I placed the photo on the bed and reached for another. It was a black-and-white shot of all the Warren siblings. My mother was sitting on the hood of her VW Bug, laughing, her long dark hair trailing down her back. Gideon was behind the wheel pretending to drive, while Izzy stood balancing, arms out, perched on the front bumper. Separate from the three of them stood a very serious-looking Nora with her hair tied back in two braids, hands folded at her waist. I smiled again. The four of them looked like trouble. Of the very best sort.

The next photo was a shot of me and Nora in the garden. She was wearing a long sundress and wide-brimmed hat. She looked quite elegant despite the fact that she was pushing me in a wheelbarrow. Suddenly I could remember that day as clearly as though it had just happened. We spent the entire morning outside. Nora taught me how to make cat’s cradles with string between our fingers and a witchy version of patty-cake that ended with sparks flying when we clapped. She had, of course, gone on about Warren witches being the very best witches, and—oh! She taught me a rhyme I had to promise to never ever use on my classmates unless they really deserved it. How did it go? Bumps and lumps, stumbles divine, trip up anyone from the—enter a name—bloodline. It was a harmless spell really. The intention behind it was meant to be more playful than hurtful, which was probably why I had dared to use it on Nora when she went to get us some lemonade.

I laughed a little at the memory, Nora looking so sophisticated in her summer dress, tripping on the flagstone path to the house. I thought I was in for it when she whirled back around. But instead of scolding me, she scooped me up in her arms and spun me around, saying, You, Brynn Warren, are my kind of witch.

I sighed. Oh Nora.

How could she ever think she’d end up alone like Constance?

The thought made me wonder about the Graves family. What was life like for them before their mother died? Were they happy? United? I knew what grief could do. The destruction it could leave in its wake. But even after her mother’s death, Constance had stepped in to raise her siblings. She must have loved them to take on that kind of responsibility at such a young age. Everyone, including me, had been so focused on how bitter Constance had become, but she hadn’t been born that way. Life had changed her. And I suspected from what John had told me, her siblings had done something to bring about that change.

I suddenly wanted to know who Constance was before she and her family had fallen out. Roxie said she had been involved in community theatre before her father became ill. Maybe I could go to the library to see if there were any pictures in the archived copies of the Evenfall Gazette. I needed to know more about who Constance was. Maybe it would help me figure out who would be driven to take her life.