I pushed open the door of the church and headed for my station wagon. By now, night had fallen, and I could hear a party of laughing couples from the balcony of a Mexican restaurant down the street. The sound grated on my nerves.

My estranged father was dead. How was I supposed to feel about that?

Alarmed by the responsibilities of being a father, and with his and my mom’s relationship breaking down, my dad had fled to his native Paris not long after I was born. Mom kept expecting him to come back, but he never had. Instead, he had remarried and made a small fortune in business. I had never seen a dime of that money, and had seen him all but once, on the weekend of my tenth birthday, at my mother’s funeral.

Hard to believe that had been twenty years ago.

“You still there, Cassie?” came the soft voice of Aunt Patricia.

I fumbled for the keys in my purse. “I’m still here.”

“Listen, I completely understand if you don’t want to go. I know you’re busy with work, and it’s been a while since you and your dad were friends—”

“We were never friends,” I said coldly. And now, we never would be. I had always held out hope that one day, he and I would reconcile. And as long as he was still breathing, I hadn’t given up hope. But he had only ever spoken to me once a year, on my birthday. And now, he was no longer breathing.

“I’m surprised you even still want to talk to your dad,” Aunt Patricia had said to me recently. “If I were you, I would’ve given up ages ago.”

“If it were anyone else, I probably would have,” I’d replied. “But he’s my dad. It’s hard to give up on your parents, even when you want to.”

Sometimes, the parent-child bond felt like a bad romantic relationship: they could be callous and cruel and cut you out of their life, but you kept coming back. You couldn’t help it.

“Don’t I know it,” Aunt Patricia had said. “I’ve told Clay that it doesn’t matter what he does—he could drop out of college, get a Mohawk, go to Disneyland without me—but he’d still be my son.”

Clay was twenty-two and had only been a squalling infant when I’d moved in with him and Aunt Patricia after my mother’s death. I had lived with them in Phoenix for most of my life.

Even now, when I could afford a place of my own, I still lived with Patricia, who was getting older and needed someone to help out. Clay was finishing his last year in community college and had moved into an apartment with his girlfriend across town, though the rest of us fervently hoped their relationship would prove short-lived—Leah was no good for him.

“Cassie?” Aunt Patricia’s voice brought me back to the present. “I think you ought to at least consider going to the funeral.”

I turned on the car’s headlights, revealing a flurry of dust and motes like the static on an old TV. “Why’s that?”

I knew what she was going to say: that it would do my heart good to see him laid in the ground, that I might never get closure otherwise, that I ought to at least say goodbye.

Instead, she hesitated for a moment before saying, “This is going to come as a shock—I know I didn’t believe it when they first told me—but your dad left you everything in his estate.”

I froze with my hand on the steering wheel. “Excuse me? You’re joking, right?”

“Cassie, sweetie, you know I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

“Then I must have misheard you. Because it really sounded like you just said my father left me his whole estate.”

“Well, you were his only child, and he wasn’t going to leave it all to Adèle.”

My father and his second wife had divorced at around the time of my mom’s death. Rumors persisted in the family that he had been devastated by her untimely passing, filled with regret.

Aunt Patricia continued. “I’m as surprised as you, but who else was he going to leave it to?”

“Fair point.” I scowled at myself in the rearview mirror, wishing I didn’t look so much like a woman who had just been crying. “I don’t know how this works. I’ve never had a rich relative die and leave me their entire estate before. Do they just deposit the money directly into my bank account? Or are we talking houses, paintings, a beloved childhood sled?”

“They didn’t tell me much,” said Patricia. “When my dad passed away, all he left us was his crockpot. But if you’re even remotely interested in collecting, you’ll have to fly out to Paris. Skip the funeral if you must, but I think it’s important that you go over there, if only to collect what you’re due.”

“I wish they could just meet me here,” I grumbled. The prospect of a few days in Paris was tempting, but I also had a major assignment due before the end of the week. I backed out of the parking lot and began making my way home. “Where are you right now, by the way?”

“I’m still at work. A lawyer just called to give me the news. They must have had my number from when I was your guardian.”

“Okay, well, I’m on my way back to the house. Any chance you’ll be home soon? I really don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“I get off at around midnight.” Aunt Patricia worked as a prison nurse and kept long hours, often not getting home until four or five in the morning. “You ought to call Clay and see if he’ll come over.”

“Think I’ll pass.” If Clay came over, Leah would surely follow, and that was the last thing I wanted tonight—the two of them were constantly fighting. “I might text Aisha and see what she’s doing. She’s been wanting to visit Paris for years, poor girl.”

