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“Oh, no. Not that long.”

“A few days?” Emma persists. “Three, four?”

“Yeah. No more than that.” He levels his stare, at once driving it straight at her. “Again, dear one, why?”

Emma works her lips against each other. Works her fingertips against her palms with the same nervousness. But she’s calmer as soon as she darts a glance at me and I’m ready with a reassuring nod. We’re still sharing the same mind, and that’s becoming a good thing.

“You…errrmmm…may want to sit down for this,” she finally tells her father. “I’m serious, Dad. Sit.”

Todd complies, bracing himself against an arm of the sofa, but not without looking like he’s preparing to hear something freaky. Can’t say I blame the guy. But he’s rapidly become an expert on freaky and shows it by handling Emma’s hasty but thorough report of everything that’s gone down since the earthquake. Well, almost everything. I’m relieved when she leaves out the part about Atticus Scorpio and his three musketeers being literally camped out in the front driveway. Since she still notes that Foley’s been calling in favors from his Special Forces buddies, I assume—and hope—that Todd writes off the motorhomes as accommodations for the extra houseguests.

By the time she’s finished, the man is pinging a careful frown between his daughter and me. At last he murmurs, slowly but steadily, “So, you’re thinking that the twins’ freedom from Faline’s control also means the bitch’s ‘big spell’ is starting to wane?”

“That her hold over all those minds is slipping,” Emma summarizes. Her nod is vigorous, full of excited energy. “Yes, Dad. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.” She snaps her sparkling gaze my way, and I’m ready with another cocky smile. “Exactly what we’re thinking.”

Securing his hands on the sofa’s arm, Todd leans forward. His jaw is jutted, but his stare is filled with commitment. “It makes sense,” he finally concedes. “Or as much sense as any of this shit does.” A full breath in, followed by his significant exhalation. “So…what now?”

It’s as good a cue as any to reinsert myself into the exchange. “I think we all wait and observe.”

“Closely,” Emma adds.

“And carefully.” I jog my chin toward my father-in-law. “Theoretically, you’re even closer to the fray than we are at this point. Don’t put yourself in any danger.”

He dips an efficient nod. “Noted.”

“Any danger over what?”

The interruption, as breezy as an entrance from Scarlett O’Hara, has the three of us visibly hiding spooked-cat jumps to the ceiling. I’m pleased but a little perplexed to observe that Todd’s the most accomplished at the feat, as he glides to his feet with the roguish grace of her Rhett Butler.

“I was just telling them about the new chandelier we were looking at for the formal dining room, dear.”

And lies to his wife with polished panache to match.

But the panache might not be enough, proved by Laurel’s answering scowl.

A moment that takes my brain into a new skirmish of dread versus joy.

Her suspicions could lead to trouble for Todd. But her suspicions could also mark trouble for Faline.

Well, shit.

“We’ve got bigger things to worry about than the chandelier.” It’s more of the old Laurel—a lot more—as she concludes with a huff and impales her husband with a glare. “Did you know that some plants are actually trying to kill us, Todd? Anya gave me a list. I’ll need to go through the cupboards and toss some things out. And we need an Instant Pot. Immediately.”

Todd blinks. Then again before trading another knowing glance with Emma and me. Through the last year, she and I have coped with Faline’s mind control by coming up with ridiculous nicknames for it—everything from “Faline’s magic mind shell” to “Fa-Fa’s psychedelic submarine” to “the bitch’s loony rave.” Well, now the shell is cracking, the submarine is sinking, and the rave has lost its DJs. They’ve been given their lives back. The party’s over.

Only now, we just have to worry if Faline’s going to be the drunk girl who slinks home to sleep it off or comes at the cops with a couple of knives in hand.

I don’t want to think about the option to which my mind naturally gravitates.

Fortunately, there’s a real party wrap-up to keep me distracted for the next few minutes.

“Well.” Laurel adjusts her light sweater and strokes a hand across her Fendi purse. The bag is obviously brand-new, since I don’t recognize the line right away. I’m not as current about that shit now that there’s not a woman in my life begging me for it. “Maybe next time, we’ll be fortunate enough to catch our grandson when he’s home.”

I admire Emma for maintaining her sweet smile in the face of her mother’s sly denunciation. On the other hand, it’s an authentic dose of Laurel-style nastiness. Old times have never felt more awesome to embrace. “Well”—her heartfelt smash of a hug to Laurel communicates as much—“maybe next time you can give us a few hours’ notice so we can really roll out the welcome wagon.”

By the time they’re done with the clinch, Laurel’s back to wearing a dreamy Fa-Fa grin. She even fingers the bottom of Emma’s messy ponytail and tinkles out a playful laugh. “Next time, my lovely girl, we’ll do just that. Perhaps make a weekend out of it. I do hope Lukie still loves the beach?”

“More than ever. And yeah…that would be nice.” Emma’s reverted back to the full clench of her forced smile—though no superpower on earth can make her stow the conflict in her eyes. The vacillation continues as we walk Todd and Laurel out to the front drive, waving until their Lexus disappears around the curve of the road.