Izzy’s lips parted, a question in her sharp gaze. But after catching Mia’s eyes, she swallowed whatever she had been about to ask.

Mia was thankful. It wouldn’t do well to remind Mama there was an outsider with them.

“Who took it over?”

There was a pause. And then Mama stripped off her washing gloves, slapping them against the counter. She turned, thick arms folded across her barrel chest. Mia didn’t know what was coming, but she knew she wasn’t going to like it.

“Lacey Bell moved in about three years ago,” Mama finally said.

Mia inhaled, the swift slide of air passing her chapped lips loud enough to catch Izzy’s attention. “Lacey came back?”

Her mother’s eyes were hooded, any thoughts there protected by a sweep of lashes. “Three years ago,” she repeated.

Sliding a finger against the rim of her mug kept Mia’s hand busy so that it wouldn’t find the faded white scar along her wrist.

Once upon a time Lacey Bell had sworn she was never returning to St. Lucy’s. Mia could see her still, her eyes wet, her glossy black hair tangled around her red, splotchy face.

“What does she do now?” Mia asked, bereft of any other questions from the sheer shock of it.

For the first time since they’d started the conversation, Mama’s face relaxed, her lips pulling back in amused derision.

“She’s an artist.” Mama made quotes around the last word. “You ask me, she’s lucky she’s rich.”

“Does she actually sell anything?”

Shrugging, Mama turned back to the sink, the tension that had held them locked in the moment fading from her stance. “She was featured in a fancy art magazine a few months back. Still runs those hippie communities in the summer.”

“Really?” Mia asked, surprised. “Lacey started them again? The residencies.”

Mama grunted her affirmative. She’d never been a fan of the artists who flooded in during the warmer months.

“Are there any up there now?”

“One or two cycle through,” Mama said after a pause that sounded reflective rather than loaded with the deliberate obtuseness she’d been employing earlier. She shrugged and started for the hallway, clearly done with the questioning. “They never last long.”

Mia and Izzy stared after her retreating back for a long moment before a sharp ding cut through the silence Mama had left behind. Izzy jumped and then laughed in that way that released nerves sound.

“Christ.” Izzy held her hand to her heart, leaning into the melodrama. It took only a beat longer for Mia to realize what the interruption must have been.

“The reporter’s phone,” she said, pushing to her feet. Izzy was behind her in an instant as they hovered over it.

Mia had plugged it into a charger when they’d returned to the house, even though she hadn’t been hopeful that they’d be able to get anything useful.