Maggie had spoken with pride of the long, expertly crafted table in the dining room, her grandfather’s handiwork. Off the dining room was a small, wood-paneled office, tall shelves crammed with crease-spined books. A sunroom at the side of the house was painted the same yellow as Maggie’s bedroom, with white wicker furniture and a porcelain tea set serving as a centerpiece on the table in the corner.

A bathroom, laundry room, and a mudroom at the back of the kitchen made up the rest of the first floor.

“We’ll just peek in the bedrooms,” Maggie said, stopping in front of the door closest to the bathroom. “I try to remember my kids are adults now and entitled to their privacy.”

“Oh, we really don’t have to—”

But Maggie had already inched open the first door, and without the woman even saying, Sydney guessed it must be Indi’s. Those few minutes in the dining room last night had revealed enough of the youngest Muir sister’s personality for Sydney to know the bright colors and chaotic array of scarves tied to one bedpost likely belonged to her.

“Indi is our resident artist,” Maggie explained. “I used to think she might leave us when she was grown—flit off to Paris or Rome, spend her life in pursuit of her art. But she surprised me. She turned her creative bent toward restoring vintage furniture and clothing and you name it. She owns a little shop in Muir Harbor and another in Augusta, splits her time between both. It’s why she’s usually gone several days a week. Even though she’s the youngest, she’s been with me the longest. I adopted her when she was a baby, you see, whereas Neil and Lilian came to me a little older.”

She wanted to ask for details but Maggie was already moving to Lilian’s door. They didn’t spend more than a few seconds there, just long enough for Sydney to take in its earthy tones of cool blues and greens and browns and note its cleanliness. Unlike Indi’s room, there wasn’t much—not that she’d seen in her quick glimpse, anyway—that revealed anything personal about Lilian.

Then again, perhaps the sparse décor and lack of knickknacks or framed photos were, in and of themselves, a revelation. Lilian had certainly seemed no-nonsense last night. Straightforward but also graceful, almost refined.

When Maggie opened a third door across the hall, Sydney immediately caught a whiff of a scent she recognized—a blending of lumber and peppermint. Yesterday. The bathroom.

This, then, was Neil’s room, which was only logical considering he was the last sibling left. A dark blue comforter adorned the bed, four mahogany bedposts at the corners, a red-and-black-checkered shirt draped over one of them.

“He must’ve known I’d give you a look,” Maggie said with a light laugh. “He actually made his bed for once.”

So many questions crowded in then. Not about Diana or JP or even whether or not she belonged here, but about these three siblings. About how old Neil and Lilian had been when they’d come to live here. About what kept them living at home this far into adulthood.