“Then I’ll let you go so you can call her.” My aunt paused again, and I could sense there was something else that she wanted to say. “The lawyer mentioned one item that I think you might be interested in.”

“What’s that?” I asked in a bland tone as I turned onto the highway. The gray skeletal lamps cast an eerie yellowish glow on the overpass.

“Apparently, your father owned a first-edition copy of The Wizard of Oz, signed by—I can’t for the life of me remember the name of that guy. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“L. Frank Baum.” I sat up straight in my seat with a feeling of keen interest. “Mom used to read that book to me when I was little. I always wondered what had happened to it.”

“Well, it must have gotten sent to your dad by accident, after your mother passed,” Aunt Patricia said softly. “Anyway, he must’ve known how important it was to you, because he wanted you to have it.”

“What happens if I’m not able to fly over there this week and get it?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. I’d like to think they would hold onto it for you. I don’t know if they have a legal right to throw it out.”

“They’d better not. At least give me a few days to get over there.”

“Yeah. Well, I’d better get going, but I’ll see you when I get home tonight, if you’re still up.”

“Okay, see you later.”

I hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, my mind racing. From the sound of it, I could now be the owner of a house and car in France, maybe even a business. But my mind was focused on the book my aunt had mentioned.

The books we read in our youth have a way of imprinting themselves on our hearts, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz had been my favorite book since the first time I read it with Mom. A few years ago, I had bought a paperback copy with the original illustrations by W. W. Denslow in an airport in Johannesburg. The writing itself didn’t hold up as well as I had remembered, but I didn’t care because the story was so rich and engaging. As much as I loved the movie, I had always felt the book was superior. It was dark and surreal and disturbing in the tradition of all great fairy tales, and there was so much the movie had left out.

And now that I knew where my copy had gone, I wanted it back. I wanted to hold it in my hands and smell it and remember being eight years old, sitting in my mother’s lap and marveling over the illustrations of Dorothy in her blue gingham dress, carrying little Toto in her picnic basket. I couldn’t bring Mom back from the dead, and I couldn’t travel through time—as much as I sometimes wanted to. This was probably the closest I would ever come to doing either.

* * *

Ten minutes later, I reached the house. Relieved to find that Clay and Leah weren’t there, I warmed some leftover shrimp jambalaya in the microwave and sank down onto the living room couch. I hadn’t taken three bites before my phone buzzed again: Aisha was calling.

“Hey, where are you at?” she asked.

“At home, eating a sad meal. Where are you?”

Aisha ignored the question. “I got a phone call from Patricia. She told me what happened. And said you’d probably be too stubborn to call me. Cassie, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said, annoyed. I had an ominous feeling that I would be the object of other people’s sympathy for the next week, at least. “It’s not like I even really knew the guy.”

“No, but he was your dad. Even if he was a heel.”

“Is that all you called to say?” I knew Aisha was just trying to be helpful, but I couldn’t help feeling irritated. I was tired and grumpy and not looking forward to eating this jambalaya and being alone all night.

“No, I called to tell you I’m coming over,” said Aisha. “And you can throw that crap away. I’m bringing real food.”

I caught a panicked glimpse of my reflection in the TV: my mascara was running and dark, raccoon-like circles surrounded my eyes. “Please tell me you haven’t left yet.”

“Like, twenty minutes ago.” There was a flash of headlights on the front windows and the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. “I’m here.”

“Great.” Despite my grumpiness, my heart gave a leap of relief as I rose from the couch to let her in. “See you in a second.”

“Or now,” said Aisha. “Bye.”

She hung up the phone and began heading toward the door, carrying a couple of greasy burger bags in one hand. Stylish as ever, she was wearing a floral-patterned silk dress that fell just over her knees, and her purple hair was a mess of pins and braids.

“Hey, you,” she said, giving me a quick hug and shoving one of the greasy bags into my arms. “Monterey patty melts, the ultimate comfort food.”

I set the bag down on the coffee table. “I love how everyone thinks I need to be comforted, like I’ve just suffered some great loss.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not upset about it,” said Aisha sternly. “I can’t imagine you being thrilled to lose your dad.”

“No, but I feel like I got all my grieving out of the way when my mom died. When he walked away after the funeral, I knew he wasn’t coming back. I had a feeling I was saying goodbye to both of my parents that day, you know?”

My voice broke a little and I tensed up, worried that Aisha had seen through my façade of indifference. From the keen and penetrating look on her face, I gathered that she had known all along.

