Chapter 1

Six months ago, my parents started fostering a girl named Lila Mercer.

Six months ago, Mom repainted the guest room and strung fairy lights over the bed. My room still has the same furniture I've had since I was twelve.

Six months ago, Dad started coming home for Sunday dinner. Not for me. I'd been eating alone at the counter for years by then.

Six months ago, Mom posted a photo of the two of them at the farmers market. Caption: our family is growing. I saw it during third period and locked my phone hard enough to crack the case.

So when I picked up the family iPad tonight and a notification popped up from an app I didn't recognize, I wasn't shocked. Just tired of being right.

The app was called Beacon. I tapped it open.

A channel named The Hartwell Project. Four people in it. Mom, Dad, someone called Dr. Voss, and Lila.

Not me.

The last message was from Mom. Lila's dress fitting is tomorrow at 3. Taking the afternoon off.

Dad, twenty minutes later. Confirmed the caterer. 120 seats. Dr. Voss says the venue's perfect.

Then Dr. Voss. Beautiful work this week, both of you. Lila told me she feels safe. That's everything.

Mom. She IS everything.

I scrolled up. Photos of Lila's new room. A checklist with gold stars next to it. A screenshot from a video of Mom reading to her before bed.

I scrolled until I hit the very first message, six months back.

My name wasn't in that channel once.

My phone buzzed. A text from my brother, Kieran Hartwell, with a screenshot attached — him and Dad.

Kieran: Dad — is Sloane's part ready? You promised. No more lies after this.

Dad: Almost there. Trust me.

I looked at Kieran's text again.

After this. So there's been lying up until now. And whatever he's promising Kieran, he never bothered promising me a thing.

Another text from Kieran landed. Sloane, whatever you see tonight, just—

Got it.

I didn't finish reading it before I answered.

I thought about being thirteen, Dad's text saying stuck at the office, order something. Fifteen, the birthday cash landing in my Venmo with no note attached. Sixteen, when he didn't even bother changing last year's note. Seventeen — nothing. I'd left the calendar open until midnight passed, then deleted the app.

I looked up Lila's Instagram. Private, but Mom followed her. Her last post was our kitchen table, Mom and Dad on either side of her, all three laughing at something off-camera. Caption: Sunday dinner.

Mom had commented under it. Our table feels whole again.

I scrolled my own camera roll for the most recent photo of the three of us. Two Christmases back. My uncle took it. I'm standing at the edge of the frame, smiling the way you smile when it's not really for you.

Whole again. Was it broken before her? Or is it only whole now that she's in it?

I saved everything — the screenshots, the post, the app — into a folder. If they wanted a perfect little event for her, I could help them collect the receipts.

By dinner I still hadn't said a word. Mom made pasta, Lila's favorite. Served her first, asked about her day, told her the new haircut looked great.

Then, to me — "How was school?" Like a box she was checking.

"Who's Dr. Voss?"

Mom's fork stopped halfway up.

Dad set his glass down. "Where'd you hear that name?"

"Is she planning Lila's thing? The one that's the same weekend as my birthday?"

"Sloane, it's not—"

"Not what? Not a big deal? Not worth mentioning to your actual daughter?"

Lila stared at her plate.

Mom reached across the table. "Sweetheart, it's a small program thing. Lila's milestone—"

"Her milestone. On my birthday."

Nobody said anything for a second.

"It's a coincidence." Dad's voice had gone flat, like he was reading off a script. "The schedule just—"

"The schedule that's had six months to plan around it? With an app, a channel, a caterer for a hundred and twenty people?"

His jaw tightened.

Kieran pushed his chair back. "Sloane, don't."

"Don't what? Don't notice?"

He grabbed my wrist under the table. "Not like this."

I pulled free. "Are you lying to me too? Or is that just Dad's job?"

His face went white. He opened his mouth and nothing came out.

I got up and went to my room.

Downstairs, they started again without me. Chairs scraping. Mom's voice — Lila, can you set the table back up? Dad's — Kier, grab the salad.

Sunday dinner. Their new thing. Four people.

My room sits right above the kitchen. I could hear all of it — Dad asking about volleyball tryouts, Mom offering extra cheese, Kieran telling some joke about his math teacher.

Four plates clinking below me.

Nobody came up to get a fifth.