The landing opened directly to a den, its couches and chairs upholstered in oatmeal chenille, the wood of its tables and bookshelves painted white. The second-story rooms shot off from this neat space. Sam headed for a light-filled doorway, but Maggie lagged behind to peer into another room, most likely, given its size, Thomas’s. Windows made up two of the walls, and one side overlooked the water. From the doorway, she could just make out the bluff below and a stretch of sand to its right. The sun had set, and the swelling darkness blurred the terrain’s edges. In the bedroom, the elegant furniture looked colorless in the muted light.

She backed away, then walked through the den in the direction of Sam’s voice.

“What are you working on?” he was saying.

Just shy of the room, she paused. Sam was crouched by Kate, who sat cross-legged on the floor by a frilly canopy bed, its pink and yellow blankets and pillows scrunched and askew. Tons of toys filled the room. Spoiled, Maggie concluded.

Red crayon poised over a drawing, Kate grinned up at her dad. “A book about poisonous kitties.”

“Cool.”

He turned to smile at Maggie.

When Kate followed his gaze, her smile collapsed, and her eyes narrowed. “What’s she doing here?”

“Use your manners,” her father chided. “Say hello.” He started picking up toys and tossing them into a corner basket.

“Hi.” Profound unfriendliness weighted the syllable.

Maggie responded with what she hoped passed for a genuine smile. “How’s it going?” After sidling into the room, she gingerly patted the girl’s head.

Kate jerked back and glared.

Yikes. Maggie crossed her arms, tucked her hands into her armpits, and glanced down at the splayed book. Across an unlined page, Kate had drawn a few cats, stick figures except for their faces. Three huge heads sported angry feline eyes, bristling whiskers, and giant ears. “Writing a book?”

“It’s a diary.” She slapped the book shut and planted a fist on the cover. “Private.”

Maggie smiled tightly. Oh, good, because I didn’t want to read it anyway.

Sam was making the bed, pulling up the sheet and smoothing it flat. He frowned over his shoulder. “Jeez, Kate. Be nice.”

The girl kept scowling.

“Diary,” Maggie repeated with a nod. She stepped back but couldn’t resist murmuring, “I thought you said it was a story about poisonous kitties…”

“It is. I am a poisonous kitty.”

“Ah. That makes sense.”

“My name is Splash. And this is my diary. No one can read it unless I say so. My dad can read it. My mom can read it. (And you are not my mom.) Grandpa can read it.” She paused, as if deliberating, then added, “Wren can read it, too. That’s all.”

“Except for you,” Maggie said lightly. “You forgot yourself.”

“Well, duh. It’s mine. My diary.”