The snowball hit the passenger window just as Maggie finished the K-turn. Alarmed, she rolled up the window on her side and stepped on the gas. In the rearview mirror, she saw the girl kick at some snow, shake her fist, and holler something after the truck. Maggie couldn’t hear what she said, but if she had to guess, it was probably something like, “You’re not my mom!”

Friday wasn’t an improvement over Thursday. Jane didn’t write. Wren must have given Sam another day off, because he never showed up for work. The aunt, herself, was still holed up in the studio. And here Maggie was facing a crisis—without the least bit of help from anyone! By the end of the day, she decided to send a third message to Jane:

I’m worried that something has happened to you and wondering if I should try to find your home phone number and contact your family. Your silence is troubling. Please write back.

First thing Saturday morning, she checked her phone.

Nothing.

Discouraged, she slunk back into bed with the book by Jiles. By suppertime, she’d finished it. She wasn’t hungry, so she stayed in the loft and got dressed for book club, strongly tempted not to go. It wasn’t as if she’d have anything to say about the novel. She had barely absorbed a word. Plus, she knew she was going to be lousy company.

A familiar song jingled from under a pile of strewn clothes.

With a jolt of hope, she flung aside a flannel shirt and seized her phone.

Just Mom. Drooping to the edge of the bed, she answered the call with a cheerless “Hey.”

“Oh, honey.”

Her mother sounded weird. “Are you okay?”

“I—I’ve been thinking about things a—a lot lately, and I’ve decided you should”—her mother drew a tremulous breath—“come home. I need to—to see you.”

Maggie shook her head, bewildered. “But you will, like in a week and a half. Remember? You and Dad are coming for Thanksgiving.”

“No. I need you back here.”

“What?”

“You would be better off with me…” Her voice trailed into a sob.

Maggie cupped her forehead. “What’s going on?”

In a trembling rush, her mother said, “I made a mistake sending you there. I don’t … I just don’t trust her.”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

Huh? “Mom.” Maggie frowned out the window at the woods. The sun had turned the upper branches into a golden filigree. “Please tell me what happened.”

Her mother choked out, “… can’t talk about … I’ll tell you when … after I get paid Friday, I can send you money for … love you, sweetheart.” Then she ended the call.

Maggie stared at the screen. “Holy shit.”