That kiss had seemed to go on forever, and somewhere in the middle of it, hands slid under clothing and then clothing fell to the side of the bed, and then hands on skin and hands everywhere, touching, exploring, and Hannah gasping. Rose had been alarmed until she saw her friend’s face, eyes closed, lips parted, panting softly as she moaned, that gasp clearly not telling her to stop. So she didn’t, and afterward Hannah whispered that’d been the first time that happened. Her first climax. So Rose did it again, and then Hannah did it for her, and that night, that perfect, endless night…

Then came morning, when the frat boys picked the lock, expecting to sneak in on one of their confederates, and instead finding the girls in bed, curled up together, naked.

Rose hadn’t cared. Rose never cared. That was the Walsh way. Take your judgment and your so-called morality and shove it up your ass. I’ll live as I want. I’ll be happy however I want.

But that wasn’t Hannah. It had never been Hannah. Even if today’s society had not yet progressed quite as far as Rose would like, it had been so much worse for two girls caught together in bed forty years ago.

Rose sometimes felt the temptation to give Liv a shake and say, “Just go for it with Gabriel.” But that impulse never lasted long because Rose understood, better than anyone, that even the strongest friendship could shatter, and the move from friend to lover was exactly the sort of pressure that could do it. Sometimes, you can’t go back. You might wish it with all your heart, but you can’t, because, sometimes, that isn’t up to you.

Rose stared at Seanna’s card. Then she went to flip another one, and it sliced the edge of her finger. A drop of blood fell onto the card. Rose quickly grabbed a tissue to wipe it off—these were the cards she didn’t use with clients. It was a rare Victorian deck. Gabriel had bought them for her when he was a boy—a Solstice gift that had required both great thought and great expense. These cards reminded her of how important she was to him, even if he was unlikely to ever say the words.

When she wiped the blood, it only smeared on the plastic-coated card, and she started to wipe again. She ran her finger along the edge. Too worn to cause a paper cut. It was a message, then.

Or a wish.

She looked at the card, Seanna under a wash of blood.

I wish you’d stayed dead. It kills me to even think that, but it’s true. If there was any good in your life, it’s all in that son of yours. You’re hell-bent on destroying him, and I won’t let you do that. I just won’t.