There was a frantic edge to her tone, but she seemed to catch it herself, because she quickly released Maggie. The greetings and conversation she shared with Caleb and Linnie were steady and welcoming: “It’s so nice to meet you.” “Did you make good time?” “Oh! You checked out the college?” “The campus is lovely, isn’t it?” “Dilly’s? I’m amazed you got a table. Wasn’t it packed with the Bauers’ anniversary party?”

Even these pleasantries struck Maggie as odd. Her parents had always been protective, and they’d become only more so since last March. Under normal circumstances, her mother would have eyed Caleb with a measure of Dad’s distrust, fretted about Linnie, too (considering the things she’d learned about her when she’d stayed with Wren), stressed over the reliability of Caleb’s car, and probably worried about the entire concept of a road trip.

Mom was preoccupied. And Maggie knew why.

Maggie nudged open the bedroom door. An enormous snore greeted her. Dad was alone in the room, asleep on his back, his arms sprawled wide. A snorer and a bed hog. She softly closed the door. Not the parent she needed to see.

She made her way down the hallway. It was silent. Linnie, in the guest bedroom, must have fallen asleep, too. What about Caleb? He and his dog had settled in the basement den on the pullout couch.

The house felt strange with its added occupants … strange in a comforting way. Pleasantly full. And somehow safer, as if Linnie and Caleb were contributing their kindness to the house, helping to insulate it from the world. Maggie thought about Timberline Tavern. That incident could have ended very differently. Dangerously.

She hadn’t told her parents about it—didn’t want them to know. What good would telling them do? It would only make them angry and scared and sad.

Downstairs, she headed for the living room, expecting to find Mom still reading on the couch. Instead, she found her sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning over a family album.

Maggie shoved her hands into her hoodie pockets. “Are you hiding from me?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Does this look like a covert operation?” She turned a page and clucked. “We used to be so good about getting pictures developed and organized in albums. Then your dad gave me the digital camera for Christmas. When was that? Eight years ago? The next Christmas, he got me an iPhone.” She sighed. “I take more pictures than ever but just save them on the computer. A lot of good that does. I hardly ever go back to them.” She pulled the album onto her lap and bent to study a snapshot of Maggie as a baby, asleep in the high chair.