I’ve lived a good many years, and seen a good many things, and one thing I know to be true is that we are all scarred, all broken in our own way. Some of us may break more quietly than others, but break we all do, when this world dishes out its worst. It’s part of the journey we all came here to make, the stings and losses all part of our walk. But we can rise above those wounds if we choose. If we’re willing to let down our guard, to look beyond the flaws and the shortcomings, to what lies beneath. It’s easier to be prickly than to be vulnerable, to distract with harsh words rather than show our bruises. But we must do the hard things. That is the work of healing.
All this time, while you’ve been reading this, you’ve been thinking of Rhanna, of her flaws and her shortcomings. But I speak of you too, my Lizzy. You must let down your guard. The time will come when Rhanna will need you—and you will need her. You can’t imagine this now, I know, because of the gulf that’s always existed between you, but the day will come, perhaps sooner than you think, and when it does, you’ll finally understand—there is no quarrel sharp enough to sever the bonds of blood.
A—
TWENTY-EIGHT
August 10
Lizzy ran her hands through her hair, checking for cobwebs as she came down the stairs. She had awakened early to gloomy skies and a drenching rain, still brooding over Althea’s latest journal entry. It had seemed like a perfect day to hide out in the attic and sort through another round of dusty boxes.
Most of it had been unremarkable—linens, cookware, old rugs, and unused lamps. But there’d been a few interesting finds too: a set of scrapbooks belonging to Althea’s mother, Aurore; a crate of salt-glazed pottery that had almost certainly been thrown by Dorothée Moon; and a sketchbook of botanical prints signed by Sylvie Moon.
So many lives. So many stories. But what was she supposed to do with it all?
She was still mulling her options as she wandered into the kitchen, ready for coffee and some toast. Evvie was up and sitting at the table, repairing the pocket of a faded chintz apron.
“Morning,” she mumbled through a mouthful of straight pins. “Where’ve you been?”
“The attic.” Lizzy turned on the tap and scrubbed the grit from her hands, then measured out coffee and filled the carafe with water. “You want tea?”
“Rather have my paper from off the stoop if it hasn’t disintegrated in all this rain.”
“I might actually be able to manage both. It looks like the rain’s let up.”
Lizzy put the kettle on and padded to the foyer. It had stopped raining, but the distant growl of thunder hinted at a fresh round of storms. She scooped up the Chronicle in its sopping plastic bag and gave it a shake, then straightened when she saw a silver Camry crawling up the drive. It stopped near the top and the engine went quiet. A moment later, the driver’s door opened and a rangy figure in khakis and a navy blazer emerged. Roger.
He raised a hand as she approached. “Morning.”
Lizzy managed a smile, but her mind was whirring. Where was Rhanna, and how would she explain Roger’s presence if she happened to turn up? But more intriguing was the possibility that he came because he’d found something.
“I hope this means you have some news for me.”
“Afraid not. I had breakfast with an old friend, and he told me about the fire. What happened?”
Lizzy tucked the wet newspaper bag under her arm and leaned a hip against the Camry’s fender. “I woke up and smelled smoke. When I looked out the window, I saw flames.”
“And?”
“And they don’t think it was an accident,” she added grudgingly.
“That’s what I was afraid of. There was evidence?”
“A couple of milk bottles that were apparently filled with kerosene.”
Roger pulled a pen and notepad from his blazer pocket and scribbled something down. When he looked up again, his face was set. “You understand what’s happening, right? The note. Now the fire?”
“Yeah. I get it.”
“Any thoughts on who might be behind it?”
“No, but I’ve obviously gotten under someone’s skin. A few days before the fire, I went to see a woman who works at the high school—Mrs. Ryerson. I thought she might remember some of the kids Heather Gilman hung around with. It’s possible that whoever set the fire knows I spoke to her—and wants me to know they know.”
“Right. I’ll touch base with Guy McCardle, see what he knows.”
Lizzy squinted at him. “So you’re officially working the case now?”
“Officially? No. But yes. I’m not calling it a case—yet—but it is something.”
“What about your notes? Any luck there?”
“I’m going through them when I can, but I’ve been in and out of town with work.” He paused to scribble in his notebook again. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to back off for a while, and leave the sleuthing to me?”
“I’ve talked to one of Heather’s friends, Mrs. Ryerson from the cafeteria, Susan Gilman, and Fred Gilman, and all I can say for sure is that the Gilmans were in no danger of winning family of the year. Short of going door to door, I honestly don’t know where to go next, so by all means sleuth away.”
“Good then. I’ll be in touch.” He walked back around to the driver’s side but paused before getting in. “Do me a favor and keep your eyes open. So far, no one’s been hurt. You might not be so lucky next time.”
Lizzy suppressed a shudder as she turned back toward the house. She didn’t want to think about a next time.
Inside, the kettle had begun to hiss. She stripped the Chronicle out
