I’d gotten home relatively early like Mom had requested, but she’d been gone when I arrived. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally spent and slept better than I had in months, straight through the night. However, I still didn’t wake feeling wonderfully refreshed.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed midmorning, Mom was curled up on the couch with her tablet and coffee.

“Morning, sunshine. The coffee’s fresh,” she said, without looking up from her reading.

I grumbled an unintelligible response and headed straight for the kitchen, set on dumping whatever coffee was left over and brewing a new pot. Although I’d lost my unlimited free supply, I still couldn’t stand coffee that had been sitting there, even with the white mocha creamer stirred in.

“I hope you don’t have plans tonight,” Mom said as I leaned against the counter, watching the coffee dripping into the glass pot.

“I don’t think so,” I groaned, still trying to determine what day it was. “Why?”

“I took the night off,” she said, now holding her reading glasses with two fingers and her arm draped over the back of the couch as she twisted to look at me. “After everything that’s happened, it’d be great to have some quality Fiona time. We’re long overdue.”

“Okay. I’m—yeah, I’m free,” I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Beautiful. We’ll grab some dinner,” she said, then went back to her reading.

“Beautiful,” I said to myself, then dropped my attention to my seemingly normal left forearm, my thoughts drifting back to the events of the night before.

Mom drove us to an upscale hotel restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, and afterward, we’d be going to a show at the Pantages Theatre. So, we both dressed up in beautiful evening gowns; I wore the red dress I’d been given the night before for my initiation, maybe a little formal for an evening on the town, but when else would I be able to wear it?

Mom looked stunning in a long black dress with a precarious slit up one side. I’d never seen it before, even despite perusing her closet multiple times to borrow something. If there’d ever been a night to mistake us for sisters—which people often did—it would have been tonight.

The restaurant was on the roof of a high-rise hotel, and we took a table on the outside patio. It wasn’t that cold, but there were space heaters and firepits scattered about.

As much as I was skeptical of my mother’s actions of late, I missed spending this kind of time with her. It had always been us against the world, ever since we lost Becca. But now, I had found my father and an underground fraternity I never knew existed, neither of which severed the pact with my mother but did undoubtedly weaken it. I now had a greater mission. I wouldn’t leave her behind, but it wasn’t just us anymore.

The five-course meal was superb, and when I saw an Oreo sundae on the dessert menu, I simply couldn’t refuse, no matter how childish it sounded.

“I can’t believe they’d have something like that here,” I said, thoroughly excited for the sixth course to arrive.

“The city’s just full of surprises,” Mom said, getting out her compact to check her teeth. “What do you think of our waiter?”

“Tonight’s about us,” I reminded her.

“I know that, kid. I’m talking about for you? I think he’s closer to your age.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?” I laughed.

“I’m becoming comfortable with the fact I’m growing into a mature woman.”

“You’re not old, Mom.” I rolled my eyes. She was fishing for compliments, yet I still gave her one. “You’re a knockout, by anyone’s standards.”

“Pale in comparison to you,” she said, smiling sweetly.

“That’s so not true,” I argued, then glanced up as my dessert arrived and was placed in the center of the table—two spoons placed meticulously on either side of the bowl.

“She’s not going to share,” Mom commented, getting a slight laugh out of our waiter.

However, this was something I definitely didn’t want to eat alone, so I handed Mom a spoon and wouldn’t relent until she’d taken a bite. She knew better than anyone how much Becca and I loved Oreos—or more importantly, how much we loved to eat them together. There was no way I could eat this dessert alone.

While we were still finishing off the ice cream—the Oreos already long gone—Mom flagged down the waiter for the check.

“We don’t want to be late,” she said, setting her spoon down and placing her cloth napkin on the table. But when we got into the elevator, Mom hit the button for only a few floors down, still a long way from the lobby. When I eyed her questioningly, she simply said, “We just need to make one quick stop before we go.”

Mom led me down the quiet hallway of identical doors, then abruptly halted. She dug through her purse and came away holding a keycard that she held up to the card reader, unlocking the door.

“What are we doing here?” I asked while following Mom into what I soon realized was much more than a regular hotel room—instead, it was a glamorous multi-room suite. But what I’d noticed only subtly during our trek from the elevator, became increasingly obvious now—my left forearm was tingling like mad. The compass wasn’t visible, but it was trying to get my attention and I knew exactly which direction the arrow was pointing as we stepped farther into the suite.

“Fiona, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine—Damien Galt,” Mom said as we stepped into the living room.