My phone buzzed with a text, and I glanced at the sender: Ryann Merlin. Part of me had expected it to be from Wyatt, given his stalkerish tendencies, like how he’d known my name, but I was relieved to see my foster sister’s name on the screen instead. Her text read, “Coffee at St. Clair’s Café in 20?” I responded with a resounding “Yes!” The distraction would be nice. Plus, I had errands to run near her house—our parents’ house, I should say—and I figured it would be a good time to catch up. Not that I could tell her about the whole bucket of weird I’d been dealing with, but she was a familiar, friendly face and had this way of soothing me like no one else could.
When I got to the café, Ryann was already there, waiting patiently beneath the signature red awning. Standing one head shorter
