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“I can see that.”

They watched him walk to his car, waved him off.

“I feel better.” Sonya closed the door. “I feel like I have a clearer picture of Patricia Youngsboro Poole.”

“And it ain’t flattering. I’m surprised she and Dobbs didn’t get along—and I have to figure they didn’t. They’re poured from the same mold, if you ask me. Now, Oliver Doyle II? Top marks there. Now that I’ve met both Trey’s parents and his sister? You better grab on, Son. As my mama would say, that boy’s from good stock.”

“I’ve got a pretty good hold, but—”

She broke off as Yoda, tail wagging, trotted down the hallway with the ball clutched in his jaws.

“Now I know where you got off to.” She bent down to pick up the ball he dropped at her feet. “You’ve been playing ball with Jack.”

“You’ve got a built-in dog sitter.”

“Apparently.” Since Yoda eyed the ball with joy and kept wagging, Sonya gave in. “Okay, not done yet? We’ll take ten minutes for ball play outside.”

“I’d join you, but I’ve got work now. Y’all have fun.”

As Cleo headed up, Sonya grabbed a jacket. “It really has to be ten minutes, pal. I want an hour on the Ryder proposal, and I have other things to deal with first.”

But she stepped outside and reveled in how spring seemed to slip closer every day. Overnight freeze or not, the daffodils waved their buttery heads. And she swore the grass seemed greener when Yoda chased the ball across it.

As she tossed the ball for the tireless dog, she scanned the sea, hoping to see a whale sound. She glanced up at the balcony off her bedroom, and imagined what Trey had seen during the night.

It made her shudder.

To die that way, to choose to, she thought, and condemn yourself to decade after decade of anger and, yes, evil. All because you didn’t get what you wanted in life.

“It makes no sense, does it, Yoda? But at the core, she’s insane. An insane witch. But she can’t beat us.” She tossed the ball again. “She won’t. That’s the last time, Yoda. Your human has to earn her living.”

As she started back toward the house, one of Cleo’s studio windows flew open. Sonya braced, but Cleo called out.

“It’s not her, but, Son, you’re going to want to come see this.”

“On my way.”

She hurried to the door, then scooted Yoda in before she ran for the stairs and bounded up. As if it was a new game, the dog bounded up with her.

A little breathless, she arrived at Cleo’s studio.

“What is it? What happened?”

“I needed something and went in the closet.”

Cleo gestured toward the open door.

Inside stood a portrait, beautifully painted. Her dark hair fell in pretty curls down the right side of her head toward the lace inserts on the sleeves and bodice of her white silk wedding gown.

Her ring sparkled on her finger, a slim gold band crusted with diamonds that seemed to flash even in the dim light of the closet. She carried a bouquet of pale pink peonies and trailing greenery.

Her eyes, Poole green, radiated joy.

“It’s Lissy. Lisbeth Poole Whitmore. Not my father’s work. Collin’s. It’s Collin’s signature in the corner.”

She looked at Cleo. “First I found Johanna’s portrait, then Clover’s, now you found Lisbeth’s.”

“And your dad painted Clover—the mother he never knew, and in her wedding dress—so before he was born. Collin painted this, all that detail, a woman who died years before he was born.”