“Yes,” Alexis said, but she must have said it with a bit too much gusto, because Mariana narrowed her eyes.

“Anything you need to talk about?”

“Nothing a good yoga session can’t work out,” Alexis said, carefully sidestepping both the question and the questioner. “I’m going to say hello to some people.”

Alexis greeted a few of the regulars, introduced herself to the new ones, and then took her place on a mat in the front row. She always saved the last row for folks who weren’t yet ready to be fully seen. It took confidence just to show up sometimes, and even though the class was meant for yoga beginners of all fitness levels and all shapes, it could still be disconcerting to women who were there for the first time to practice a downward dog in front of a room full of strangers.

It was still hard for Alexis sometimes. She felt exposed every day of her life. Not as much as when she first came forward with the truth about Royce, but the anxiety was still there. When she went to the grocery store. When she met new people. When strangers stared at her on the street. She’d catch someone looking at her as if trying to place her face, and her first instinct was to turn and hide from scrutiny. Holding your head up high was easier said than done when your face had been front-page news around the country.

“Okay, friends, are we ready to reclaim our power?”

The class answered her with a murmured yes, so Mariana repeated the question. This time, the women responded with a more resounding confirmation.

“We have some new faces with us tonight. We welcome you in peace and healing.”

A murmur of quiet greetings rose in response.

“Let’s start in Sukhasana pose tonight as we state our affirmations.”

The women matched her cross-legged pose on the floor, letting their hands drape across their knees.

“I am strong,” Mariana said.

The women repeated it.

“Tonight, I reclaim my power . . . my body . . . my strength . . .”

Alexis closed her eyes and repeated the words, needing them more than she had in a long time. Though she was used to Karen’s petty complaints, today’s visit was especially annoying because she had chased off Candi. But Alexis soon lost herself in the flow of body, the connection of mind and spirit. The healing power of stretching and pushing her body.

Mariana led them through each pose with calm instructions and encouragement, stopping here and there to assist a newcomer with their body alignment, only putting her hands on them after asking permission to touch them. That was one of the most important aspects of the class—claiming ownership of their bodies once again. Taking back what was once stolen from them.

There was no trauma competition in this room with these women. No one’s suffering measured against another’s for its devastation or its scope. Every person here had been violated and silenced, and every woman had made the decision to find their voice again.

About ten minutes before the end of the class, the soft scuff of the door against the floor drew Alexis’s gaze over her shoulder. She stumbled in her tree pose. Candi stood wide-eyed and red-cheeked in the door as twenty faces turned to look at her.

“I’m sorry . . .” she stammered, hugging a large black bag to her side. “I didn’t know this was . . . I’m sorry.”

“No apologies, love,” Mariana said. “Please join us. Everyone is welcome.”

“I’ll come back,” Candi said, stumbling backward.

Alexis tiptoed out of her line. “Please stay,” she said in an urgent hush. “We can talk in my office, if you’d like.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Candi whispered. “I didn’t know you were having a class tonight.”

“It’s okay. We’re almost done.” Alexis darted another glance at the class, which had clearly lost its collective concentration. “Let’s go in my office.”

Candi worried her bottom lip with her teeth but finally nodded. She walked with her head down like a kid being marched to the principal’s office as she followed Alexis through the café, behind the counter, and into the kitchen. The thwap-thwap of the swinging door was as loud as a firecracker in the otherwise quiet room.

Alexis led her to her closet-size office and motioned to the chair wedged against the wall. “It’s small, I know. But would you like to sit?”

Candi stood indecisively in the minuscule space between the desk and the door. Finally, she dropped into the chair but remained perched on the edge, one knee bopping up and down as she gnawed at her lower lip. “That’s really cool. The yoga class.”

Alexis nodded, sitting in her own chair. “It’s been very successful.”

“So all those women were, I mean, are—”

“Survivors of sexual violence or harassment, yes.”

“Wow. That’s terrible.”

Alexis heard that refrain a lot, and she had the same response every time. “It’s terrible what was done to them, but what they’re doing tonight is a wonderful way to take back their power.”

