When I swung the door open and saw Lizzie Miller, my breath caught. She was holding a beige ceramic plate. She was a picture of poise—her vibrant red hair in a pageboy bob, sleek and smooth and curled under at the ends, delicate pearl earrings in her ears, perfectly fashionable makeup and lipstick so pristine I knew she’d freshened up before getting out of her car.

“My brother takes this route through the neighborhood on his way to work, and that’s not a crime. If an innocent man walking past your house bothers you, go inside. Don’t speak to him. Don’t wave to him. Don’t so much as look at him!”

She was angry—but she was also scared. Of Henry? For Henry? I wasn’t sure, but I could see the emotion so clearly on her face, I felt it echo through my body.

“Maybe he needs help,” I said flatly. Lizzie Miller’s eyes flashed fire and her nostrils flared.

“Don’t you dare try to tell me what my brother needs,” she hissed. “I don’t want your cakes and I don’t want you to come near us. If you drive past and my house is on fire, do not stop to help. You aren’t welcome in this town and you sure as hell are never going to be welcome at my house.” She extended the plate toward me. “Here’s a plate to replace the one you lost.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I don’t want to owe you a damned thing,” she interrupted me, thrusting the plate into my hands. She nodded curtly and turned away, her heels clicking against our porch then driveway as she walked toward her car.

“I just wanted to reach out to you,” I called after her. “To say sorry for the way I spoke to you at the picnic. I know we got off on the wrong foot—”

She spun back to face me, and this time, the hatred in her eyes was unmistakable.

“What was your husband’s rank in the SS? Did he instigate the genocide, or did he just participate in it? And we both know you knew about the camps. If you did nothing to help those people, you’re complicit too.” Her expression twisted with frustration. “You and your husband do not deserve to be here, living among decent American folk.”