“Here.”

Maggie turned. A tissue dangled in her face. “Oh.” She dried her eyes. “Thanks, Linnie.”

“You tried,” she said soberly. “That’s all you can do.” Fluffster whined, and Linnie shushed him and crooned, “It’s okay, boy.”

Maggie blew her nose. She had tried. But she’d failed miserably. With Jane, with Mom. “I didn’t accomplish anything. This whole trip … a total bust…” A sob tripped up her words.

“Oh, no, no, Maggie, hey,” Caleb stammered, surprised. He gripped the steering wheel and glanced at her in alarm. “Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not,” she choked out.

“Sure you’re not,” Linnie murmured.

“I’m mad!” And sad. Okay, so she was both.

Fluffster whined again and poked his head up between the front seats to offer her a lick.

For a long time, Maggie filled the car with the embarrassing sounds of sniffling and crying.

Then, out of the blue, Linnie heaved a huge sigh and growled, “Fine. Let’s get the fucking letter from Mary Tate.”

Maggie sat up. “Oh, Linnie, are you sure?”

“No. But whatever.”

Wide-eyed, Caleb glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “We’re heading to your old neighborhood?”

“You’re heading to my old neighborhood. You can drop Maggie and me off at Stella’s Diner in Syracuse first.” She dug out her phone. “Let me pull up the directions. It’s on Wolf Street. We’ll order a sandwich for you and just hang out until you come get us.”

He smiled hopefully. “Who knows? This Mary Tate could have good news. Maybe you’ll find out a distant relative left you an inheritance or something.”

“Or something,” she muttered, her expression inscrutable. “You can find out. Or give the goddamn letter to Sam.” She harrumphed. “I’m sure he’ll love reading it.”

“But—but it’s your letter,” Caleb said, confused.

“I don’t want it.” She glared out the window. “Sam wants it. He can fucking well have it.” Under her breath, she grumbled, “Bossy, intrusive, patronizing jerk.” She leaned forward suddenly, shouldering Fluffster out of her way. “You know what’s annoying? Being turned into a project. It’s like everyone sees me as some work in progress.”

Maggie smiled damply and reached toward the backseat. Linnie took her hand, and Maggie gave her a squeeze. “We all are.”

Ice had filled the ruts on Ash Drive. Caleb’s car, instead of slurping through mud, rumbled over cold-hardened ridges. Snow trimmed the branches on the straggle of trees, and the lake yawned straight ahead, a mouth full of steel.

“It looks more like February than November,” Caleb said.

“It seems like it should be February,” Linnie said. “Feels like we’ve been gone forever.”

Wren must have seen them drive up. She opened the back door and, arms crossed over her dusty plaid shirt, waited on the frail landing.