One

      Tate Harper had eaten deep-fried crickets in Thailand and snacked on guinea pig in Peru. She’d been lost in a jungle in Costa Rica and danced the night away in a run-down cantina in a Rio favela. She’d been propositioned by both rich and poor men in every corner of the world. As the host of a travel program exploring different food cultures, she’d faced some unusual situations in her life.

      But nothing gave her the heavyhearted feeling that a meeting with Kari did.

      Tate pushed her fist into her sternum and gripped the handle of the door to the diner. It was a wintry Wednesday afternoon in early January, and she’d touched down at JFK just after six that morning. After already having spent the morning with the executive producers of the travel channel she worked for, discussing her options for hosting a new travel series, she was mentally and physically exhausted. She simply didn’t have the energy to deal with her older-in-years-but-still-a-child cousin.

      Adopted sister. Whatever the hell Kari was.

      Not for the first, or hundredth time, Tate wished that she and Kari were closer, that they were each other’s best friends, but, despite she and Kari sharing the same house since she was eight, they’d never really