I’d never thought of Wendy as someone who had been wounded. But surely Greta Harold’s death had changed her. Maybe she didn’t trust a world where bad things happened for no reason, and that was, at least in some small part, the reason she was afraid to trust the authorities now.

Whatever part Greta’s death had played in making her the woman she was, I felt closer to her. My sister’s childhood and adolescence had never been as trouble-free as I had imagined. More than ever, I wanted to help her set her world back to rights. Wendy deserved a happy ending. I just hoped I could help her find one.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

My life was falling into a pattern. Where once I’d pondered sound engineering and how much of our story to reveal in episodes of Out in the Cold, now I thought about ways to keep my nieces busy and how to sneak vegetables into whatever I cooked for dinner.

Some unseen hand had flicked a switch, and suddenly my career train had been mysteriously routed to the Mommy track, with an unknown destination ahead.

On Monday, as I stood in my local Publix grocery store evaluating the relative cost of tomatoes, I had to admit I was enjoying parts of my odd new life. Now that Holly and Noelle were slowly warming up to me, life in the town house was actually fun at times.

On Saturday night after leaving my parents’ house, the girls and I had taken Bismarck for an evening walk and admired the Christmas decorations on neighbors’ houses. Tropicana was coming alive, and to prove it, the residents flocking here for the winter were trying to outdo each other with elaborate Florida-themed light displays. Mrs. Santa in a bikini. Reindeer frolicking with dolphins. Today I’d promised we would visit the local discount store so they could pick out decorations for the front door and lights for the podocarpus at the front of the house.

Secretly I hoped if my mysterious wrestling partner returned, he would trip over our electric cords and sprawl helplessly until I could sic Bismarck on him.

I chose my tomatoes and went to put them in my cart when I spotted a familiar face. An attractive silver-haired woman in a navy shift and jacket was coming toward me. She stopped when she recognized me, and I beamed a welcome.

For most of the years of my life, Ella Cramer had been my father’s right hand. As a preschooler, I’d perched on her lap, swinging my legs while she taught me to type my name on her computer keyboard. Ella had helped my mother plan every staff Christmas party, and she’d always baked special cookies, just for me. Now I could almost taste them, buttery turtles with pecan legs and chocolate shells, and I wondered if she’d share the recipe.

I moved around the cart to intercept her. “It’s so good to see you!”

Her smile was tight, and strangely unwelcoming. “Ryan.” She nodded.