"Then when are you going to start acting your age?" he snapped. "When are you going to start taking life seriously?"

Silence. Then, "If this is why you called, I'm hanging up."

"Don't."

More silence. But at least there wasn't a click. Aaron knew Dylan wouldn't put up with too much disrespect, not after everything he'd done for the family.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Dylan tried to set aside their personal differences. "Listen, I don't want our shit to get in the way of this. We can fight any day. Right now we have to find Presley. And you might know something that'll help."

Aaron didn't respond immediately but eventually Dylan heard his brother draw an audible breath. "She wanted me to come over. She was having a hard time being alone with her mother. She said Anita was making gurgling sounds. It was freaking her out."

Dylan winced at the mental picture. "And?"

"And I wouldn't. Why the hell would I want to listen to that?"

There was more anger and belligerence in these words, but Dylan knew it stemmed from the guilt he felt for not being able to support her. Aaron could act like a jerk, but he wasn't as bad as he made himself sound. He couldn't face what Presley had asked him to do. Aaron had been the one to find their own mother when she took her life. Since then he'd refused to go anywhere near death. Wouldn't walk into a cemetery. Wouldn't attend a funeral.

"So...what? She hung up?"

"Yeah. I got a dial tone. Never called her back." He hesitated as if wrestling with his conscience. "Why? What's wrong with her?"

"We don't know yet."

"Then why the big alarm?"

"Her mother's dead."

"It's about damn time."

Dylan's hand tightened on his phone. "That's all you've got to say?"

"What else am I supposed to say? The woman had terminal cancer."

"You could show a little empathy, for Chrissake!"

"You'd rather she continued to suffer?"

"Quit twisting my words."

"There's a lot more that's twisted here than just your words. But maybe I'm the only one who can see it. Anyway, you're right. I don't care," he said coldly. "I quit caring about anything years ago, and I'm damn glad."

With that, he hung up.

"What'd he say?"

This time, Dylan hadn't heard Cheyenne's approach. He stretched his neck, trying to cope with his own emotions. "Basically, he said he needs some serious help, more than I've ever been able to get him."

"In what way?"

Cheyenne's burdens were heavy enough. Doing what he could to control the disappointment and worry he so often felt when it came to Aaron, he put more energy into his voice. "In the same way your sister needs help. They're angry and striking out at the world, and the world's just going to strike back."

"Is there no helping them?" she whispered.

"Not until they decide to help themselves." That reality, that lack of power, nearly drove him mad.

She wrung her hands. "What did he say about Presley?"

"Not much. She called earlier, wanting him to come over, but..." Dylan couldn't bring himself to repeat what his brother had said. He couldn't present Aaron in such a poor light; he knew that no one else would understand why he'd reacted the way he had. "It was late, and he was already in bed."

"Does he have any idea where we can look?"

Dylan thought he could guess. "She likes Sexy Sadie's." He shot her a look. "She also goes to Carl Inera's a lot."

"To buy drugs."

He nodded.

She rubbed her face as if she was so tired she could hardly think. Then she seemed to gather her energy because she headed into the living room. "I'll go there."

He hurried after her. "No. You stay here."

Her gaze darted toward the bedroom where her mother lay dead. "I don't want to."

"I don't blame you. But Presley might return. We wouldn't want to miss her. I'm not sure she's in a state to handle what needs to be done now that your mother's passed."

Although she blinked rapidly, he saw no tears. "Okay."

"I'll find Presley and bring her home," he said. "Then we can hear what happened and decide what to do."

"So I wait here."

"That's it. That's all you can do."

When he stepped outside, soft flakes of snow fell to the earth. With no wind to buffet them, they lighted gently on his face and coat. A few got caught in his lashes. It didn't snow that often in Whiskey Creek, so it always felt remarkable when it did. He stared up at the sky. "It's snowing," he murmured.

Cheyenne didn't sound pleased when she responded. "Figures."

