Perhaps she was wrong about the inevitability of her brother’s failure, however. She had certainly never seen coming so much of what had transpired.

As great as her powers were, she was not their Father.

The future was not hers to command.

And she had never dreamed of a moment where she might have to choose her own existence . . . over her creation’s.

The train rocked back and forth, the subtle sway and distant clickety-clack of the sets of wheels over the tracks a lullaby that had Jo’s eyelids growing heavy. When she had boarded the Keystone Service 701 toward Harrisburg at 8:18 in the morning, she had been fortunate enough to get a row of seats all to herself, but that had not lasted. There were a lot of people doing the go-to-work thing, so she soon had to put her backpack at her feet to accommodate another passenger.

The trip was just over three hours, and she could have driven, but with New York City sitting in the way of the most direct road route, she had opted out of the immovable object that was rush hour traffic.

Besides, there was something magical about a train. On the far side of the broad window, she watched the landscape change, high-rise apartment buildings replacing the sprawl of suburban neighborhoods as they approached Manhattan; then the skyscrapers coming into view; then the Big Apple’s bridges rising and falling over the Hudson. After that, there was the descent underground and the slowing and stopping under the great city, with a further exchange of passengers at Penn Station. Finally, they were off again, the air in the car smelling of oil and coal as they proceeded out of the subway system’s subterranean tunnels.

Bright light again now, free of the city on the far side, the trees and grass of New Jersey always a surprise given the concrete congestion of New York.

The train pulled into the 30th Street Station on time, and Jo sat quietly for a moment before grabbing her pack and getting to her feet. There was not much of a wait to get off, and as she stepped down onto the platform, she looked around, the hot breath of the hissing engine catching a lick of her hair.

The next thing she knew, she was out of the columned, squared-off building that, with its rows of vertical supports down its glass panels, had always reminded her of a federal prison. Or maybe it was Philadelphia, itself, that made her think things of a penal nature.

Or maybe it was her family.

Using her phone, she got a Lyft to take her out to the house. When she and the driver pulled in between the stone pylons and proceeded up the lane, the guy behind the wheel glanced back at her in the rearview of the Toyota Sienna.

“I thought this was a residence?” He shook his head. “I mean, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter to me—”

“No, it’s a family—well, a couple lives here.”

“Huh. You don’t say.” He looked out to the side, at the specimen trees that were as yet still without buds, and the statuary that remained unchanging through the seasons. “You applying for some kind of a job here or something?”

Jo thought about the role she had played in the household as she had grown up. “I was already hired.”

“Oh, congrats. The pay must be good.”

Well, it had gotten her through college without any debt. But only because she’d gone to Williams, which was her father’s alma mater. She had often wondered how the finances of her bachelor’s degree would have gone if she’d only been able to get into a state school. When she’d been accepted into the Yale master’s program for English, they’d indicated she’d have to pay for that herself.

So naturally, she’d ended up looking for work at that point.

“Holy crap, look at that house.”

“Yeah, it’s a big one.”

The grand mansion loomed at the top of the rise, although she had a feeling it was the pit in her stomach that turned the place into something threatening, rather than anything behind its leaded glass windows or under the eaves of its regal roofline.

Paying the guy, she got out and waited until the minivan had drifted down the hill. She had a feeling that if there was a car anywhere in view, it would increase the likelihood she would be turned away.

When the Lyft was gone, she took a moment to look around. Everything was in its place, all the bushes draped with hemmed-up burlap cloth to protect them from the cold, the grounds cleared of any debris, the flagstone walkway glowing blue and gray as it cut around the flower beds to the front entrance.

As she stepped up to the gleaming door, she expected some kind of warning bell to go off, the inhabitants alerted that the daughter was on the premises—not that she had been officially kicked out or anything. It had been more a case of tacit agreement that the Early’s compulsion into parenting hadn’t really resulted in a favorable outcome for the adopted or the adoptees.

The doorbell, when she pressed it, made a muted drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl sound, neither bell nor alarm. It was an old-fashioned noise, one generated by a mechanism that she imagined was, like the floors and moldings inside, original to the house. She didn’t know exactly how it worked or where the thing was within the jambs of the entrance, and she wondered, if it broke, how someone would fix—

The door opened.

