Iridian watched as Rosa’s shoulders lifted, then lowered. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement: a sigh. Iridian saw that little sigh every Sunday morning, and every Sunday morning, it killed her. The day had just started, but already Rosa was disappointed. She woke up full of hope only to have that hope punctured.

  Iridian was shoveling in another spoonful of cereal when Rosa stood, dragged her chair back to the porch, and came inside.

  “Any luck?” Iridian asked, as the screen door bounced in its frame.

  Rosa shook her head and ran her hands over her dress to try to smooth out the creases. She may have been the youngest Torres sister, but Rosa dressed as if she were older—older, like from another century. She wore the same thing every day: a thrift-store dress and bulky brown oxfords. The dresses were short-sleeved, with hems that went at least to her calves, and were buttoned all the way down the front. They reminded Iridian of the kind of clothes that women in Depression-era photographs wore, more fit for standing in a bread line than going to church.

  “There was nothing,” Rosa replied. “For a second I thought there might have been something, but . . .”

  Out in front of the house, a car honked its horn.

  “Tell Walter and Mrs. Mata hello,” Iridian said.

  The Matas had been Rosa’s ride to church every Sunday for a year. Walter was a year and a half older than Rosa, and they’d gone all through elementary school and junior high together. The Torres sisters’ neighbors and parents of classmates had all taken on various roles—there were bringers of casseroles and mowers of lawns. Mrs. Mata had become transporter to church. The rest of the Torres family stopped going to regular mass soon after Ana died, but Rosa’s faith remained big enough for all of them. At Ana’s vigil, their old priest Father Canty told Rosa she was special—“full of God” or “touched by God,” something like that. He’d insisted Rosa had a purer heart than most people. It was a gift that needed to be nurtured, honed, and then put to use. According to the old priest, if Rosa tried very hard and was very patient, she could see into the hearts of God’s creatures, especially those that were small and in need of care. He said her purpose in this life was to soothe the suffering of others.

  Father Canty died in his sleep exactly two weeks after Ana’s funeral, so he was never able to guide Rosa any further down her spiritual path than that. His replacement was a much younger man, Father Mendoza, who, shortly after arriving to town, got in a fistfight with the still grief-stricken Rafe Torres in the produce section of the grocery store and swore he’d never come near the family again. Iridian was fine with that—she’d fallen asleep during mass for as long as she could remember; the droning words of the sermon softly bounced off her head, never finding their way in—and Jessica had never liked priests because she’d always hated old men telling her what to do. Jessica thought Father Canty’s message to Rosa meant that she should volunteer at the children’s hospital or the food pantry. Rosa, though, interpreted creatures “small and in need of care” as the animals around the neighborhood, and her sisters eventually just went with it.

  “Dad’s not in his room,” Jessica declared, entering the kitchen and pinning her name tag to her shirt. “Mrs. Mata’s outside, Rosa.”

  The horn sounded again, and Rosa blinked, like she’d briefly forgotten where she was.

  “I can’t find my keys,” Rosa said. “But you’ll be here all day, right, Iridian?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Rosa fluttered away, out of the kitchen and through the living room. Once the front screen door clicked shut, Iridian turned to her older sister. Jessica’s work uniform consisted of a blue collared shirt and khakis, and it was obvious she’d gone the extra mile that morning to try to offset the unflattering clothes she was forced to wear. Long, loose curls fell down past her shoulders. She smelled like burned hair and aerosol. Her eyes were rimmed with black pencil, and her lips were painted a deep plum color.

  “There’s cereal if you want some,” Iridian said.

  “Did you hear me? Dad’s not in his room. He won’t answer his phone, either.” Jessica paused. “I’m worried about him—because of today.”

  Because of today.

