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Finally: “We talked about what my mom did. So that was fun.”

I turn the blinker to change lanes. “Moms are a barrel of laughs, aren’t they?”

Outof the corner of my eye I see her pinch the sleeves of her sweater.

“It’s like I feel guilty for her,” she continues. “She killed someone. Sometimes when I think about her it’s all I think about her. Like the bad thing is all she is. And—” Her gaze swings out the passenger window and she lets out a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if I could have done something to stop it. Stop her.”

I slam on the brakes right in the middle of the road, cars honking as they swerve around us.

“No.” My voice comes out angrier than I expect. “This is not on you, Wren. Ever.” She says nothing. “Your mom made her own choices. She’s her own person. What she did or didn’t do is not evereveron you. Got it?”

“You blame yourself for your brother and dad.” Her gaze shifts back to me as cars continue to swerve around us. “It’s not that different, right?”

Her words hover in the Bronco, violins ripping through the speakers as my pulse rams at the back of my throat. I do blame myself, but it’s different. It has to be.Right?At once I’m twenty and begging Zeb to get help, him telling me I’m overreacting. He never once listened to a word I said about him using. Never once tried to get help.

“And,” she continues, blowing out a breath, “I think about the girl that died and her family. I wonder if they hate me.”

Through my spinning thoughts, my mind goes to the article in Ford’s folder, which has been totally off my radar. Ford knowsthe family, he has to. Emmeline Hill, I remember the name but absolutely can’t place it.

“My dad knows the mom—he told me. She works in a nursery.”

A nursery.

Emmeline Hill.

That’s a lot of sevens.

How the hell did I miss that?

I floor the gas, jerk the wheel, and make an illegal U-turn, causing a minivan to stop in the middle of the road.

“I thought we were going to pick out tile for the backsplash,” Wren mumbles.

“Change of plans.”

At Blue Ridge Blooms, she looks at me when I turn off the Bronco. “Plants?”

“Humor me.”

She rolls her eyes but does what I say.

The late October air is cool, borderline cold when the wind blows, and even in my thickest blazer, it chills me to my bones. There are only two other vehicles in the parking lot, one I recognize. We wander through a storefront filled with bags of soil, seeds, bird feeders, and birdseed to a greenhouse that’s unseasonably warm.

Across the rows of potted plants I spot Mel, watering some ferns with a hose.

She sees me, shocked expression flittering across her face before she waves.

“I must have pissed someone off in my last life to require me to see you more than once in a month,” Mel says with a wry grin as she tugs her gardening gloves off and tucks them into a green apron tied around her waist. She looks at Wren. “And I see you’ve started taking hostages.”

“If it wouldn’t drive you to drink, Mel, I’d tell you to fuck off.”

She chuckles and eyes Wren again.

“This is Wren,” I tell her. Wren’s mouth curves into a small smile but she stays quiet. “Callahan,” I tack on.

Mel looks at me, then does a double take. “I see.”

“Wren,” I say, looking at her and feeling my own heart ache with what I’m about to hit her with. “Your mom killed Mel’s daughter.”