As soon as Dylan left, the house fell silent. Cheyenne stood at the window, watching his glowing tail lights as he drove toward Carl's. Then there was nothing to see but the black night with the white flakes drifting peacefully to earth.

She rubbed her arms, trying to compensate for the terrible chill that had invaded the house. She'd never felt so alone. Or maybe she had. When she was ten, her mother had left her on the corner of a busy street, holding a sign that said Hungry. Mom Out of Work. Although she was standing in an area teeming with people-it had been at the biggest mall in Walnut Creek-she'd never felt so isolated. She'd nearly jumped out of her skin when a man grabbed her wrist to put a few quarters in her palm. And she'd been utterly humiliated by the narrow glances of the less compassionate.

Ironically, they'd had a right to feel so skeptical. Her mother hadn't bought food with that money. She'd purchased a bottle of vodka and drunk herself into a stupor, then passed out in their car while she and Presley rummaged for food in a McDonald's Dumpster.

Cringing at the memory, she turned away from the window. "You're gone," she said to Anita, even though she knew Anita was no longer there to hear. It felt so strange, so surreal that her mother wouldn't be calling out in a few minutes. Anita would never be able to manipulate her again-with guilt or the desire for love or the natural optimism that had kept Cheyenne hoping her mother would change.

Nor would Anita be able to reveal where Cheyenne was born. She'd taken her secret, if there was one, to the grave.

Moving back into the kitchen, she glanced at the calendar. December 22. No, it was after midnight-well after midnight. It was the twenty-third. That was the date that would appear on Anita's death certificate. Within a week or two, her mother would be buried in the same cemetery as Mary, where Anita had once forced Cheyenne to wait out a long, anxious night tied to a tree.

That seemed ironic, in a macabre way, but Anita had made Cheyenne promise not to have her cremated. She'd always been afraid of fire, said she couldn't abide the thought of it even in death.

Cheyenne wished that coping with the details of the funeral and burial would be all she had to worry about over the next few days. She didn't mind missing Christmas. Living without the holiday cheer she'd come to expect since moving to Whiskey Creek seemed minor. It was her sister she worried about.

Did Presley kill Anita? What would happen to her if she had?

Cheyenne couldn't imagine a punishment worse than the toll of Presley's own conscience. Presley, for all her confusion and dependence on drugs, loved Anita. But that would hardly provide her with a defense.

After retrieving her cell phone from the kitchen table, Cheyenne checked her call history as well as her text messages. She'd received nothing from Presley, even though she'd tried to reach her several times.

"Come on, Pres." Closing her eyes, she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She wasn't sure how long she could put off calling the doctor or the hospice nurse.

Nerves stretched taut, she began to pace. But the anxiety only grew worse. She had to do something, had to get Anita out of the house- The doorbell rang.

Surprised and a little panicked, she brought a hand to her chest. She doubted it was Dylan. He'd only left fifteen minutes ago. She was afraid the police were at her door, maybe with Presley. Had Presley turned herself in-or gotten picked up for something else and confessed?

She hurried across the living room and peered through the peephole.

It was Aaron. His hair stood up, as if he'd just rolled out of bed, and he was unshaven. The "prettiest" of the Amos boys, he had a face that could be on billboards for Armani or Calvin Klein-very classic and sculpted-but he was also the most difficult to deal with. People steered clear of him if they could. He hadn't even dressed for the weather. He shivered as he stood there in a T-shirt and jeans, shoving his hands in his pockets while he waited.

She opened the door. "Yes?"

"Where's Dylan?"

"Out searching for Presley."

"Then why won't he answer his damn phone?"

Maybe he didn't want to talk to his brother. Their last conversation hadn't seemed to go very well. "I couldn't tell you."

He sent an apprehensive glance into the house. "So you haven't found her?"

"Not yet."

"Where's he looking?"

"He went to Carl Inera's and Sexy Sadie's. That's all I know."

He kicked a pebble off the porch. "Fine. I'll go check out a couple places myself."

