Make Me Lose Control. Christie Ridgway

the entire structure. The prow of it jutted toward the lake, giving the impression of a ship preparing to set sail on the water.

      It was butt ugly.

      There wasn’t a homey touch about the place.

      As they came to a stop in the drive, London sighed, as if she were thinking the same thing. They both pulled their belongings from the backseat. As the teen hitched the strap of her laptop bag over her shoulder, Shay felt another ping of guilt. Not over her brief fling this time, but because she’d left her own computer behind at the house while on her birthday adventure. Not once had she thought about finding a way to check her email. What if Jace Jennings had responded to one of her reports about his daughter at last?

      Though that seemed highly unlikely.

      Since taking over London’s care, she’d delivered weekly missives to the email address provided by his factotum. At first they’d been news-filled and professional—the topics they’d covered during school hours, his daughter’s excellent progress on catching up to grade-level standards—but at his continued silence she’d begun writing more and more outrageous things in order to provoke a response.

      I’ve decided to replace our trigonometry lessons with tango instruction.

      Yesterday, we studied literature by reading Celeb! magazine from cover to cover.

      Our chemistry field trip was a trek to the local chocolate factory.

      So far, no reply.

      Inside the house, together they mounted the stairs to their separate bedrooms. “It’s your turn to dust,” Shay reminded the girl, noting the sparkling motes dancing in the sunshine streaming through the windows.

      London paused and turned her head, her black-lined eyes narrowing. “I dusted last time.”

      “Nope,” Shay said, her voice cheery. “That was me. Of course, if you’d prefer to vacuum—”

      “God, no,” London said, and stomped off, each heavy footstep communicating her mood.

      Shay let it roll off her back. “Before dinner, all right?”

      There was a mumbled answer.

      When they’d first moved in, the factotum had said he’d arranged for a weekly housekeeping service. She’d told him not to bother. Cleaning up after oneself was its own lesson, and she’d guessed correctly that it was a lesson the teen had yet to learn. So they split the chores and Shay was unmoved by the eye rolling, the grumbles and the can’t-I-do-it-tomorrow? pleading. Lately, she’d even caught a small smile of satisfaction on London’s face at a well-swept floor or a lemon-wax-polished table.

      Inside her bedroom, she caught a whiff of that pleasant scent. It was a large room, with views that overlooked the lake. The four-poster bed was modern in design, but its stark lines were softened by a white lace-edged duvet she’d brought from home. On the cube table beside the bed sat a photo of the Walkers, from when both her mother and Dell Walker had been alive. Shay paused to scrutinize it now. She often did, looking for similarities between her and her siblings, and her and her mother. Shay’s hair color was different from everyone else’s in the family, and she’d always assumed she’d gotten it from the man who’d made her mother pregnant.

      The one who’d never bothered to reach out to Shay.

      She’d never reached out to him, either. Not even with an innocuous email, let alone an outrageous one.

      I’ve decided to replace our trigonometry lessons with tango instruction.

      Remembering that, Shay glanced toward her laptop. Out of obligation more than expectation, she turned it on and clicked to her email program. New posts popped up and she ran her gaze down the listing. Something from a high school friend. Another sent to her by an acquaintance she’d made on the homeschool message board she visited. And then her eyes caught on a brand-new sender: JJennings.

      Her finger jerked on the mousepad; she blinked, then she clicked to open the email. Oh. My. God.

      Shay dashed from the room. “London,” she yelled, forgetting the name of the day. “We have an emergency.”

      The girl took her sweet time to saunter to her doorway. “What? Is this about my paper on Romeo and Juliet? I know it was a little trite to compare and contrast the play with that Taylor Swift song—”

      “Your father is due to arrive here today.”

      London’s insouciance shattered like a glass hitting the floor. Her jaw fell, too. “What?”

      “Anytime now. Well, he didn’t give a time, so who knows when?” Shay forked her fingers through her hair. “Or maybe he came by already and we missed him. Do you think he came by when we weren’t here?”

      She was aware she was babbling and that the teen was staring, but Shay couldn’t help her jangling nerves and the acute, uncomfortable awareness of those emails she’d been sending.

      I’ve decided to replace our trigonometry lessons with tango instruction.

      Yesterday, we studied literature by reading Celeb! magazine from cover to cover.

      Our chemistry field trip was a trek to the local chocolate factory.

      Crap. What had she been thinking?

      And a little voice answered: you were thinking about how your own biological dad ignored you and how you don’t want that for London.

      Erasing the thought from her head, she sprang into action. “Dust, okay?” she said on the way to the closet where the vacuum accessories were stored.

      Then she went to work. It took a few minutes to notice that London wasn’t actually doing her share, but was instead watching Shay flit about. She turned to the girl. “Hop to it. Please.”

      “Give me a good reason I should try to impress him.”

      Shay could see her point, she really could, since the man had been out of London’s life for years. “Because the care of the house is a reflection on me,” she said. “Your father signs my check so I want to make a good impression.”

      The appeal seemed to work. The human-sized crow pushed away from the wall she was leaning upon and did the cleaning without further complaint. Finally, they were both done with their half of the chores and both looked disheveled, with mussed hair and pink cheeks. Shay caught sight of their dual reflections in the hall mirror. Their eyes met in the glass.

      “Showers,” they said together.

      But before they could repair to separate bathrooms, the doorbell rang.

      Really, Shay thought, as her stomach and her heart jumped, I shouldn’t have made that crack about the tango. Her inner organs seemed to be doing the dance themselves.

      London stared at an unmoving Shay, the panic in her eyes warring with the blank expression she was trying to keep on her face. “Aren’t you going to answer the door?” she whispered.

      “Of course.” Shay smoothed her palms over her hair, then over the sides of her jeans. As she stepped toward the entry, she licked her dry lips. “It might not even be him,” she reminded the girl.

      As a precautionary measure, she peeped through one of the porthole-styled windows that flanked the front door. Her whole body froze.

      “Well?” London said.

      Shay couldn’t make a sound. How had he found her? Why was he here?

      It was Jay on the front step, his attention focused on the door.

      Gladness, as bright as sunlight and as buoyant as a pop song, poured through her. He’d come after her! The happy feeling was accompanied by the same kind of relief one felt upon waking from a bad dream to discover the test hadn’t been failed or the tumble from the steps had been averted.

      She wasn’t the only one who wanted more