Candi swallowed hard.

“You’re not alone, Candi.”

“I— no.” Candi shook her head. She opened and closed her mouth twice before finally letting out a frustrated breath. “I’m not here about that. I mean, I’m not a . . . a—”

“A survivor?”

“Right. I’m not here to talk to you about that.”

Alexis tilted her head, struck again with the fleeting sense of familiarity. “Are you sure we’ve never met before?”

“You said it’s my eyes,” Candi said. “My eyes look familiar.”

Alexis looked more closely. She was right. They shared the same golden, green-flecked irises rimmed by a darker brown. Inside her, the fleeting sense of familiarity gave way to a more urgent surge of alarm. Alexis had always been told how unique the colors of her eyes were, but this was like suddenly looking into a mirror. How had she failed to notice it before?

“You see it, don’t you?” Candi asked, breathless now. “The similarity. I noticed it the first time I saw you at the counter. That’s how I knew it was true.”

Alarm became a near-panic. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about—”

“We’re sisters.”

Alexis heard the words, but their meaning was so ridiculous that her brain blocked them from registering. She puffed out a small, desperate laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”

Candi’s face took on the soft sympathy that Alexis was used to projecting at other women, and when she spoke, Candi’s voice now carried the same keep-it-light quality that Alexis had just employed against her. “You never knew your father, did you?”

Alexis stood so abruptly that she shook her desk and sent her pencil cup spilling across the floor. “I’m sorry. Y-You’re mistaken. I don’t have any siblings.”

“None that you’ve ever met.”

“That’s absurd.”

Except it wasn’t. Not entirely. Candi was right; Alexis had never known her father. So the chances that the mystery man had gone on to produce other children after abandoning her mother were high. She’d wondered about it—him—from time to time over the years, but she’d never pursued it because why bother? What good would it do to know? He’d never been part of her life and never would. Her mother had been enough.

“My father’s name is Elliott Vanderpool,” Candi said.

Alexis backed up until her desk chair collided with the wall.

“You know that name, don’t you?”

“No,” Alexis lied, stepping over the rungs of the chair. Her shoelace caught, and she stumbled. She grabbed the edge of her desk to steady herself.

“He’s your father too,” Candi said.

“No, I—I don’t think that’s possible,” Alexis said in a voice she barely recognized. “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. It’s a mistake.”

“I know this is a shock.”

A shock? Alexis would have laughed at the understatement of the century if she could process any other emotion besides numbness. She wanted to run away—not just from Candi but from the rising panic in the back of her mind telling her to escape. But her feet wouldn’t move. She was rooted as firmly as the creeping vine out front. At least the vine had something to cling to.

“I have the DNA to prove it,” Candi said.

Alexis focused her gaze. “How do you have my DNA?”

“You took one of those ancestry test things a couple of years ago.”

Oh, God. Alexis covered her mouth with her hand and turned around. It had been an impulsive act. A weak moment while her mother was sick. A fleeting urge to connect with her roots before her one and only anchor to the Earth was gone. But when the results came back, she learned nothing she hadn’t already known—that she was one hundred percent Eastern European and zero percent descended from anyone historically significant. She’d shoved the results in a drawer and never looked at them again.

“I took one too,” Candi was saying from somewhere far away. “And you came back as a possible sibling match.”

Alexis searched her brain for words. “Those tests can be wrong.”

“Alexis, our eyes are the same.” Candi’s shoes scuffed closer as she stood. “You have a brother too. His name is Cayden. And two nieces, Grace and Hannah. And a sister-in-law named Jenny. And an aunt and uncle—”

“Stop,” Alexis choked. Air became poison in her lungs. She tried to exhale but couldn’t.

“There’s something else,” Candi said, tone fading from gently reassuring to preemptively apologetic.

Alexis forced herself to look at Candi, whose features had settled again into the shy hesitance. “Our father is sick.”

Alexis barely had time to react to the phrase our father before she registered the two words that followed it. “How—what kind of sick?”