  Iridian knew, despite how hard she might hope, that this Sunday wouldn’t be like all the other Sundays. That was because this Sunday was June ninth, a year to the day her sister Ana had fallen to her death from her window. Iridian had woken up sick in her sadness—even if sadness didn’t come close to describing the deep, persistent gnawing that she felt. Emotions were hard for Iridian. She liked to read about them in books, but hated when they crept and settled in her own bones. They made her edgy. They made her sweat. Over the course of the last year, she’d convinced herself she’d gotten really good at ignoring them, brushing them aside, dodging them like a car swerving around a dead animal in the road.

  “Dad stayed out.” Iridian swallowed a mouthful of now-soggy chocolate globes. “He probably met some fine lady last night and—”

  “Stop.” Jessica put up her hand and then snatched her car keys off the kitchen table. “I get it. Just let me know when you hear from him, alright?”

  Once Jessica was gone, Iridian finished the last of her breakfast, drank the milky dregs, and put the bowl in the sink. Upstairs in her room, she climbed under the covers, then reached under her pillow for her favorite book, The Witching Hour by Anne Rice, which she was just starting again even though she’d already read it over a dozen times. The paper cover had fallen off and was now rubber-banded to the rest of the pages. Iridian could practically recite entire paragraphs by memory, especially the sexy parts between Rowan and Lasher, the ghost that, for centuries, had plagued the women of the Mayfair family, women who also just so happened to be witches.

  It was the greatest book ever written.

  Bleary-eyed, Iridian looked up to her doorway. She could’ve sworn she heard someone coming up the stairs and calling her name, but no one was there. She blinked and then glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was 2:05 in the afternoon. She’d been reading for over four hours. Her right arm was asleep from the elbow down because she’d been lying on it weird.

  The front door opened with a high, quick whine.

  “Iridian! Iridian!”

  It was Rosa. She was shouting. Something was wrong. Rosa never shouted. Iridian bolted down the stairs and saw her sister standing at the front door.

  “It’s Dad,” Rosa said breathlessly. “In the street.”

  Iridian pushed past her sister. She was out of the house and running—across the front yard; across Mrs. Moreno’s yard, where the water from the sprinkler was creating little suspended prisms in the sunlit air; down the sidewalk; under the shady canopies of the oak trees; and then out into the middle of the street. Down at the intersection, there was a jumble of cars facing every which way.

  Iridian’s heart lurched, then sank. She was thinking, There’s been a wreck. Her dad must’ve been out drinking. Less than a block away from the house, he must’ve run his truck through a stop sign and into another car, or a couple of cars, or worst of all, a kid out on her bike.

  Jessica’s old white Civic was there, too, in the middle of the road, with the driver’s-side door flung open. She must’ve been coming home from work on a break. For a panicked moment Iridian was convinced that she was the one Rafe had hit.

  All around Jessica’s car were other cars. The people in them were honking their horns, shouting, waving their arms out the window; but what they weren’t doing was moaning in pain or calling for help.

  Iridian wove through the cars and saw Jessica—her dark hair and the blue of her work shirt. She was crouched down in the intersection next to their dad. He was sitting in the middle of the road in his work coveralls. Sitting and sobbing.

  “My girl!” he wailed. “My beautiful girl!”

  Jessica had her arms around her dad’s shoulders and was talking to him, trying to calm him down, but he didn’t seem to realize she was there. Behind them, the green Ford pickup was parked at a diagonal, taking up most of the intersection. Its driver’s-side door was open. The engine was still running, so Iridian went over and yanked the keys from the ignition.

  “My baby.” Rafe collapsed to the side, his face landing hard against the hot asphalt. He closed his eyes. Iridian thought that maybe he’d passed out, but then he curled himself into a ball and started muttering to himself.

  “Christ,” Jessica said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  A long stripe of blood was on the road close to the Ford’s front bumper, but from what Iridian could see of her dad’s hands, legs, arms, and face, he wasn’t hurt.

  “Iridian!” someone yelled. “Get your father and his truck out of the damn road!”

  Iridian turned, grateful for the distraction. Old Mr. Garza was in his idling pickup on the other side of the intersection. His wife was in the passenger seat. They were both dressed for afternoon mass. Mrs. Garza’s arms were folded across her chest, and she was giving Iridian her very best, most judgmental glare.

