“Yeah. And, so here’s the kicker.” Izzy glanced toward Edie’s house, and there was a bit of longing in her gaze at the warmth that blazed from the windows. “Robert Twist was digging into it. Their deaths.”

“Oh.” She didn’t need Izzy to elaborate. “And look where that got him.”

Izzy grimaced. “It could still be unconnected.”

Maybe.

Or someone was desperate to keep the secrets of the past buried.

The warmth from the mug against Mia’s palms was just on the right side of bearable, and she pressed her hip bones into the counter as she stared out the kitchen window into the night.

There was an old swing set in the backyard that Mama had never taken down. The metal was rusted, and the chains hollered when any of the village kids used it.

Now it was blanketed with snow, the bottoms of the seats brushing against the windblown mounds that piled up beneath it. The white powder tumbled over the edges of the side each time a gust swept through, and the moonlight caught the glint of silver on the top bar. “Your father was so proud of himself that day,” Mama said from behind her, her voice pitched low. It was well after midnight, and Izzy was asleep just down the hall. She’d ducked into the den right when they’d walked into the house. Once again, Mia had taken her lack of questions as a gift and hadn’t done anything to break the silence herself.

“You refused to swing on it, though,” Mama continued. “Broke his little heart.”

Mia brought the cup to her lips. “I’m sure he recovered.”

She didn’t remember the day, didn’t really remember the swing set, either. She had never been one for metal when there was a whole forest to get lost in.

It must have been a thorn in her father’s side, though, a constant reminder that she was a disappointment, that his life was a disappointment. She wondered why he’d never taken it down. But people were funny that way. They picked at scabs to keep the wounds open and then were angry and confused when they still bled.

“Do you remember Asher that summer, Mama?” Mia asked, because she was no better than the rest of them. She scratched at scabs, too. “Did you ever suspect anything?”

“That he was sad?” Mama poured herself some hot water out of the kettle Mia had put on. “No. Especially not once that girl came around.”

That girl being Monroe Bell.

The first time Mia had met her, it had been at the lighthouse. The old building had long been out of use and so became the de facto hangout spot for the older teenagers during the summers. There was a patch of beach near the rocks at its base, and someone always had a bottle of something to pass around.