She nods. “Walk-ins. Mr. and Dr. Schaefer will be here through the weekend.”

I know what she’s thinking ’cause I’m thinking it, too. Dollar signs.

Mom turns to Logan. “What happened? You’re soaking wet. You’re both soaking wet.”

Logan laughs. “Snowball fight. I won,” she adds, smiling at me as I dump the garbage. I send her a pointed look. We both won.

“Did things go all right at school today? Any problems?”

“Nothing more than we expected,” Logan answers.

Mom glances over to me for an explanation, but before I can say more, Nana, dressed in a housedress and a flour-covered apron, comes around the corner with the recycling bin in her hands. I rush to take it from her.

“You brought us Logan!”

“Hi, Nana.” Beaming, Logan strides over and kisses her cheek.

“Ma, I told you I’d get that. Go inside before you catch a chill.”

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying a little trash. Stop treating me like I’m fragile, Mikayla. I’m fit as a fiddle.”

“Ma—”

Nana lifts her chin. “I’m going, not because you’ve ordered me to but because these young ones need some hot chocolate.” She takes Logan’s hand. “Come with me, sweet girl. Let’s get you warm and dry. We have a nice fire blazing in the parlor.”

As they go ahead, I hang back with Mom, and just as I open my mouth to say something, Nana’s strangled scream stops me cold.

We run, Mom at my heels.

Nana’s hand shoots up, shaking, pointing. It takes my mind a second to comprehend. On the stone above our apartment entrance, someone’s written in blood-red spray paint, “Death to Jews!” Next to Jews is a swastika.

“Oh my God!” Mom cries.

With more force than I could have ever imagined, Nana shakes off Logan, making her stumble. “Not again!” Panic rises in her thick-accented voice.

Chapter 50: Logan

I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial 911. As I talk to the dispatcher, Mikayla tries to get Nana inside, but she won’t budge. Nana’s face is sheet white.

Cade clings to Nana’s hand, telling her, “We’re all right….”

With blaring sirens and flashing lights, a squad car pulls into the inn’s parking lot.

Tears crystallize on Cade’s lashes. Mikayla shivers and huddles in her coat.

My neighbor Shawn and another officer stride over. The swastika and “Death to Jews” looms above us. Shawn’s eyes flicker to the vandalism, and then he says, “This is Officer Tisdale. We’ve been patrolling the area as promised and pulled in here not more than forty minutes ago.” He slips a hand into his coat and removes a small notebook from his breast pocket. “Why don’t we go inside and we can get your statements,” he says.