Eileen headed for the couch and the view of the sun setting on one of the worst days of her entire life. She lowered herself onto the taut, buttoned leather and gazed out at the sparkling lights dancing across the ocean. Only last night, Clare had been alive. Dressed in a beautiful gown, attending the premiere for her new movie—how was it even possible for a person to die so suddenly? To move so quickly from being a part of your life, to gone forever? Eileen spread her hands out onto the cushions on either side of her. When was the last time her sister had been here, in this very spot? Less than twenty-four hours? Eileen sat upright and looked more closely at her sister’s room. Where had Clare been when she’d killed herself?

Simon hadn’t yet told her where he’d found Clare.

This room? It seemed impossible that a violent suicide could have been cleared from this pristine space in only a day. It was impossible, Eileen decided. She didn’t know where Clare had taken her life, but it wasn’t here.

She swallowed back a fresh wave of tears. She didn’t want to cry anymore today.

On the glass coffee table in front of her, a slim notebook caught her attention. A rainbow of shiny colors, peeling edges, and My Diary stamped across the center in silver—a child’s book, something Paige would have had five years ago. It didn’t belong in this very adult space. Eileen leaned forward and picked it up off the table before settling back in the cushions. It was old and very familiar. Eileen sucked her breath when the connection came to her. This was Clare’s. Back in their small house in Casper, Wyoming, they had shared a bedroom, and Clare had kept this diary under the corner of her mattress. How many nights had Eileen fallen asleep to the sight of Clare sitting up in bed under the dim glow of their shared night-light, scribbling in this book? This book and so many others, Eileen suddenly remembered.

She ran a finger over the book’s peeling edges; Clare had kept it all these years.

Eileen opened the limp and tattered cover to the first page. There it was, Clare’s looping and sloppy penciled script. The words had faded over the years, but she could still clearly read Clare’s first words.

Mama said Daddy isn’t coming home. And her next—I hope to God it’s true.