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PROLOGUE
Carmel Valley, California
Wednesday, April 2, 3:00 a.m.
Sixteen years ago...
She’s gone.
Katherine’s hand trembled as she gripped the barn door handle. Her whole body trembled. Her stomach churned so violently that she thought she’d be sick.
She’s gone.
And it’s all my fault.
So many things she could have done. Should have done.
Will do. But she didn’t know where to start.
However, she did know where she needed to be.
Alone. In the barn. In the place where they’d first huddled together as frightened twelve-year-old runaways to get out of the cold night. In the place where—much later—they’d come to talk about... everything.
Well, Wren would talk. Katherine would listen.
Katherine was a good listener. She’d had to be. She’d learned to hear the nuances in a person’s speech. To know if they’d help. Or hurt.
To know if they were lying or telling the truth.
She didn’t want to listen now. She wanted to be alone where she could scream her fury, where she could unleash her rage. Where she couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Because Wren was gone.
Her eyes burned and she swallowed the sob that rose in her throat as she slid the barn door open just enough to slip inside. She was so skinny, she didn’t need it to open much and she knew just how far she could slide the door before it creaked.
She didn’t let it creak. It would be all right if she did, but she still found something satisfying about sneaking in where she wasn’t supposed to be. At least not right now. She was allowed to be in the barn anytime she wished, but she was supposed to be sleeping right now.
Except she hadn’t slept in nearly two weeks. Tonight would be no different, so she’d given up trying.
Someone had turned the night-light on, its soft glow spreading through the barn, leaving shadows lurking in the corners. She wasn’t afraid of the shadows. She knew every one. This was her place. This was where she came to think.
Now it was where she came to grieve.
She breathed deeply, drawing in the scents of horses and fresh hay—and even fresher motor oil. The latter was unexpected. Usually the motor oil smelled old.
Tools were strewn on the floor around the old tractor that sat parked along the far wall. It had been broken for months. No one had had the time to fix it.
Looked like someone had been working on it tonight.
Someone who was still here.
She tensed, hearing the labored breathing coming from one of the empty stalls.
No, not breathing. Someone was crying.
She started to turn and run, but the cries became sobs. Deep, racking sobs that ripped at her heart.
At least someone else is missing Wren. Which wasn’t fair, she knew. Everyone in the big house missed Wren. How could they not?
