Chapter 2

The Whitmore estate outside Charleston looked exactly as I remembered.

White columns. Live oaks. The gravel drive where my parents and my husband had watched a masked man drag me into a van.

They hadn't been dead then, either.

Mom told the housekeeper to wash me. Afterward, Reid brought two dresses to the little room off the laundry.

I fell to my knees.

“I'm bleeding. Could it wait until tomorrow?”

He stared. “What?”

For seven years, a bath had meant somebody expected to use me that night.

“Mara. I'm your brother.”

Grant appeared in the doorway. “Is this supposed to make us feel guilty?”

He caught my wrist. I didn't pull away.

“I can do it,” I said quickly. “I'll be good. Please don't put me in the water again.”

Something changed in his face.

“Enough. You can sleep with me tonight.” His voice softened, as though he were offering a prize. “You always wanted a baby. We can talk about that.”

“The doctor said I can't have any more.”

Grant looked at me.

“After the fifth miscarriage. There was too much damage.”

His expression darkened, and panic hit me so hard I couldn't breathe.

“But maybe she's wrong. Maybe if we keep trying. Please don't send me away because of it.”

Blythe slipped her hand around Grant's arm.

“She's doing it again. Making everything about herself. She said I'd never have your baby, remember?”

His grip tightened.

“If you hadn't pushed her down the stairs, none of this would have happened. We'll get you examined tomorrow. Until then, stop bringing it up.”

I couldn't remember pushing her. I remembered finding them together. I remembered Blythe backing toward the stairs while I stood several feet away.

But here, as in the mountains, the safest answer was yes.

Reid helped me up. “Get dressed. You're not anybody's servant. I'll find out what happened out there.”

That night Mom brought two mugs of warm milk.

The dress needed safety pins at the waist. Once, it had fit me perfectly.

“Drink,” she said. “You're skin and bones.”

I took tiny sips, then asked what she wanted me to do.

Her eyes shone. “I'm your mother. Does there have to be a reason?”

Then she handed me the second mug.

“Take this to your sister. It's time you two made up.”

Blythe opened her bedroom door and recoiled.

“You touched that? God, Mara. You smell. I'm not catching something because you want to play maid.”

She struck the mug out of my hands.

Milk and glass scattered across the floor.