She didn’t tell him that Carol had left a curt voicemail saying simply that she’d canceled the contract. Why would a Realtor give up a commission? Ann was afraid to talk to Carol because she worried this had something to do with Michael, but how would he find out about the house? He was probably back in Milwaukee or Chicago or who knows where. Carol didn’t answer, and she didn’t return her calls. It was fine, fine. Ann didn’t care. She’d find another Realtor. She had to let go of the stupid idea that she’d feel better about her parents’ deaths once the house changed hands. She’d started to believe that her grief was part of the transaction.

Poppy wasn’t home when Ann and Noah arrived. He was still upset and walked into the girls’ bedroom, set his bag down on one of the beds, and shut the door.

She took a deep breath and looked around. The place was messy, so Ann went straight to cleaning, resentfully scrubbing the dishes that her sister had left in the sink, wiping the counters, taking out the garbage. The more she cleaned, the more messes she encountered—clumps of hair in the drain, wet towels on the hardwood floors, empty beer bottles on the end tables. She was putting the playing cards laid out for solitaire back into the box when Poppy blew through the door.

There she was, at long last. Her sister’s face was chapped and red from the outdoors, and her long hair was pulled back into a fishtail braid. She looked the same as always: fresh, soft, sweet. For a second, all the pent-up anger Ann felt disappeared. Despite everything, it felt good to see Poppy—better than good. She saw not just Poppy but also her mother, whose features were now more visible in her sister. She was overcome with an unexpected gush of warmth. Ann said, “Where’ve you been?”

All the energy drained from Poppy’s face when she looked at Ann. “Out.” Poppy kicked off her rain boots and breezed right past the spot where Ann stood, stirring up the dust pile she’d just swept. Ann might as well have been a piece of furniture in the wrong place. Poppy walked into her parents’ bedroom and threw her coat on the bed. It wasn’t just unmade; the sheets were so twisted it looked like people had been wrestling on it.

Ann was so surprised by Poppy’s dismissiveness that all of her emotions jammed up in her mind. Why was Poppy mad at her? She was the one who’d taken care of things—she should be grateful. Ann was trying to think of what to say next when a man walked through the kitchen door carrying a bag of groceries.

“Hello?”

“Oh hey, Ann.”

He set the bag on the kitchen counter and shook Ann’s hand.

“Brad? Milwaukee Brad?”