avoiding for so long.

“Mom?” I asked when she picked up.

She sounded like her usual self—her voice throaty from all the cigarettes she’d smoked before I was born, and still occasionally sneaked in times of stress. “Sabrina, finally. You don’t know what I’ve been going through these past twenty-four hours, not knowing whether you were dead or alive.”

“Mom, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since the storm hit.”

“You know what I mean. Where are you? Who are these people you’re staying with? How are they treating you?”

“They were treating me just fine until you had to go and call the governor and make him send the sheriff over here and blow my cover. No one here knew I was your daughter until then.”

“Why? What do you mean? Oh my God, Bree.” She lowered her voice. “Have you been kidnapped? Are they listening in? Just say yes or no.”

“Mom, no, don’t be ridiculous. It’s the opposite, in fact.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that unlike you, Mother, I wasn’t asking for special treatment. But now my hostess has moved all my stuff into her best guest room. She’s practically falling over herself to be nice to me. Not that she wasn’t nice before, but now I’ve got an en suite bathroom all to myself . . . and my cat.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“Mom, don’t you get it? I want people to like me for me, not because I’m Judge Justine’s daughter.”

“People do like you for you, Sabrina. You’re a kind, smart, pretty girl. And if my being who I am happens to help . . . well, what’s so wrong with that? Why, those people ought to show a little gratitude to you. It’s because of me that the longest runway at the Little Bridge airport is going to be cleared as soon as tomorrow.”

It took a second for that to register. “What?”

“That’s right. The governor has promised that even if they can’t get anything else done, that, at least, will be finished as a special favor to me, and your uncle Steen swears he’s going to have a plane there ready to pick you up—”

“Mom.” I cringed. “No. I don’t want that. I mean, yes, the runway is nice, the people here need it. But do not send a plane for me.”

“Sabrina, have you lost your mind? The governor says they don’t expect to have that bridge fixed or power or cell service up and running there for at least another week!”

“I know, Mom, but I’ve got everything I need.”

“Sabrina, don’t be ridiculous. The governor tells me there isn’t a functioning hospital down there for a hundred miles. What if something should happen to you? You could step on a nail and get lockjaw, or something. No, it’s simply too dangerous. Steen and I are coming down there as soon as the runway is cleared, and that’s all there is to it.”

I felt as if someone had poured a cold beer down my back. “Mom, no. Do not come here.”

“Well, someone has to, honey. If you don’t have the common sense to get out of there, then—”

“Mom. You can clear all the runways you want—I’m sure everyone will appreciate it. But I’m not leaving.”

“Sabrina. Look. I understand that you’re still angry about your father and me not telling you about your donor mother. And you have a right to be. But haven’t you punished me enough? Isn’t it about time that you let that go? This is a very dangerous situation, and—”

“I know it is, Mom. And I swear to you that my not wanting to leave yet has nothing to do with you not telling me about my donor mother.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No, of course not. I’m not even angry with you about that anymore. I’m mad that you didn’t believe me about Kyle—”