“That wraps up the tour.” Richard Tucker opened the door that led from the school’s main corridor to the Ivy Hill administrative offices. “I’m sorry more staff members weren’t around for you to meet, but this place is a ghost town over Christmas break.” “Understandable.” Zeke Sloan followed the president into the office suite, giving it another discreet perusal. The place was functional, but the original artwork, mahogany furniture, and custom rugs on the polished hardwood floor spoke of a solid financial base. Not a luxury many private schools had these days. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the faculty at our staff meeting next Friday and—” A door to the right opened, and Richard swung toward it. “Will! I thought you’d left for the day.” A uniformed, fiftyish balding man who could use a few extra trips to the gym paused. “I decided to make one more circuit.” Richard smiled. “I’ve been raving to our new Spanish teacher here about the dedication of our faculty and staff. Thank you for giving witness to that. Zeke, meet Will Fischer, Ivy Hill’s director of security. Will, this is Zeke Martinez, who’ll be filling in for Teresa while she recovers from…

Nash A new start. After driving a moving van fourteen hours, putting his stuff in storage, living out of a suitcase for two weeks while sleeping on his best friend Brandon’s couch, and finally finding an apartment, Nash had a home. It was the size of a shoebox…but it was a home. He closed the door and turned to survey the studio. He didn’t have much stuff—­he’d sold most of it before coming up north. The windows behind his couch overlooked Third Street. His bed was pushed up against the left corner of the apartment, a nook where the living space met the outer walls of the bathroom, creating a dedicated sleeping space. The renovated kitchen lined the right-­side wall, conspicuously smaller than any kitchen Nash had ever seen, with a door at the end for a bathroom. He remembered the nights when the electricity went out and Mom had shouting matches with the electric company about extending their payment period. Memories of his twin mattress against the carpet made him thankful for the fact that he could afford a box spring now. While the walls could have used a new coat of paint, as Brandon so kindly pointed out,…

The Palais Garnier sat fat and contented after its opening night. The final trickle of theatergoers making their way from the building had stopped, and women with scarves tied around their heads pushed brooms and mops across the front steps. The light from the theater, which had poured golden and fizzy like champagne at the beginning of the night, was slowly being extinguished, one window at a time. On a cold, iron bench, Benedict stared up at the single room at the very top of the building. It was still lit—a pale, watery light that spread mere feet across the domed roof beyond its windows. She wouldn’t be there. He doubted she could even climb the stairs after tonight’s performance, with her hip in that condition. She’d danced perfectly tonight. No one would have noticed the injury—even he had sensed rather than seen it. He didn’t know how she was dancing on it. The pain must be unimaginable. Perfect. A strangely unpleasant word. He shivered and pulled his coat closer. After the performance, he and Victor and Camille had gone to a late supper, and then to a bar. After the three had drunk several bottles of champagne (and two…

CHAPTER SIX San Francisco On Monday, Hannah made the biggest decision of her life. In response, her mother called a man named Dayo. And a day later, Dayo emailed Hannah a business class plane ticket. Destination: Lagos, Nigeria. On Thursday, a day before her departure, Hannah pushed a fork through bits of kale and tried to ignore the anxiety that had given her a sleepless night and an unproductive morning in the office. Despite her attempt, the nerves were impossible to disregard. She tossed the fork on the plate and huffed. “Not hungry?” Flo said, pulling round sunglasses from the crown of her head and over her narrowed eyes. “You’ve hardly eaten a thing.” “I don’t have much of an appetite today.” A fly buzzed above Hannah’s head. She swatted it and protected her drink with one hand over the rim. The salad, she didn’t bother to guard. She had given up on it, her growling stomach be damned. “Maybe we should have gotten a table inside.” Flo dipped sweet potato fries into a glop of ketchup. “It’s so damn hot today.” And the massive umbrella wedged in the middle of the round table did very little to ease their…

“I guess that officially makes us neighbors, then.” He smiled. “Nick Silva. I live at the end of the street. The only house that isn’t the color of an Easter egg, by the way.” Jess was tempted to smile back, but something told her it would only encourage him to linger. Not that Nick needed encouragement. He extended his hand. “And you are…” “Jessica Keaton.” Jess recreated Nita Warrior Princess’s brisk handshake. The rosebush tried to hinder Jess’s final quickstep to the patio, but she made it. Nick followed, Chuck Taylor high-tops trampling violas left and right. “Does that Buick out front belong to you?” Without thinking, Jess shook her head. As far as she was concerned, it wasn’t a lie. The Buick belonged to Jessie Keaton, an eighteen-year-old escapee from a small town much like Winsome Lake. The car had aided and abetted her flight to freedom a decade ago until it eventually made its way to an outbuilding on the Donovan estate. Safely locked away. Like everything else in Jess’s past. But as much as she wished a tow truck would haul the thing to the nearest scrapyard, Jess doubted a vehicle was part of her new benefit…

