I walk through. She is sitting in a wheelchair facing the window. Bright sunlight streams onto her face. She seems impervious to it, staring straight ahead, not really seeing anything. I walk to her slowly and crouch down in front of her.

“Court,” I take her hands. They are limp and cold. “Court, it’s me.” She stares past me. I look around the room — a bed, a television, two chairs. There are no personal touches; no flowers or pictures on the walls just like the rooms we passed on our way here. I look back at Courtney.

“I’m sorry I haven’t come before now,” I say. “I brought Estella to see you.”

Sam, who has already taken her from her car seat, hands her to me. She holds her neck stiff as I take her, her large eyes looking around with innocent curiosity. I place her in Courtney’s lap and hold her there. My sister doesn’t move, doesn’t blink and doesn’t register the tiny presence pressed against her body. Estella fusses after a few seconds, so I take her and hold her.

My sister’s hair is greasy and limp. It is too short to tie back and hangs in her face. I reach up and push it behind her ears. I hate this. I hate this place, and I hate that my sister is here. I hate myself for not coming to see her sooner. She doesn’t belong here. I make my decision right then and there.

“Sam,” I say, standing up, “I want to bring her home … to my home. I can have someone come in to help.”

“Okay,” he says. “Are you clearing this with me or...” He shakes his head, and I want to slap him for the tenth time today.

“I’m just telling you, idiot.”

He grins.

“Courtney, I’m going to bring you home. Just give me a few days, okay … to get everything ready.”

I touch her face lightly. Beautiful, vibrant Courtney, I can see her in this person’s features, the high forehead and aquiline nose. But her eyes are lifeless. I reach around the back of her head and press my lips against her forehead. I can feel the scar beneath my fingertips, thick and hard. I swallow a sob and straighten up. Estella clings to my shirt, her little fists grabbing the material tightly. I march out without looking back, my heels clipping with new purpose.

Sam waits with Estella while I speak with the director of the facility. When we leave, I have a handful of pamphlets for in-home care.

We are back in the car when he speaks for the first time since leaving Courtney’s room.

“So … Johanna?”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“It’s a valid question, your majesty. If you don’t tell me why you hate it, I’m going to call you Johanna from now on.”

I sigh. How much to tell him? Caleb was the only one who knew. What the heck, right? I didn’t even know why it was a big secret anymore. My father was dead, his empire fallen, and my mother was a drunk. Whyyyyyy not tell the manny?

“I was adopted. No one knows. It’s been a big secret.” I shake my head, quirking my mouth to the side like it’s nothing. Sam lets out a low whistle.

“So, anyway, I was born in Kiev. My birth mother worked in a brothel — yada-yada.”

“Yada. Yada,” Sam repeats. “Seems like a little more than yada-yada.”

I give him a stern look before continuing. “My birth mother was reluctant to give me up. She was young. Sixteen. When she was little, her mother used to read to her from an American book called, Tales of Johanna. She agreed to give me up, but only if my parents would name me Johanna. They wanted a baby so badly that they did.”

“So that’s kind of great,” Sam says. “It’s like she gave you something of herself.”

I snort. “Yeah, well … my parents only told me I was adopted when I was eight. You can imagine my shock. They sat me down in the formal dining room — just tiny little me and them — in this imposing room. I was so afraid I was in trouble; I was shaking the entire time. As soon as I found out about the origins of my name, I didn’t want it anymore.”

Sam reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Man, I thought my parents sucked.”

I grimaced. “So, that’s why I go by my middle name. The end.”

“Is Courtney their birth daughter?”

I nodded.

“What happened to her?”

“When my father died, she got sick.”

He interrupts me. “Sick?”

“In the head,” I say. “She was always that way. She was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder. She’d go into these depressions and no one would hear from her for months. She didn’t tell anyone this time. We were all so wrapped up in our own lives, no one checked on her. I guess my father’s death and everything that happened around my trial just sent her over the edge.”

“So, did she-?”

I brake a little too hard at a red light, and he jerks forward.

“She shot herself. The bullet grazed her brain, and they were able to save her in time. But, there was too much damage.”

“God,” he says. "And this is the first time you’re seeing her since…”

“Since the hospital after it happened.”

His eyes are wide.

“Don’t judge me,” I snap, “I was pregnant. I was on bed rest.”

“You were a selfish, self-centered bitch.”

I glare at him. “I was afraid.”

“Of what, Leah? She’s your sister. God, I can’t believe I work for you. I feel sick.”

I glance at him. He does look pretty disgusted. “I’m making it right,” I say.

We drive in silence for the next few minutes.

“Ooh! Jamba Juice. Want one?” I swerve into the parking lot, and to my satisfaction Sam’s head hits the passenger side window with a nice little thud.

“Sorry,” I smile.

He rubs his head, seeming to forget his question.

“I’m going to ask Caleb to come home,” I say as I pull into a spot. I check his face to see his reaction.

“I don’t want a fruit juice,” he says.

“Come on, Sam!”

He shakes his head. “Bad idea. You’re going to get hurt.”

“Why?”

Sam sighs. “I don’t think he’s ready. Caleb is the type of man who has an agenda.”

“What does that mean?”

Sam scratches his head like he’s uncomfortable.