  Just beyond the Garzas’ truck, a flash of red caught Iridian’s eye. It was Rosa. She’d run into the yard of a nearby house. Iridian watched her sister land on her knees in front of a large wheat-colored dog. The dog was on its side, breathing fast. Rosa put her hand gently on its body, against its rib cage, and when she pulled it away, there was blood—blood from the dog, blood on the street.

  Rosa looked up—to Iridian, and then past her sister and around. Iridian followed the direction of Rosa’s gaze and saw that the entire neighborhood had come out to witness the hideous spectacle of the Torres girls and their father. There were the Matas. Mrs. Moreno. The Johnsons. The Avilas. Hector Garcia from across the street and the boys who hung out at his house all hours of the day and night. Teddy Arenas was in his driveway, leaning against his perpetually broken-down Dodge Charger and drinking a beer. Even Kitty Bolander, the little girl Ana used to babysit, had come up on her bike.

  Iridian closed her eyes and gulped, trying to calm down and also magically will the day to start over. When she opened her eyes, there was Rosa again. Her hands were back on the dog. She’d tossed her hair over one shoulder and was lowering her ear against the animal’s side. It was only a matter of seconds before Iridian saw the dog shudder, all the way from its nose to the tip of its tail, as if a current had passed through it.

  In that same moment, Rafe mumbled, “Ana, my heart.”

  Sirens bleated in the near distance, which meant that someone had called 9-1-1. Even more people had come out of their houses or stopped their cars along the side streets, attracted to this awful scene like flies on a fresh kill. They were all murmuring, buzzing. Iridian tried to take a big breath in, but the air was thick with exhaust. She erupted into a coughing fit.

  “Dad, come on!” Jessica pled. “You have to move. Iridian, help!”

  Jessica stood and started tugging on Rafe’s limp arm. She was crying. The once-perfect black rims around her eyes were blurred. The waves in her hair had flattened. She was yelling at the people in their cars to stop honking their horns and shut up.

  “Dad, please!” she gasped. “Iridian, do something. Help me!”

  Iridian didn’t help. She didn’t move. Instead, she looked back at Rosa, who had left the dog in the yard and was now taking slow steps into the road.

  Kitty Bolander’s mom was calling out her daughter’s name. When she finally reached her, she started to steer Kitty in the direction of home, but then stopped and put her hand on Iridian’s shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know this day must be so hard for your family, especially your poor father.”

  Mrs. Bolander was probably being sincere. Most everyone there probably felt genuinely sorry for Iridian and her family, but that didn’t make things any better. If anything, it made Iridian feel like the air was thinning out even more, like all these supposedly well-intentioned people were stealing it from her.

  “Iridian!” Again, Mr. Garza honked his horn. “Rafe! Vámanos, man!”

  Rafe couldn’t hear Mr. Garza. Rafe was lost. He was still crying, moaning about the pain in his heart and his lost, beautiful daughter. At last, he lifted his bleary gaze to Iridian, and for a moment, they stared at each other. He looked terrible, ill. There were bags around his eyes, large and swollen. His hair, usually pomaded and carefully slicked back, was stuck into spikes as if he’d been trying to yank it from his scalp.

  His lips slid against each other. They puckered. He was trying to tell Iridian something, but he couldn’t get any words out. That was fine, because Iridian didn’t want to hear whatever it was he had to say. All she wanted was to get out of there.

  “Rosa,” she croaked.

  Rosa, the sister whose heart was crafted to ease the suffering of others, came forward, linked her arm with Iridian’s, and steered her away. When they were knitted together like this, Iridian felt safer. She didn’t even care about the dog’s bright blood transferring from Rosa’s skin onto hers.

  “I think I might’ve felt it,” Rosa whispered excitedly, as the two of them turned back to the house. “Its spirit.”

  “Where are you two going?” Jessica cried out, her voice going shrill. “Iridian, what the fuck? You can’t just leave me here with him!”