It was quitting time, and Bridgette was shutting down her office when Wade appeared in the doorway. “Hey, darlin’. Wanna go with me to get a Christmas tree for the store? I’ll throw in a snow cone for your trouble.” “Oooh, yes!” Bridgette said. “Do you want to take your car home first, or leave it here and I bring you back to get it later?” “Are you going to bring the tree back here to the store?” He nodded. “Then I’ll leave it here.” She grabbed her jacket and purse and followed him through the store as he locked up access doors and made sure the security cameras were working. Wade noticed the pensive look on her face and stopped long enough to give her a quick hug. “This was a weird day, wasn’t it, honey? Are you okay about everything that happened?” She sighed. “Yes. Just sorry for Josh’s family. I know LaJune and the kids well enough to visit with them when I see them around. This makes me sad for them.” Wade pushed a curl from her forehead, then brushed a kiss across her lips. “I think Uncle Dub was feeling the same. He called me…

Chapter One “The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.” —Jodi Picoult Molly Of all the things Molly Princeton understood for certain, there was one thing in particular she had no doubts about—a woman was only as confident as her underwear. For real, she’d ask anyone to hear her out on this point. A girl could always spit shine the outside, but it was what lay underneath that told the true story. This was the reason she generally wore lace. Lace, unfortunately, that no one but herself ever saw. She sighed, a disappointed sigh that came from deep within the soul. Today, however, her life theory was thrown into a bit of a pickle, seeing as she wore no underwear at all. The no undies thing? Not her fault. Well, maybe a little her fault. She was the one who had forgotten to pack undies that wouldn’t show through the silk sheath dress her bestie Rachel had picked out for her as the maid of honor at her wedding. A wedding in the total boonies where there was no Nordstrom’s or even a Walmart to grab something that wouldn’t leave a…

I want you to tell her to stop hiding my baccy!” Ernest Plumb was one of Imelda’s regulars. He was a short, stocky man with a bellicose air, who trailed a pungent whiff of mothballs and pipe smoke in his wake. Since his wife, Joan, had died, he had come to see her every few weeks to continue the constant bickering that had been the mainstay of their forty-two-year marriage. Imelda had tried explaining to Ernest that spiritual readings weren’t like telephone conversations. She couldn’t simply dial dead people and have a chat at will. Joan was no more cooperative in death than she had been in life. She only came through when it suited her, but today she did have something to say and Imelda struggled to suppress a grin. “Joan says that she’ll stop hiding your stinking tobacco when you stop living like a filthy pig and wash the net curtains at the sitting room window. And she wants you to stop smoking your pipe in the house. She says that’s what your bloody shed is for.” “It’s not like he uses it for anything else,” Joan grumbled. Imelda could see her standing behind Ernest with her hands…

Chapter 4 Picking someone up at the airport in New York City was the biggest of favors, and Michelle hoped the big jerk appreciated it. But not even the nighttime traffic leading into LaGuardia Airport or BTS blasting positive-energy K-pop from her car’s speakers could distract from her jitters about seeing Gabe again.  What would he be like? Would it be weird to be around him again, or just like old times? She wasn’t sure which she preferred. It might hurt more if they slipped right back into their old dynamic, but she also harbored the hope that they could pick up where they’d left off. Although, the last time she’d seen him, they’d had their tongues in each other’s mouth. Were they going to pretend that hadn’t happened? What was the etiquette for reuniting with a former best friend you’d almost banged? The music was interrupted as her Fiat’s Bluetooth called out, “Call from Ava.” Gripping the wheel tight, Michelle debated whether or not to answer. Her stomach was a bundle of twisted-up knots, her teeth clenched tight. Ava would know something was going on, and Michelle didn’t want to explain what she was doing, especially since she wasn’t…

Keeping his gaze on me, he unhooked a wooden bar hanging on long ropes and tossed it over. “Now, let’s start, shall we?” His look was challenging. I gripped the bar and tugged. “You don’t truly expect me to swing through the air on this contraption, do you? How will that help me dance?” “What you’ve done isn’t working, is it? I aim to give you new experiences, push you off a few of your precious safety ledges. Now hold on.” “But I’m afraid of—” “I said, hold on.” . . . heights. A gentle shove against my back and I was hurtling through open space, high over the straw-covered floors. I clutched that awful bar for dear life, digging my fingernails into the wood. I squeezed my eyes shut as I sailed through the air, then I forced one eyelid open. Another platform rose up to meet me, and I scrambled to get my feet onto it, but as my shoes touched wood, my weight pulled me back down. I trembled on the swing back, until I felt solid hands around my waist. Jack hauled me onto the loft and steadied me. “Now you know what it feels like to fly.” “I…