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“After the mission,” Trevor added.

Karen looked at him. “There was no mission.”

“You don’t know that.”

I adjusted another hay bale and smiled to myself. The details changed every time someone discussed her. Nobody could agree on where she had lived, who had hosted her, why she left, or what she had looked like beyond red hair and occasional exhaustion.

It didn’t bother me, though. I liked knowing more than they did.

I knew she hated poorly designed restaurant menus. I knew she baked when she was anxious and postponed meals until her body protested. I knew her parents could make her doubt herself in less than two minutes, and that she disguised hurt with humor so quickly most people missed it.

I knew what genre of books she preferred.

I knew she played music while working and sometimes stopped replying because a client had pushed her beyond reasonable patience.

And now, I knew what her smile looked like.

That still left a great deal I didn’t know. Where she had actually spent the past several years. Why she avoided talking about those years. What had happened between her and the pack before she disappeared. Why she became quieter whenever anyone referenced her past.

I wanted those answers, but not because the family had turned her history into a series of competing legends. I wanted to know her.

Not Loany.

Sloane.

Aunt Karen made her way through the setup, trying to determine what she would criticize first. She paused near Patty, eyeing the stack of custom-painted denim jackets Patty had brought to show a cousin. “Still lugging those rags around, Patricia? I would think at twenty-four you’d be putting your energy toward a respectable career rather than cluttering up family events with crafts.”

Patty folded her arms, keeping her voice light despite the edge beneath it. “They’re commissioned art pieces, Aunt Karen. People pay me for them.”

“People pay for novelty socks, too,” Karen replied coolly. “That doesn’t make it a legitimate career path.”

Aunt Karen came to stand beside me while I realigned the second row. “You seem a little more invested in movie night than usual.”

“I am.”

“Because of Sloane?”

I shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “She’s our guest. I want to make sure she’s comfortable.”

She lowered her tone. “You don’t find any of this strange? With Loany’s history, I mean?”

“Am I concerned about our family being unable to remember details accurately? No.”

Karen leaned closer. “You know what I mean.”

I straightened.

Karen looked toward the driveway, though no car had appeared. “She’s different.”

“She’s been gone for years, Aunt Karen. Give the poor girl a break.”

“Being gone for years explains changes in hairstyle. Not everything else.”

“What is everything?”

Karen pressed her lips together. There it was. Suspicion without evidence.

“She doesn’t smell familiar,” she said eventually.