“I’ll come in in a minute.”

She clears her throat, pulls on the hem of her Vera Wang dress. “I know this is hard, especially with everyone from back home here.”

“They won’t say anything, will they?” My heart is in my throat.

“No, Molly. You know that. They know better.” Dad has made it clear for years that when they’re here in Graybridge, the past is totally off-limits, but I still worry.

I take a deep breath and watch the snowflakes.

“Don’t you think it would be a good idea for you to talk to someone?” Corrine says.

I know what she means by this euphemism. I’ve spent half my life in therapy. “Probably.”

“Does Elise know?”

I shake my head. “No one here knows, Corrine. No one except Jay, and that’s the way I want it. That was the reason we moved to Graybridge, wasn’t it? So that we could live a normal life. So that no one knew who I was.” I can’t bring myself to say it, the moniker given to me by the media. The girl in the cellar.

“Yes, of course. But now that Jay . . .”

“I’ll ask Elise for a referral. I’ll tell her that I need help with Jay’s death.” Which I do, but I’m not convinced that therapy is going to help anymore. Like I’ve run out of sessions. Like I’ve had my share. Time to accept my life as it is. For the past five years I’ve had Jay to talk to, to hold me in the night when I had a bad dream, to dry my tears when something triggered a memory. But now that he’s gone, I’m alone and will have to carry on by myself if I’m to survive.

Corrine takes my hands in hers. “You’re freezing, Molly. Let’s go inside.”

I rise with her, and she puts her arm around my shoulders. She’s a good big sister, really. Her past is twined with mine, and it hasn’t been easy for her either.

CHAPTER 23

Rita

I DIDN’T FEEL LIKE SWINGING BACK BY MY APARTMENT TO CHANGE MY clothes, so I show up at the station in my funeral attire. As I wend my way back to my office, I nearly bump into Doug Schmitt, the other lead detective in our department.

“Hey, Rita. Nice dress.”

“Gee, thanks, Doug. I almost look as fashionable as you do.” He stands like a GQ model in his dark tailored suit, holding a cup of coffee. Doug’s big on appearances, as though his favorite part of the job is trying to look like some suave movie detective. He starts to walk with me as I make my way down the hall.

“Heard you’ve got a homicide cooking,” he says.

“It looks that way.”

He comes to a stop at his office door, sips his coffee. “Why does everything interesting happen when I’m not here?”

“Next time we’ll be sure to schedule a murder for after you get back from vacation.”