Lane’s fingers traced the colors. “He makes all things new, every morning. Put your hope in him.” The saying was a favorite of Ms. Byrdie’s, and she offered it freely and often to those who came into the café. How she knew when it was the right thing to say, Lane didn’t know, but after a hug, a prayer, and maybe a tear or two, the customer would leave with a light in their eyes that hadn’t been there when they came in.

Was it all a lie? Lane set the painting down and looked around her. Moving back to Walton and buying the Way Station Café were steps toward a new beginning—a fresh start. But no matter how many new mornings Lane was given, the truth woke up with her—she was responsible for Mathias’s death and undeserving of knowing that kind of love ever again.

Sirens rang out. Lane and Noah both watched a Walton Sheriff’s squad car race past the picture window. A blaring reminder of what was happening in the town. Where was Miguel? Was he the killer?

A knock on the back door rattled her. As she set the broom against the wall, Lane saw Meagan peeking in through the open window.

“Hi.” Meagan gave a timid smile. “Mom told me you weren’t opening today and you haven’t been answering your phone—”

“Cleaning.” Lane’s cutting tone sent Meagan’s eyes downward. She hated that a part of her blamed Meagan for losing track of Noah. If Charlie was right . . . no. She wasn’t going to go there. “Sorry. It’s been . . . it’s been a rough weekend and I just needed a day.”

“I get that.” Meagan tucked her lower lip between her teeth. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

“Aunt Meagan!” Noah flung himself at Meagan’s knees when she stepped inside. “Are Paige and Owen here too?”

“Hey, Noah.” Her sister pressed Noah into a long hug. “They’re at swim practice.”

“I wanna go swimming. Momma, can I go to swim practice too?”

Lane considered her son’s eager eyes. “Maybe, but not today.”

Noah pinched his lips together and nodded. “Okay, maybe tomorrow?”

“Maybe. Now, go put your toys away so you can get ready for Pops.”

Meagan watched Noah climb the stairs one at a time before she turned to Lane. A deep well of tears clouded her hazel eyes. “I’m so sorry, Lane. I should’ve checked on them. Stayed inside. I got carried away with the auction and—”

“It’s not your fault.” And it was true. Her sister was carrying more than her fair share of guilt. “I was . . . I wasn’t where I needed to be either.”