Seating herself next to me on the sofa, she rested a reassuring hand on my arm. “I don’t know that there’s a bright side to all this, but at least you know what happened to your dad. At least you won’t have to spend years wondering.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Aisha had emigrated from Lebanon with her mother and grandmother at the age of nine, leaving her dad behind. For a few years, they’d continued to receive money from her father, who had promised that as soon as he raised enough money of his own, he would make the trip to America. But when Aisha was fourteen, the letters had stopped coming, and for years, no one knew what had become of her father. It wasn’t until her last year of high school that she had learned he had been killed in the war.

Given the horrors of her past, it was a wonder that Aisha was as vibrant and whole as she was. I felt embarrassed even claiming the mantle of sadness, given that her own grief had been so much worse.

“Not that this isn’t still devastating for you,” Aisha added. “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you’re right,” I said sadly, wiping a stray tear from my right eye. “It helps to know where he is now. I won’t have to spend the rest of my life vainly hoping that maybe one day he’ll find his way back to me.”

“Patricia said you might be going to Paris.” She spoke the words delicately, gingerly, as if I was made of porcelain. “I wish I could come with you.”

“I wish I could bring you with me.” I had been looking forward to teasing her about going to Paris without her, but now that we had broached the subject, I found I didn’t have the energy. “I don’t even know if I’ll be able to go. It all depends on whether I can finish this latest assignment.”

“Couldn’t you explain to your editor that your dad just died?”

“Garcia doesn’t accept excuses,” I said sourly. “Not when we’re on a deadline.”

“Well, when is it due?”

“Thursday night.” I scrunched up my face, thinking. “I’ve already done all the research and interviews. I just have to get it all typed up. That’ll take me at least a day to finish.”

“And what day is the funeral?”

“Thursday.” I laughed bitterly. “Even if I could work on it during the flight, there’s no guarantee that I’ll get it all done in time. And after tonight, I don’t even really feel like looking at a computer.”

“I would think having a parent die would give you a ready-made excuse not to look at one for the next week,” said Aisha. “I sort of wish we were still in middle school and Patricia could write you a note: ‘Dear Ms. Garcia, please excuse Cassie from all her assignments today; she has to attend her dad’s funeral.’ Heck, I’ll even write it for you.”

“I wish you could. I am not looking forward to spending the next twelve to eighteen hours putting this assignment together. Then again, maybe I could use the distraction.”

“I think it would be better if you actually faced these things instead of putting yourself into a work coma,” said Aisha gently. “Attending the funeral would be a good start.”

“If the funeral was the only thing going on, I might not even go. I have other reasons for wanting to go to Paris.”

Aisha listened with growing interest as I told her about how my father had left me his entire estate, and how I needed to fly to Paris in order to claim my copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

“Signed first edition?” she said in a low voice. “How much do you reckon that would be worth?”

“Probably a pretty hefty chunk of change, if we’re being honest.” I kicked off my slippers and stretched out on the sofa. “But I don’t want it for the money. It’s not like I’m planning to sell it. I just think—”

The buzzing of my phone interrupted us. I looked down and saw a text from the speed-dating service thanking me for my participation. They wanted to know if I’d “found my true love.” Ha. Not a chance.

Ignoring the text and shifting my legs to get more comfortable, I turned my attention back to Aisha. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

“The Wizard of Oz.”

“Right. I’d be willing to fly out to Paris if it meant getting that book back. It’s one of the few possessions I still remember from when Mom was alive, and up until tonight, I thought it had been lost.”

“If only you could click your heels and be transported over there,” said Aisha.

“If only we lived in the land of Oz! Instead, I’ll have to climb inside a thin metal tube and be carried across the sea on silver wings, losing a whole day of work in the process. Somehow, I don’t think they’d be willing to postpone the funeral.”

“Dead bodies have an expiration date, unfortunately.” Aisha kicked her flats off grimly. “You have to get them into the ground quick.”

“Thanks for that image,” I said dryly.

“I just want you to be prepared.” She offered me a now-cold fry, which I refused. “So, what is this assignment about? I hope you’re not getting yourself in trouble again.”

“No, Garcia thought I needed something light after the debacle that was my last big story.”

I had recently gone undercover as an employee in one of the vast desert warehouses owned by Fire Cloud, a multinational corporation which specialized in developmental technologies. My exposé of the miserable conditions being suffered by the company’s employees had earned me a nasty letter from the head of Fire Cloud security, David Icarus, who had threatened a lawsuit and banned me from all Fire Cloud premises in perpetuity.

