Clara was last. She slipped in after dark, as if ashamed to be seen. The youngest had become a ghost after their mother’s death, moving to a remote artist’s colony in Nova Scotia and sending postcards instead of visiting. She was the image of their mother—same honey-colored hair, same way of looking at the floor when the room got too loud. When she stepped inside, Leo’s bravado cracked, and Maya felt her throat tighten. Because Clara wasn’t just sad. She looked haunted.
Clara’s fork scraped against her plate, a jarring screech. "Some of us have been too busy keeping the roof over the house to renovate the kitchen, Julian. But I’m sure your apartment in the city has excellent feng shui." Clara was last