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“Stealing’s bad,” she says, her face as solemn as a hanging judge’s.

“Yes. Very. But she couldn’t help it. She was a criminal menace who loved pastries.”

A tiny pause. Then Lucy asks, “Did she go to jail?”

“No, of course not. Lorna Pike threatened to put her to work washing dishes, and Maggie cried her eyes out and apologized until Lorna gave her another cinnamon roll.”

Lucy’s mouth moves, and I catch a flicker of a smile. I hold onto it like it’s a life raft.

We make it six more steps before someone says my name. “Laurel Sterling?”

My shoulders crawl up toward my ears.

A woman in a plum raincoat is standing outside the quilt shop, staring at me with the bright, delight of recognition. She has silver hair, red lipstick, and the kind of face that suggests she has never met a boundary she didn’t consider optional.

“It is you,” she says, already moving closer. “My goodness. I haven’t seen you since you were this high.” She holds a hand around waist level.

“Hello,” I say, not admitting I don’t know who she is from Adam and praying she doesn’t have any reminiscences about me likely to further traumatize my little niece.

“I’m Della Morris. You probably don’t remember me.”

“Of course, I do,” I lie.

Her eyes shift to Lucy. “And this must be Maggie’s little girl.”

Lucy steps behind my leg.

Della’s face softens into pity, which acts on Lucy like gasoline on a barbeque. “Oh, you poor little thing.”

I feel Lucy gripping my coat and an unexpected urge to protect her comes over me. My spine suddenly turns to iron. I put an arm around her shoulders and tell Della Morris, “She’s a little overwhelmed today.”

Della lowers her voice to a whisper anyone within twenty feet could hear. “Any word on Maggie?”

“Not yet.” I reply coldly, but the woman can’t take a hint.

“Such a shame. But then, Maggie was always a wild one, wasn’t she? I said to Carl just the other day, that girl was born with running in her feet.”

My smile becomes a weapon. “What a poetic observation. Unfortunately, it’s not very helpful.” The famous Sterling bite in evidence.

Della blinks. Before she can decide whether I insulted her, another voice calls from across the street.

“Laurel?”

Wonderful.

At this rate, by three o’clock there’ll be a parade.

A man I vaguely recognize from high school’s outer orbit approaches with a paper coffee cup in hand. He has a beard now and the expression of someone who peaked at a homecoming game and has been spiraling downward ever since.

“Wow,” he says. “You’re back.”

“Temporarily.”

“Right, yeah. Heard about Maggie.” His gaze drops to Lucy. “Rough stuff.”

Lucy presses closer. My hand squeezes her fragile shoulder.

“But not really something Lucy and I want to discuss on the sidewalk,” I say pointedly.