For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I shall know full, even as I am known.

      —1 Corinthians 13:12

      This story is dedicated to my granddaughter,

       Greta Nicole Wulff, with much love from Grammy.

       And, as always, to Brian.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Questions for Discussion

      One

      “Why is he coming back now?”

      Aunt Kate put her morning cup of Earl Grey back in the saucer as she asked the question for what had to be the twentieth time since they’d heard the news, her faded blue eyes puckered with distress. December sunlight streamed through the lace curtains on the bay window in the breakfast room, casting into sharp relief the veins that stood out on her hand, pressed to the polished tabletop.

      “I don’t know, Aunt Kate.”

      Love swept through Dinah Westlake, obliterating her own fears about Marc Devlin’s return to Charleston. She covered the trembling hand with her own, trying to infuse her great-aunt with her own warmth. Anger sparked. Marc shouldn’t come back, upsetting their lives once again.

      “Maybe he just wants to sell the house since the Farriers moved out.” Aunt Kate sounded hopeful, and she glanced toward the front window and the house that stood across the street in the quiet Charleston historic block.

      Annabel’s house. The house where Annabel died.

      Dinah forced herself to focus on the question. “I suppose so. Do you know if he’s bringing Court?”

      Her cousin Annabel’s son had been three when she’d seen him last, and now he was thirteen. She remembered a soft, cuddly child who’d snuggled up next to her, begging for just one more bedtime story. It was unlikely that Courtney would want or need anything from her now.

      “I don’t know.” Aunt Kate’s lips firmed into a thin line. “I hope not.”

      Dinah blinked. “Don’t you want to see Courtney?” This visit was the first indication that Marc would let his son have a relationship with his mother’s kin that consisted of more than letters, gifts and brief thank-you notes.

      Tears threatened to spill over onto her great-aunt’s soft cheeks. “Of course I do. But that poor child shouldn’t be exposed to the house where his mother died, even if it means I never see him again.”

      “Aunt Kate—” Dinah’s words died. She couldn’t say anything that would make a difference, because she understood only too well what her aunt felt. She, too, had not been back in that house since Annabel’s funeral.

      Except in the occasional nightmare. Then, she stood again on the graceful curving staircase of Annabel and Marc’s house, looking down toward the dim hallway, hearing angry voices from the front parlor. Knowing something terrible was about to happen. Unable to prevent it.

      “Everyone will start talking about Annabel’s death again.” Aunt Kate touched a lacy handkerchief to her eyes, unable as always to say the uglier word. Murder. “Just when it’s forgotten, people will start to talk again.”

      Something recoiled in Dinah. It seemed so disloyal never to talk about Annabel. Still, if that was how Aunt Kate dealt with the pain, maybe it was better than having nightmares.

      She slid her chair back, patting her aunt’s hand. “Don’t worry about it too much. I’m sure people are so busy getting ready for the Christmas holidays that Marc will have been and gone before anyone takes notice.”

      Her aunt clasped her hand firmly. “You’re not going to the office today, are you? Dinah, you have to stay home. What if he comes?”

      It was no use pointing out to her that Dinah was going to police headquarters, not an office. Aunt Kate couldn’t possibly refer to her as a forensic artist. In Aunt Kate’s mind, a Charleston lady devoted herself to the church, charity and society, not necessarily in that order.

      “I thought I’d check in this morning.” As a freelance police artist she only worked when called on, but she’d found it helped her acceptance with the detectives to remind them of her presence now and then.

      “Please, Dinah. Stay home today.”

      Her