I wanted to tell my mother first. Telling her would be bad enough, but what would happen when we told Dad? Dale Gracey was a man who took charge, yet throughout the weeks of Wendy’s absence, he had stepped back. Part of his reaction could be explained by surgery, and the depression that sometimes followed. Dad had suffered from fatigue and anxiety, as well, but none of those things could explain why he hadn’t immediately demanded we find Wendy or let a professional do it.

Had my father really wanted to know where his older daughter was? Or had he, who had worked hand in hand with her, sensed the truth and been too sick or loyal to confront it?

The news that Wendy had murdered a man and was now on the run would be cataclysmic. But would it be a surprise? I was no longer sure.

I buzzed past the security gatehouse, just missing the arm as it rose to allow me through. Even so, once I’d parked in front of my parents’ house, I stayed in my car, wondering if this would be the last time I visited here. When I drove away this afternoon, I wasn’t sure if I would ever be welcomed back into our family again.

When I finally walked up to the porch, the cleaning woman was just leaving. She held open the door so I could enter without knocking, and I thanked her, but not by name. She was another in my mother’s endless chain of women who would never clean as well as she did.

I found Mom by the pool, staring at the gulf. Dad was nowhere in sight.

She turned when she heard my footsteps and got to her feet. “I didn’t know you were back yet. You didn’t call.”

“There was nothing I could say on the phone.”

She took in my expression, my posture, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Is Wendy...dead?”

I shook my head and found myself wishing it were that easy. In contrast to what we faced now, how wonderful would it be to mourn the woman we’d thought we knew, the perfect daughter, the sister who had given me thoughtful gifts, the young mother and career woman raising girls and expertly handling all the pressures of a life with a husband so often at sea.

Now, we would never be able to mourn that woman, because she had never existed.

I rested my hand on her shoulder. “Mom, this is really bad news.”

She stared out at the water. Then she turned. “Tell me while we walk.”

I slipped my arm through hers, and once we were on the beach, I did.

Almost an hour later we sat staring at mugs of tea that had grown cold without either of us taking a sip.

“I didn’t tell you everything.” I looked up. “You still have doubts she’s guilty, don’t you?”

“She’s my daughter.”

“I know.” I stirred my tea, even though there was no sugar, lemon or milk in it.