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She was gone. I didn’t even feel the need to look at her one more time before they took her to the morgue. I didn’t want to remember her the way she was then, anyway. Sunken and drawn and in pain.

I remembered the woman who’d danced on top of a piano the day Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic, the one who had been my ideal version of glamour and grace for much of my life.

Besides, I had other things to think about.

Such as killing my brother for killing her.

I had never been so sure of anything. He’d done it before I could tell Mother how naughty he’d been.

And Vanessa.

I needed her.

There had to be a reason I had dreamed of her, and I wouldn’t let her go until I found out what it was.