“Hello, Father,” she said softly. “Surprise.”

“So are you going to do something with your wardrobe? Or just stand there looking at your shit.”

As V spoke up from behind his Four Toys, Butch cleared his throat and meant to move away from the first of his three racks of clothes. Goal denied.

“Cop, seriously. You’re beginning to freak me out. You’re like something out of Paranormal Activity.”

“That was about ghosts, not vampires. And I’m fine.”

“You’ve been making like a statue there for fifteen fucking minutes. Sixteen. Seventeen . . . you want I keep this hourglass bullcrap up?”

Butch shook his head and went back over to the Pit’s sofa. Sitting his ass down, he went to take a drink from his glass of Lag and was surprised to find the thing empty. Instead of refilling it, he put the sturdy cylinder of crystal on the coffee table.

“So I met an old friend tonight.”

V leaned out around the forest of his monitors, one black slash of an eyebrow lifting, his diamond eyes sparkling. “What’s her name.”

“I didn’t say it was a woman.”

“You don’t have to. That guilty tone is a driver’s license with a picture.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Butch shot up to his feet and went to the door to the outside. Then he turned around and walked back to the rack. And back to the sofa.

Fucking sunlight.

“Look, cop,” V said as he pushed away from his keyboards. “I was just pulling your leg. You would castrate yourself before being with another female. But what’s the deal?”

“She was a friend of Janie’s.”

“Jesus . . .” V crossed his arms over his chest and kicked out thick-socked feet, using one of his subwoofers as an ottoman. “Why didn’t you say?”

“I’m talking about it now, aren’t I.”

V nodded down the hall. “You tell Marissa?”

“No, but it’s not a thing.” When Vishous just stared across the sitting area, Butch wanted to throw something. Like maybe the Foosball table. “I’m serious. It isn’t.”

“Sure it’s not. Absolutely not. You wanna talk about the weather? What Fritz is serving for First Meal, maybe?”

Butch put his hands up to his hair and grabbed onto the shit. “Her name was Mel. I haven’t seen her for like . . . I mean, twenty years? Maybe longer.” He pictured the bustier he’d helped remove. “She turned out different than I thought she would. She and Janie were supposed to be married by now, like my sister Joyce. Couple kids. Husband who works at a job that pays enough so they can stay home.”

“So what happened to her?”

“Not any of that. Not by a long shot—she, ah, yeah, she moved to Caldwell. She used to be a model down in NYC. She collects clothes, just like I do.”

“Used to be a model and moved out of Manhattan? She’s an escort—”

“I didn’t fucking say that,” Butch snapped.

“Don’t have to.”

Butch rubbed his eyes and reflected that his roommate’s penchant for piercing insight was really fucking annoying sometimes.

“Did she ask you if you wanted to pay her something?” V said. “And did you say no, but even as your mouth formed the answer, your brain went in a different, more naked direction? One that, even though you would never, ever pursue it in real life, made you feel bad for the mere thought?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I have that solace at least. She took a bath in front of me, as a matter of fact. As beautiful as she was, I didn’t feel a thing below the waist, and that’s the God’s honest.”

“Well. Look at you being all choirboy and shit. I’m honestly not surprised, true? And listen, you’re referring to her in the past tense. Just thought I’d point that out to your overactive conscience.”

Butch just shrugged. “I’d first run into her a few nights ago, see. Randomly, downtown. She was on her way to a club, I was coming out of the garage after I parked the R8. And last evening, after you and I talked? She was there on the street when I came out. She’d been . . . hurt. Bad. By a man.”

“Shit. Did you send her into the human system?”

“She refused to go.” Butch picked up his glass and took a sip from the empty, proof positive that addictions were part biochemical, part muscle memory from habit. “I took her to her home. You know, to make sure she got there.”

As images of all those cuts and bruises played through his mind, he winced. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“You’re not sure, at all.”

As wild, paranoid conclusions jumped around his skull, Butch threw them all out, one by one. Or tried to. “I think I’m just exhausted.”