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My father gave me his dark eyes and the shape of his nose. What else could he have given me?

Dr. Serrano takes a seat in his chair, spins to face me. “I’m not sure I’d say very, but there is more of a chance than if the parent didn’t have a mental illness, yes. Some disorders are likelier than others to have a genetic link: bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, major depression, ADHD. We were specifically studying bipolar and schizophrenia. But of course, mental illness is caused by a variety of factors, not all of them genetic. Environmental factors, life history, substance abuse, various social issues.”

“Right. Nature versus nurture,” I say stupidly, but he nods.

“It’s not a foregone conclusion that a child will develop a parent’s illness,” he says. “Depending on the disorder, sometimes it could be a one percent chance compared to a ten percent chance. Those aren’t exact numbers, but just to give you a ballpark.” Then he gives me a warm smile. “I could get you notes from the whole study if you’d like to read them.”

“Yes.” My response is immediate. “Please.”

“There’s an undergrad psych club that meets here on Thursdays you might be interested in too,” he adds, and for that, I can only give a maybe.

Even if his notes can’t give me precise answers, they might lead me to a place I’ve been silently scared of ever since that horrible night eight years ago, and so many nights since.

They could mean whatever my dad has—if there is indeed something undiagnosed there—I am more likely to develop it, simply because of the DNA we share.

That Natalie is, too.

* * *

Back in our room, Skyler’s at his desk, squinting at his laptop and tossing a foam football up and down.

“Hey,” he says, greeting me with a nod. “Were you studying for psych? Did Adhira say anything about me?”

And maybe it’s Dr. Serrano’s research burning a hole in my inbox. Maybe it’s my lack of confidence in the major I used to be certain about. Maybe it’s the fact that my eyelids are drooping and it’s only six o’clock but my bed is the only place I want to be right now.

But for whatever reason, Skyler’s question pinches the wrong nerve, like skin rubbed hard against sandpaper. Against a fucking cactus.

“It’s not my job to memorize every single thing Adhira says,” I snap, shutting the door a little too loud behind me.

The words are all steel, rough on my tongue, and at first I don’t even recognize them coming out of my mouth. I don’t talk like this. Even when my sister and I squabbled, rare dumb arguments about nothing in particular, I never had such—such malice in my voice.

Skyler catches the football. Holds it. “Whoa whoa whoa. It was just a question.”

A few deep breaths, and then I can respond like myself.

“No—I’m sorry.” I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, the regret sinking in. Skyler has only ever been kind and generous toward me. It’s the least I can do to help him out with Adhira. “I was working on some research with a professor. I didn’t see her today.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry I asked.” But Skyler’s voice has turned chilly. Then he nods toward my desk. “Checked the mail earlier. That letter came for you today.”

I pick up the nondescript white envelope. Turn it over.

The return address blurs everything else around me, bending the room until I’m no longer certain where I am.

Washington State Penitentiary.

No. It’s just not possible.

Somehow, I move toward the desk, my backpack sliding to the floor with a soft thud as I close a fist around the envelope. My heart is in my throat and my stomach is at my feet and my lungs are in another fucking country. Maybe it’s something else—a request for a donation. An update about a renovation. Junk mail.

Ridiculous, every option.

“Neil?” Skyler’s saying, at least I think he is. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Must have been the wrong address. I should… go sort that out with the RA.”

I stumble out of the room, the letter trembling in my hand.

He found my address. How the hell did he find my address?