“She invited me to go, too.” His smile was rueful. “I’m kind of sorry I showed up. Feel like I crashed your meeting and ruined your discussion.”

Just Marge. You just crashed and ruined Marge. She mumbled a nah-don’t-worry-about-it and dug the aunt’s keys out of her pocket, mentally listing the things she had to do: Get the hell out of here, talk to Wren, deal with Mom, figure out how to help Jane …

“Hey.” He ducked his head. “What’s wrong?”

She clutched the keys. Everything. Everything was wrong. Western New York was supposed to be her safe retreat—where she’d forget, hide, start over. It wasn’t supposed to be a fucking zoo. “Wren and my mom.” The words burst out of her, fast and loud. “They must have had a fight. Mom wants me to come home. She said something about…” Maggie shrugged, bewildered by her mother’s sobbed words, and finished questioningly, “About not trusting Wren?”

There. She sighed, relieved—no, intensely relieved. It had felt great to tell Sam, to share at least one of the messes in her life. The ache in her chest eased.

“Oh boy.” Sam turned a shuttered face toward the bookshop. Without glancing at Maggie, he asked, “She didn’t say why?”

Maggie frowned at his careful tone. “No.”

“And you haven’t”—he tugged at the cuff on one of his coat sleeves—“seen Wren’s sculpture?”

“Not yet.”

He ran his thumb over his jaw. “It’s not my place to talk about this.” His gaze, when he glanced at her again, was sad. “You need to discuss it with Wren.” He opened the truck door for her.

Confused, she automatically climbed in.

He took a step away from the truck but kept his hand on the door. After a moment of hesitation, he said with conviction, “But I can tell you one thing. Your mom’s wrong. You can trust Wren. I trust her. I would trust her with my life. She’s one of the best people I know.”

Wren had left on the porch light, as well as the pendant over the table. But the kitchen was empty. Blindly reaching behind her to lock the back door, Maggie checked her phone. Nothing from Jane Cannon. She quickly toed off her snowy shoes and shrugged out of her coat. She had to find her aunt.

And you haven’t … seen Wren’s sculpture? The vagueness of Sam’s question frustrated her. Or maybe she was perturbed by the fact that she hadn’t seen the sculpture. The aunt had let him see it. Why not Maggie?

The hallway was dark; the door to the studio, closed. She cracked it open. The studio was dark, too. The aunt must have gone to bed.