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“Better than Josie’s attempt at steak on Thursday?” he prodded.

She shrugged. “I guess.”

Two syllables. What a breakthrough.

Normally Josie would give Noah shit for calling her meal an “attempt” but she didn’t have it in her. Between the Last Kiss Killer case and the wall Wren had thrown up between them, stunting all the progress they’d made, she was drained and sad. Putting her fork down, she said, “Wren, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Trout scurried under the table to Wren’s chair and whined again.

“You’re upset with us,” Josie said. “Or is it just me?”

“I’m not upset.”

Josie looked at Noah, but his expression told her he was also at a loss.

“Are you angry with us?” Josie asked.

“No.”

“Disappointed?” Noah tried.

Wren speared a piece of asparagus with her fork and jammed the entire thing into her mouth. “No.”

“I realize we haven’t known you that long,” said Josie. “But we can tell that something is bothering you and has been for weeks. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Wren,” said Noah. “You can talk to us. Whatever it is, you can tell us. You can be brutally honest. I promise we can take it.”

Wren dug her fork into the salmon but kept silent.

She was right there, right in front of them, and yet, she was a locked vault. Impenetrable. They had no code and no tools to break in. There was nothing Josie could do to force or cajole Wren into discussing her feelings. It was just like trying to get to the bottom of whatever mean-girl drama had taken place at her old school. If she chose not to share what had happened, that was her prerogative, and there was absolutely nothing Josie or Noah could do.

It was one of the most maddening things she had ever encountered.

“Is this about the fire?” Josie asked.

Wren finally looked up from her plate, meeting Josie’s eyes.

“I’m sorry if it upset you,” Josie said. “Can we talk about it?”

Before Wren could answer, a cacophony erupted. Josie and Noah’s phones chimed with notifications from their security system. Trout started barking. Their front door slammed shut. Trout tore out of the kitchen, evidently prepared to take down an army of assassins. Seconds later, his barking ceased and Trinity’s voice floated into the kitchen. She and Drake had just returned from New York after going home to deal with work obligations.

“Who’s a good boy? Who’s the best boy?” Trinity cooed.

Drake answered for the dog. “Trout’s a good boy! Aren’t you a good boy?”

Any other time Josie would have laughed at the way her sister and Drake fawned over their dog, but all she felt now was frustration on top of frustration. It wasn’t their fault that they’d shown up at the exact moment Josie and Noah might have been getting somewhere with Wren.

By the time Trinity and Drake entered the kitchen with Trout at their heels, Wren was already scraping what was left of her dinner into the trash bin. She greeted them far more warmly than she had Josie and Noah, washed her dishes, and mumbled something about a sketch she was working on before disappearing upstairs.

Forty-Seven

Josie and Noah went up to bed shortly after Trinity and Drake. Trout trailed behind them. They stopped at Wren’s door and knocked softly. “We wanted to say good night,” Josie called.

A moment later, Wren cracked her door open enough to let Trout inside and mumbled a good night back to them before adding a scintillating “see you tomorrow.” Once they were in their own bedroom, Noah said, “You’re thinking the same thing I am, aren’t you?”