2. Charlotte

2

CHARLOTTE

T he room is dark except for the pale glow of the bedside clock. 4:17 a.m. I’m on my back, the thin hotel sheets twisted around my legs, sweat slick against my skin despite the AC humming loudly in the corner. Even three years later, it feels strange waking up alone. I look over, half-expecting Michael to be there.

But this morning is different.

The air is thick, as if the dream left something behind—some residue, clinging to the edges of my mind. It wasn’t a nightmare. Not exactly. It was him.

Warren. We were back in Alaska. And I was in that room.

The dream clings to me, lingering like something wedged under my skin. I sit up, but rubbing my eyes does nothing to shake it off—it stays, stubborn, as if it’s determined to be remembered. The room is too still, too quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below. I push the sheets aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet meet the thin carpet, and I hesitate for a beat before rising, moving to the bathroom, as if the next step will somehow make it go away.

I splash cold water across my face, the shock of it sharp, but the disquiet clings to me, clouding my thoughts. I breathe in deeply, letting the air fill my lungs as I stare at my reflection—no wig, no makeup, just me having to face myself.

“Mom?” I hear the soft creak of the door behind me, and turn to find Sophie standing in the threshold, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She’s wearing an oversized Columbia sweatshirt, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. She looks younger than her eighteen years, but there’s a fire in her eyes—one I’m trying to harness. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

I brush past her into the small kitchenette, setting the coffee pot on the counter. “I don’t sleep much.”

She shifts her weight. “It’s the big day,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

I keep my back to her, pouring water into the coffee maker. “Sure is.” The monotone in my reply mirrors her own. “You ready?”

Behind me, I hear her shift again, the faint sound of her palms pressing against the counter. “I guess. Kind of feels like a waste of time when there’s...everything else.”

I take a breath before turning to face her. “You’re going to college. We agreed on that.”

She straightens, her eyes locking onto mine. “ You agreed on that.”

I set the coffee pot down harder than I should, the sound cutting through the air. “We don’t always get what we want, Sophie. College isn’t just about you. It’s about the cover.”

Her jaw sets, her knuckles pale against the edge of the counter. She wants to offer a rebuttal, but she doesn’t. Good .

I pour two mugs of coffee and hand one to her, stepping back to lean against the opposite counter. “If you can’t balance this with everything else, you’re not ready for everything else.”

She wraps her hands around the cup, staring down at the swirling liquid. “You keep saying that.”

I study her for a moment. She’s strong, but her confidence wavers too easily. That’s why I’m here—to make sure she doesn’t falter when it matters.

“Sophie.” My tone sharpens, and her head snaps up. “This isn’t just about you. A good cover means blending in. Knowing how people think, what they want, what they’re hiding—that’s information. It’s power. College gives you this. Without it, you’re exposed. And neither of us can afford that.”

She appears to mull over what I’ve said. The nod she gives is stiff, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Stop sulking,” I snap. “You’ve got orientation in a few hours. No one’s going to care what’s going on in your head, and you have to play the part. You’ve got to sell it, Sophie. People notice cracks. Keep your feelings in check, or people will start asking questions. You don’t want that, believe me.”

Her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t argue. She knows better.

She rolls her eyes instead. “Anything else?”

I glance at the clock: 4:36 a.m.

“No,” I say, taking a long sip of coffee. “Not yet.”