Blythe's husband, a war correspondent, had been killed while covering an uprising in South Africa. Mary was eleven at the time, and had adored her father. It had been hard on them all, but they'd come out of it eventually. Then Fiona was killed. Her death marked the beginning of an awful change in Mary. A change that intensified six months later, when Gillian began writing and visiting Gavin Hitchcock-the imprisoned man who'd killed Mary's friend.

Why had Gillian done it? Blythe still wondered. Out of spite? To get Mary's attention? Or did Gillian, who had known Hitchcock since grade school and had befriended him since junior high, really believe her childhood friend was innocent?

It was hard to remember what Mary had been like before Fiona's death. Blythe often had to think hard, to pull the old Mary to the front of her mind so she could see her the way she used to be.

When Mary had announced her plans to become an FBI agent, Blythe had rejoiced because at least she'd finally wanted something. It meant she was looking toward her future once more. But as years passed, Blythe wondered if it had really been the best thing for Mary. Sometimes feeding an obsession only led to self-destruction.

Mary eased out of her dark, knee-length coat and hung it over the back of the chair. Under it she wore a short-sleeved white blouse and a black leather shoulder holster and gun.

"Is something wrong with your arm?" Blythe asked, noticing how carefully her daughter moved.

"I injured it during a raid," Mary said a little too casually as she sat down. "A stupid mistake."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't anything."

Blythe suspected her injury was more serious than she let on. That's the way Mary was-quiet and secretive.

Blythe had visited her daughter in Virginia several times, yet no matter how often Blythe saw her with a weapon strapped to her tall frame, she could never get used to it. She'd never allowed guns in her house, never allowed her girls to even pretend to have a gun.

Blythe had always thought of Mary as strong and capable, fearless. But at the moment she looked exhausted and vulnerable.

"Is it so awful being here?" Blythe blurted out. It hurt to know her daughter didn't want to come home. "Good things happened here. A lot more good than bad. Don't ruin those memories for yourself."

Mary looked up. "It's hard," she said quietly.

Blythe was surprised by her admission and felt her eyes begin to tear. She blinked rapidly. "I know. I just want you to be happy."

"I'm not sure I'm the kind of person who can be happy."

Blythe pulled her tea nearer and began drawing patterns in the condensation on the glass. "You used to be happy. When you were little you were happy. Always laughing. I think you have the capability to be happy again if you allow yourself the luxury."

"It's the curse of violent crime agents. We spend so much time around death and evil. Pretty soon everything is bad."

"Have you ever thought of doing something else?"

"Please. Don't start that again."

Blythe glanced at the clock. It was later than she'd thought. She reached across the table and squeezed her daughter's hand. "Mary, Gillian's coming over." She braced herself for an unpleasant reaction.

Mary stared at her in disbelief. "She isn't living here, is she?" she asked, demonstrating the first real emotion she'd shown since stepping off the plane.

"No, she has an apartment in Dinkytown."

Mary dropped back against her chair in relief. "What about Hitchcock?"

"When he got out of prison, Gillian helped him find a place in St. Paul. The Midway area, I believe."

Mary nodded and pursed her lips. "No surprise there." She leaned forward, her gaze suddenly intense. "You know he did it, don't you? You know he killed Fiona."

"Of course he did. I think deep down, Gillian must know it, too. She doesn't talk about him much. It upsets me. I don't like her hanging around somebody like that. I've always tried to be open-minded and embrace everyone, but… a killer?… I can't do it."

"When will she be here?"

Blythe looked up at the clock again. "Soon. You have to talk to her, sweetheart. She's your sister."

Mary reached for her coat, as if to get something out of the pocket, then stopped. "Still smoking?" Blythe asked.

"No, but I'm seriously thinking of taking it up again."

Gillian stood staring at the red front door of her mother's house, afraid to go in.

Mary was home.

Gillian turned and took two steps toward her car, then stopped, curbing the impulse to get the hell out of there. Detective Wakefield was always telling her to face her fears head-on. She was an adult now. A cop now. There were things she had to tell Mary-things her sister wasn't going to like.

Gillian took a deep breath and pushed open the door. "Hi, Mom! It's me!" Even though her heart was hammering, the greeting was her usual.

"In here!" Blythe shouted from the direction of the kitchen.

She found her mother loading the dishwasher.

"She's outside."

Gillian followed Bythe's glance. Her older sister was standing in the backyard, hands in her coat pockets, studying the fall flowers and vines that lined a wooden fence.

"How does she seem?"

"Different. A little different, I think."

Gillian knew she was the reason Mary hadn't been home in five years. That knowledge sometimes made her feel physically ill. There hadn't been any huge fight. No confrontation. Just an initial aloofness that Gillian had figured Mary would eventually get over. Time passed. Holidays came and went. Mary didn't return.

Frightened as she was to finally be coming face-to-face with her sister, she also saw it as an opportunity to begin to patch things up. Gillian opened the sliding glass door and stepped outside. The day had been warm for October, but the sun was going down, and the air suddenly smelled like fall.

She and Mary had always loved fall, especially Halloween. They liked dressing up and making people try to figure out who they were, their costumes reflecting Blythe's influence.

"Let me guess," a neighbor would say, bending down to their eye level. "A couple of hobos?"

"No! Walt Whitman and Henry David Thoreau!"

The following year-"Guess who I am!" Mary had shrieked.

"A nurse? A mental patient?"

"No! Sylvia Plath!"

"Oh, what a cute bunny."

"I'm not a bunny, I'm Gloria Steinem!"

The trick or treating eventually evolved to staying home and passing out treats-homemade trail mix or granola squares.

Now fall always reminded Gillian of the day Fiona died.

Heart hammering, Gillian spoke. "Hi, Mary." Her sister turned around. She'd always considered Mary beautiful, but now she was struck by an added maturity and serenity. Dark hair, dark eyes. Mary took after their Irish-Italian father, Gillian after the light, petite, Swedish Blythe. Mary would always be beautiful, bordering on exotic: Gillian was often described as "cute."

"Mom's flower garden is flourishing as usual," Mary said, as if Gillian had just returned after stepping out to get a paper. "These mums are spectacular."

Gillian came closer. "I think they're a new variety. Called Star something. You know how crazy Mom is about mums."

"Mum's mums."

An old joke. A childhood joke. Gillian smiled.

"Yeah."

"Still have Birdie?" Mary asked, referring to the parrot Gillian had had since grade school.

"Yeah. He's as obnoxious as ever."

The trip down memory lane didn't last. "Mom said you wanted to talk." Mary had quickly reverted from sister to cool professional, as if instantly regretting the brief, shared moment. "That you had something to tell me."

Gillian was shaking inside, and she struggled to hide her nervousness. "You may have heard that I got a job with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension." A state agency, the BCA had been established over seventy years ago to assist the police in complex investigations.