And Maggie seriously wished she hadn’t. She didn’t relish the prospect of hauling her worry about Wren and Mom up to the loft, along with so many other unanswered questions. Obsessing about this latest situation would probably kill what little sleep she managed these days, between nightmares and spiraling thoughts.

Frankly, she’d had it with unanswered questions.

She flicked on the studio lights. Then, before she could change her mind, she shuffled over the threshold. It wasn’t as if the aunt had forbidden her to see the sculpture.

Well, not explicitly, anyway, Maggie thought guiltily.

A few steps brought her fully into the studio. And face-to-face with a sculpture. With the sculpture. “Holy…” She covered her mouth with a fist. Explicitly echoed in her head, as she absorbed the sight.

Her calves hit Wren’s wheel. Maggie had staggered back from the sculpture without even realizing it. She swallowed hard and stared.

The sculpture wasn’t coy. In its details, she saw her aunt’s history. Most obvious was how the work implicated Maggie’s grandfather. Her naked grandfather. She flinched away from that telling state and dizzily took in the rest of the sculpture. It featured everyone in the aunt’s immediate family, including Wren. Maggie’s mom, too. Hollowed heads, groggy folds of clay, thick and frail slab elements, two emaciated subjects, one underfoot, one raised in a delicate suspension, and two giant shapes, the largest figure in a threatening stance, the other turned away, either indifferent or oblivious; it was hard to tell which.

No one came out looking pretty or normal.

“Margaret.”

Startled, Maggie whirled around.

The aunt trudged in, head lowered, as if she were avoiding the sight of her own work of art.

“Oh, Wren,” Maggie said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. “Why—why didn’t you tell me?” Why didn’t I guess? Me, of all people? I should have guessed.

Her aunt rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “It’s hard to talk about.”

“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said, and heard the futility in her own words. Sympathy—what difference did it make? It couldn’t undo the past. Her gaze swung back to the sculpture. Oh my God, that’s Gramps …

A wave of revulsion ran through her. Maggie looked away fast. “Are you okay?”