“We have,” I say with an exaggerated flourish that I hope suggests tourist glee. “How much do I owe you?” Since he hasn’t connected the final dots, I search my wallet for cash, rather than handing over my credit card with a neon ALDISS emblazoned on the front.

While Joy dives into her sweatshirt, I hand over a fifty and, leaving my hand waiting for change, half turn to watch her dance to the front of the store.

“First time?” he asks as I pocket the change.

Risking rudeness, I simply lose myself in my own sweatshirt. Good to look like every other tourist, right? By the time I join Joy on the sidewalk, my sunglasses are in place. What I see through them, though, brings me to a dead halt.

It’s a ghost not ten feet away and closing in.

But no. The image in my mind is of a woman who, had she lived, would have been in her late sixties. This girl may have the same blond hair and gray eyes, the same tall, athletic build, but she can’t be twenty yet.

So no, this person isn’t Elizabeth MacKay. It’s just the power of suggestion in my nostalgic mind, active now that I’m back here for the first time in so long.

The girl smiles—a different smile, I see—and passes us by.

Then my phone rings, and Anne’s name lights up the screen.

Chapter 4

In the space of a heartbeat, I wonder why my sister is calling at this very minute—whether someone did recognize me, even the man with the camera—and why didn’t I play it safe and go to the house first? But Joy wanted to stop.

Nope. Can’t blame Joy. I wanted to stop, too.

And besides, it’s done.

“Hey, Annie,” I say casually and brace for her dismay.

Her voice is muted but urgent, and not the words I expected. “Dad fell. He was climbing the ladder to get something from the attic and lost his footing. I’ve told him those steps aren’t safe. I’ve told him so many times that I can get things from the attic for him, all he needs to do is to ask. But he doesn’t listen. When did he ever listen? He is the most stubborn man—”

“Was he hurt?” I interrupt to ask, and Joy moves closer.

“Broken wrist. It’s a simple break, and at least it’s his left arm, so he can still write and brush his teeth and feed himself. Can you imagine if it’d been his right? I suppose it wouldn’t have been that big a deal, just someone coming in to help him do those things while I’m gone. But his balance isn’t good, Mal. I hear this from tons of people whose parents are starting to age.”

I defer the aging issue. “Have they set it?”