I pushed my chair from the table. “After Wendy told me her side of what happened in Santa Fe, I thought exile was good enough. I thought if I made sure she never came back, not to Seabank, not to this family and most clearly not to her daughters, we could struggle through this together. We would be okay. But we aren’t, Mom, we aren’t going to be okay. Not as long as she’s out there. Wendy is a murderer. And we can’t protect her one second longer.”

She stood up, towering over the table. “What are you going to do?”

I stood, too, my eyes filling with tears. “I’m going to call the sheriff in Santa Fe, and I’m going to tell him everything I know. Then I’m going to help him find Wendy. We can’t be the ones who decide who pays and how high a price.” I felt the tears running down my cheeks, but for the first time since this whole sad saga had begun, I knew that what I was doing was right.

I touched her arm. “I’m so sorry. I know you and Dad are going to hate me for this, but I have to stop her.”

As I watched, she tried to speak and couldn’t. I had never seen Arlie Gracey at a loss for words, but I understood. I had been at a loss for the right words, the right action, for weeks.

Finally she shook her head. “No, Ryan, you don’t.”

She held up her hand when I started to speak. “No, you don’t have to call and you don’t have to stop her.” Then she reached for me. I flinched, not knowing what to expect, but instead of a slap or a push, she folded me into her arms.

“You don’t have to make the call,” she said softly, “because I will.”

EPILOGUE

In the two months since I’d returned from Utah, all the furniture in the town house master bedroom had been replaced. I had not wanted to spend another night on the bed where Wendy had brought admirers, and without asking for an explanation, my mother had agreed that the room needed updating.

Gracey Group could easily have afforded a painter, but together Mom and I painted the walls a soft blue-green and furnished the room with bright, coastal pieces, finding comfort in working on the project together. Afterward I moved everything I still wanted from Delray Beach to the town house and gave everything else away. I was back in Seabank for good now, and new renters were already moving into my old digs.

The one thing I’d loved most in my duplex, I gave to Sophie’s oldest daughter. I could no longer bear looking at the painting of the two little girls on the beach at sunset. Was I reminded of Wendy and me? Wendy and Greta? It didn’t matter. Someday I would find and hang more of the same artist’s work, but I already had too many reminders of Wendy and always would.