“Olivia, dear.” My mother’s voice slides through the speaker, too saccharine-sweet for my sour mood. “How are you?”
I blink, momentarily disoriented. My mother doesn’t call to ask how I am. She calls to inform me of fundraisers I should attend, connections I should make, or—most recently—how Walsh’s latest achievement has brought even more shame to my family name.
“I’m… fine. Is everything okay?” I straighten in my chair, immediately on alert.
“Can’t a mother call her daughter without an emergency?” She laughs. That’s weird in its own right—my mother would never lose control of herself enough to actually laugh. “I was thinking about you. How was your day?”
Call Area 51, because we’ve got a case of body snatchers.
My mother is calling to check on me at—I check the time—10:39 P.M.? That