“Thank the Lord,” said Aisha. “You didn’t deserve all the hate mail you got after that last article.”

“I’m still not happy about the way Icarus treated me.” Although he had, presumably, been speaking on behalf of the company, I had taken the menacing tone of his email personally. “But at least Garcia gave me her full support.”

“Still.” Aisha scowled from behind her red-framed glasses. “I couldn’t believe some of the things they were saying about you in the comments. I didn’t realize people were so personally invested in Fire Cloud. It was like a cult, the way they came after you.” She added shyly, “I hope you won’t hate me, but I couldn’t resist responding to some of them.”

“Well, you could have refrained from calling them ‘illiterate dinguses,’ but I appreciate it,” I said with a laugh. “It’s nice to know someone has my back.”

“Always,” said Aisha.

I remembered how badly she had been bullied when she’d first come to Phoenix from Lebanon, how the other girls had made fun of her. My insides had boiled with anger when she came into pre-algebra crying because someone had torn the leg off a stuffed bear that had been a gift from her dad. I had told off the entire roomful of students for laughing at her. Now, the roles had been reversed, and she was the one defending me.

“I shouldn’t let it get to me, though, really,” I told her. “I’m sure every journalist faces criticism like this. It’s hard to defend truth in a culture where people want to make up their own facts.”

“Still, I don’t like to think of you having to go through that all over again. I hope Garcia’s got you covering something involving puppies for your next assignment.”

“Ugh, I wish she was. It wouldn’t have taken weeks to finish.”

I had been investigating the growing number of miracles and strange occurrences being reported out in the desert: owls that could speak with human voices, men with the heads of coyotes, sudden healings. A week’s worth of interviews with the locals had convinced me that there was some sort of mass hallucination at work with its roots in the mythology and folklore of the southwest. My father, who I’d known to be a great lover of myths and fairy tales, would have loved it. But since I only talked to him once a year, he’d never hear about it, now.

“I wish I had someone who was willing to type up this assignment for me,” I said idly. “All the notes are there. They just have to be arranged into a coherent story.”

“I’d volunteer if I wasn’t going out of town tomorrow,” said Aisha, who was driving to Albuquerque to visit a friend.

“Maybe I’ll hire someone to do it for me.” I sat up straight on the couch. “Do you think it’s too late to hire a ghostwriter?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, sitting up, too. “Having a stranger do it for you could be trouble.”

“I’m kind of in a bind here,” I said. “Realistically, how badly could it go?”

“I don’t know, Cass…” Aisha bit her lip pensively.

Sensing her hesitation, I said, “But you were all for it, a minute ago.”

“Yeah, I’d be more than happy to type it up for you, if I had the time. I know what your writing is like, and I could at least do a decent impression. But a stranger off the internet…”

“Well, I’ve already done all the work—”

“I know, but still.” She turned to face me, a glimmer of concern in her eyes. “You’ve been in enough trouble lately.”

“Not with my boss.”

“No, but you don’t want to make things any worse for yourself, and you don’t want to make an enemy of your employer.”

There was some truth to this, though I didn’t like to admit it. “It would only be a one-time thing, though. I’m so pressed for time, I don’t see how I can possibly get this finished without help.”

“Ask for an extension.”

I shot Aisha a dubious glare. “You know how Garcia feels about extensions. I might as well be asking to kidnap her firstborn.”

“Right. Anyway, I’d better get going. It sounds like you’ve got a long night ahead of you. I don’t want to keep you from your work.” She stood and reached for her purse. “I hope you’ll think about what I said. I’m just looking out for you, girl.”

“I know you are.”

Reluctantly, I rose and walked her to the door. I hated being alone when I was emotionally overwhelmed. And Aisha had a better grasp on feelings than I did. She was a terrific friend. I knew that if I asked, she would stay in a heartbeat.

Perhaps seeing the sadness in my eyes, she asked, “You gonna be okay?”

“I think so,” I lied. “Promise you’ll call me while I’m in Paris?”

“Are you really thinking of going?” she asked, her eyes aglow. “I wish you could stow me away in your luggage.”

“I wish I could, too, believe me. Maybe I’ll put you on video and carry you around while I tramp across the Champs Elysées.”

“I would cry of happiness, oh my gosh,” said Aisha.

She gave me a goodbye hug. “You sure you don’t need anything?” she asked again.

“No, I’m good.” It was only my own stubbornness that kept me from asking her to stay. I’d wait up for Aunt Patricia instead.