“Want me to come with you?” Oliver offered from behind me, but I shook my head. I needed to do this alone.

My mother picked up even before I heard a ring. “Who is this?” she asked instead of hello. A charmer, through and through, my mother. Even with those three words—“Who is this?”—I could hear the booze in her voice.

“It’s me,” I said. “Morgan.”

“What’s this number you’re calling from?” she asked. “It’s not your usual number at the prison.”

“I’m out. I’m just calling becau—”

“You’re out?” She sounded surprised. “Are you coming home?”

“I’m not coming home,” I said. “I just need to speak to Dad for a minute. Is he there?”

“Yeah, he’s here, but talk to me. How come they let you out? Why aren’t you coming—”

“Put him on, please.” I would not get sucked into my mother’s weird games and guilt-tripping. I was twenty-two years old. An adult. I could live wherever I pleased.

My mother hesitated. I heard the clink of ice in her glass. Heard her swallow.

“I need to talk to him,” I said again. “Please put him on.”

“Hold on,” she said with a sigh.

I pictured her shuffling through the house toward my father’s office. She was probably still in her robe, although it was nearly evening. I cringed at the memory of the house. The air would be filled with the scent of cigarettes and booze and whatever was crusted on last night’s dishes in the sink.

“Morgan!” My father shouted in my ear and I quickly adjusted the volume on my phone. “What’s this about you being a free woman?”

“I have a question for you,” I said.

“What’s that, honey?” He could always suck me in with that “honey” crap. Not this time.

“Where was Grampa Christopher born?”

“What?” He laughed. “You just get out of jail and that’s the first thing you want to know?”

“Please just tell me.”

“Edenton. Why?”

I shut my eyes, the truth dropping on me like a boulder. For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

“What color was his hair when he was young?” I asked finally.

“Morgan, I don’t under—”

“What color?” My thumb was already on the button that would end the call.

“Red,” he said. “People called him ‘Red’ when he was a kid, and even—”

“Thanks, Dad.” I turned off my phone so he couldn’t call me back, then stood stock-still, staring out the rear door of the gallery at the lush shrubbery that lined the property.

I was Martin Drapple’s great-granddaughter. The thought made me nauseous. But I was Judith’s, too. I would focus on that.

“I’m Anna Dale’s great-granddaughter,” I whispered to myself. “I saved my great-grandmother’s mural.”