He relaxes. “What about you? What do you want to do?”

“I don’t want to leave, either. I want to stay here. With you.” That night as I’m drifting off to sleep, my cell phone rings. At first I ignore it, let it go to voice mail, because I want to get into my dream and figure out who’s dead. But then it rings again. And again. Whoever it is won’t take no for an answer. Which makes me think it’s—

“Okay, Ange, this better be good, because it’s late and—”

“It’s Stanford!” She laughs, a wild happy laugh that I’ve never heard from her before.

“I’m going to Stanford, C. It was the trees—you were so brilliant to suggest I look at the trees.”

“Wow. Big league. That’s great, Ange.”

“I know, right? I mean, I was prepared for it to be anything, even if it was this dinky school that nobody’s ever heard of, because it’s my purpose and that’s more important, but Stanford’s like a school I’d kill to go to even without my purpose. So it’s perfect.”

“I’m happy for you.” At least I’m trying to be. I grew up near Stanford. It still feels like home.

“And there’s something else,” she says.

I brace myself for even more jolting news, like she already has a full-ride scholarship, or that a real-live angel, an Intangere, dropped off with a note for her, carefully detailing her purpose and everything she’s supposed to do at Stanford, a memo from heaven.

“Okay. What?” I ask when she doesn’t come out and tell me.

“I want you to go too.”

“Huh? When?”

“For college, silly. I’m going to Stanford, and I want you to be there with me.” Three a.m. No possibility of sleep. I’ve been thrashing in my blankets all night, unable to quiet all the crazy thoughts bouncing around my head. My mother being friends with a fallen angel. College plans. Christian. Purposes that last a hundred years. A flood that kills all the angel-bloods on earth. Angela wanting me to go to Stanford with her. Tucker staying here, always and forever. Ms. Baxter all hopeful and sweet and completely annoying. And somebody dying, let’s not forget. Somebody. And I still have no clue who.

Finally I get up and go downstairs. I’m surprised to find Mom sitting at the kitchen counter with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her hands circling a cup of tea like she’s using it for warmth. She glances up and smiles.

“Insomniacs of the world unite,” she says. “Want some tea?”

“Sure.”

I find the pot on the counter and pour myself a cup, locate cream and sugar, then stand there absently stirring it for way too long, until Mom asks, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I answer. “The usual. Oh—and Angela’s going to Stanford.” Her eyebrows lift. “Stanford. Impressive.”

“Well, she hasn’t even applied yet, but she thinks her purpose is going to happen there.”

“I see.”

“She wants me to go with her.” I laugh. “Like I could ever get into Stanford, right?”

“I don’t see why not,” she says with a frown. “You’re an excellent student.”

“Come on. It takes more than that, Mom. I know I have good grades, but for a school like that it takes . . . being president of the debate team or building houses for the homeless in Guatemala or acing my SATs. I hardly paid attention to my SATs. I haven’t done anything since I came to Wyoming.” I meet her eyes. “I was so obsessed with my purpose I hardly noticed anything else.”

She drinks her tea. Then she says, “Pity party over?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. Not good to wallow for too long. It’s bad for the complexion.” I make a face at her.

“You do have one big advantage when it comes to Stanford,” she says.

“Oh yeah? What?”

“Your grandmother went there, and she happens to donate a large sum of money to the university every year.”

I stare at her. My grandmother. I don’t have a grandmother. Mom’s mother died in childbirth back in like 1890.

“You mean Dad’s mom?” I’ve never heard anything about Dad’s mom. Neither of my parents have ever said much about their families.

“No,” Mom says with a small, knowing smile. “I mean me. In 1967 I graduated from Stanford with a degree in history. My name back then was Margot Whitfield. That, according to the official records, anyway, is your grandmother.”

“Margot Whitfield,” I repeat.

“That’s me.”

I shake my head incredulously. “You know, sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.”

“You don’t,” she admits easily, which catches me off guard. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you’ve lived several different lives, and each one of them is, in some ways, like a different person. A different version of yourself. Margot Whitfield is a stranger to you.” My thoughts shoot straight to Samjeeza and the way he calls my mom Meg, the image of her he carries around in his head, this smirking girl with cropped brown hair. Definitely a stranger.

“So what was she like, this Margot Whitfield?” I ask. “Nice name, by the way. Margot.”

“She was a free spirit,” Mom says. “A bit of a hippie, I’m afraid.” My brain instantly conjures an image of my mom in one of those flowy polyester dresses with the tiny sunglasses and daisies in her hair, swaying to the music at Woodstock, protesting the war.

“So did you do a lot of drugs?”

“No,” she says a bit defensively. “I had my rebellious stage, Clara. But it definitely wasn’t the sixties. More like the twenties.”

“Then why were you a hippie, if you weren’t rebelling?”

She hesitates. “I had a hard time with the conformity of the fifties.”

“What was your name in the fifties?”

“Marge,” she says with a laugh. “But I was never the fifties-housewife type.”

“Because you weren’t married.”

“Right.” She’d told me this. Early on I’d been nervous that maybe, given her age, she’d already been married a few times and had lots of kids out there, but she assured me this wasn’t the case.

“Did you ever almost get married?” Now this, I’ve never asked her. But she’s been pretty forthcoming recently, so I try my luck.