  But that’s exactly what Iridian was doing. She didn’t even spare a glance over her shoulder.

  “Iridian!” Jessica shouted. “Rosa! Get back here!”

  “I hate him,” Iridian said to Rosa, quietly, so only her sister could hear.

  “I know.”

  “We loved her, too. It’s like he’s forgotten that.”

  Rosa didn’t reply. The sisters kept walking, just the two of them, at a slow and steady pace back to their house.

  “I hate him,” Iridian repeated. “He doesn’t deserve our help.”

  “I know,” Rosa said.

  “Iridian!” Behind them, Jessica was nearly hysterical. “You fucking coward!”

  “Don’t pay attention to her.” Rosa leaned in. “Maybe just try to walk a little faster?”

  Jessica

  (Monday, June 10th)

  Jessica really had to hand it to her dad. He always tried so hard to make his apologies appear convincing. There was the way he’d start off by looking each of his daughters in the eye, but then duck his head down real quick as if he were just so overcome with emotion. Or there was the way the sides of his mouth would dip into a big-ass frown, the exaggerated kind that a clown would paint on his face. Or there was his voice, how it would get all wobbly, like a kid who tripped on a curb but wanted you to think he was pushed off a building or some shit.

  “Girls, listen,” Rafe said, staring down at the surface of the kitchen table. He’d even gone the extra mile and shaved that morning. A white strip of dried foam clung to his earlobe.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how I’d be when yesterday came around, and I wasn’t myself. As you saw.” He paused, took a breath, shook his head slowly, and started running his pointer finger down a long gouge in the wood. “You girls are my everything. You know that.”

  Jessica couldn’t help it. Her lower lip started to quiver.

  Iridian sat across the table with her arms folded, scowling at Jessica and scowling at Rafe. Rosa was also there, but she was distracted by something out in the backyard.

  “Do you see?” Rosa said softly. “It’s—”

  “I try to be a good father.” Rafe’s voice broke as he interrupted Rosa. “I am a good father, verdad?”

  “Yes,” Jessica replied, automatically.

  Rafe reached across the table for Jessica’s hand, and she let him take it. Iridian made a sound, a little cluck of disgust that their dad didn’t register.

  “This year—” He squinted at Jessica with bloodshot eyes. “This year will be different. I’ll change. I promise. I have a plan.”

  Jessica nodded, but the thing was, he’d said this exact same thing before, almost exactly one year ago.

  After Ana died, and after a brief but catastrophic mourning period, Rafe had emerged from his bedroom one day in the middle of July and had made a plan. To his credit, he’d short-term stuck to that plan. He’d gotten up early on Saturday mornings and helped the neighbors fix their cars and their fences and let them use his truck to haul away bulk trash. He didn’t go to the bar so much. He paid back a guy that he worked with who had lent him some money. He’d taken Rosa to church, and then to lunch, and then to the art museum. He’d bought Iridian a book. He’d told Jessica to invite a couple of her friends over for a cookout. He’d grilled up hot dogs and cobs of corn. They’d had an okay time.

  It didn’t last, though. By the end of summer, he was back to his old ways, breaking all kinds of promises. He said he was going to take his girls out for pizza, and then he forgot. He said he was going to be right over to give Jessica’s car a jump and then never showed up. Strange dudes started calling at all hours, asking to speak to Rafe, and then made Jessica and her sisters take down messages about “debts” and “payment for services rendered.” Those dudes had all said something like, “He knows what we’re talking about.” A couple of them, before they’d hung up, had asked the girls how old they were.

  Back at the breakfast table, Rafe coughed without covering his mouth.

  “Are you sick?” Jessica asked. “Do you want me to bring you something from work?”

  He shook his head and gave her hand a squeeze. His palm, was it too warm?

  “I’m alright.”

  “Are you sure? It’s not a prob—”

  “You should go, Dad,” Iridian said, interrupting. “It’s already after eight. You don’t want to be late again. Remember what you told us? About your boss? No more warnings.”