"You might want to put on a jacket first."

"I'll survive."

He was halfway to his truck when she called him. "Aaron?"

Clearly reluctant to be detained, he looked back at her.

"Do you care about my sister?" Cheyenne couldn't forget the sound of Presley's voice when she said she might be pregnant. Maybe she'd taken a test and found out for sure. Maybe that was what had started this whole night heading in the wrong direction.

"I don't know if I'm capable of caring about anyone," he admitted and left.

Cheyenne was fairly certain that Presley cared about him. Presley might even be in love with him. Her poor sister had never had much. She hadn't been blessed with the same kind of friends as Cheyenne, had lived without the stability they brought. Presley had hung on to Anita instead, who was no anchor. And drugs. And now a man she'd never be able to rely on, either.

Saying a silent prayer to the God Eve and her family worshipped, asking for forgiveness in case she was about to do something He'd find terribly wrong, she drew herself up straight and closed the door.

She'd come to a decision, one she might live to regret. But, like anyone else, she could only follow the dictates of her own conscience.

By the time Dylan started back to Cheyenne's, he was exhausted. He'd looked for Presley every place he could think of-even a few he doubted she'd ever gone. He'd visited the Indian casino where she worked, as well as another one that was farther away. He'd navigated the narrow road leading up to the old mine where they used to party in high school, even though the roads were slick and dangerous. He'd dragged Carl Inera from his bed and accused him of selling her dope, which he denied. And he'd bumped into Aaron, who was making the same rounds. They'd found no trace of her. As a last-ditch effort, they'd driven through the streets of Whiskey Creek for an hour, attacking the search from opposite ends of town and going as slowly as possible, checking every parking lot, alleyway and side road for her car.

He hated to return to Cheyenne without some idea of what had happened to her sister, but there was nothing more he could do, short of contacting the police. And he preferred to avoid that, given the situation, at least for now.

He'd called Cheyenne three times in the past half hour to see if she'd heard anything, but she hadn't picked up. He hoped that meant she'd fallen asleep. She needed the rest. It made him feel better to think she wasn't agonizing over every minute he was gone. Maybe Presley had returned and they were both home safe.

But when he arrived at Cheyenne's house, he didn't see Presley's car. He saw the coroner's van, a squad car and another vehicle-an Acura.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, and parked beyond the drive so he wouldn't block anyone in.

Aaron had been following him. He pulled up alongside Dylan's Jeep. "You're staying here?" he called through the passenger window.

"I'm staying here."

Aaron shook his head. "Sometimes I wish I could be you. You always know what you want. And you know how to get it."

That wasn't true. Dylan had been denied as much as Aaron had, maybe more. But Aaron didn't give him a chance to respond. He gunned his truck and shot past as if he couldn't get away from Cheyenne's fast enough.

"If you only knew." Dylan shook his head.

The front door opened before he could reach it, and two guys he didn't recognize emerged, carrying Anita's body on a stretcher. A sheet covered her, but he glanced away. He didn't want to see so much as a finger or a toe. As it was, the sight he'd encountered in the bedroom would stay with him for the rest of his life.

The men, startled by his unexpected approach, looked up as he stepped out of their way. "You part of the family?" one asked.

"I'm a friend of Cheyenne's."

"Glad someone's here. She's inside."

His stomach churned at the thought of what she'd endured in his absence. Were they taking pictures to document the scene? Were the police now looking for Presley?

He knew how he'd feel if it were Aaron....

As soon as he stepped inside, out of the snow, he could hear voices coming from Anita's room, but his steps grew heavy when he reached the hall. He didn't want to go anywhere near where Anita had died-or been killed. Aaron wasn't the only one who had a problem with death. Dylan, too, had seen his mother before the ambulance took her away.

"Will you be okay here alone?" the sheriff asked.

From his vantage point just outside the room, Dylan could see that Cheyenne was busy cleaning. The soiled sheets had already been stripped from the bed.