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he saw the maturation of her gift in the design choices she’d made. The house was old, probably pushing a hundred years, but she had accentuated the early twentieth-century crown molding and sconces with contemporary decor. The living room furniture was upholstered in black leather and sat low to the ground. Beyond the rear doorway, white-lacquered kitchen cabinets gleamed beneath recessed lighting. The only things that hadn’t been renovated were the floors and staircase—dark walnut worn smooth from a century of use. Grant wondered what kind of money she made to be able to afford such a place. But that was Paige. Whatever she did, she threw herself into it, and as much as Grant hated the life choices she’d made, damn if he wasn’t a little bit impressed.
    One of the lower steps creaked. Grant returned to the foyer as Paige appeared around the corner, now dressed in something far warmer and modest—a plaid pajama top and bottom. She had let her hair down, and it fell a few inches past her shoulders. At thirty-six, those once pure and shimmering platinum locks were showing streaks of dishwater.
    She’d definitely aged in the five years since their last disastrous rendezvous—a botched intervention attempt in a Motel 6 on the outskirts of Phoenix, last in a fifteen-year string of attempts to save her life. Seemed like ever since Paige had turned sixteen and dropped out of high school, she’d been on a mission to kill herself. Frankly, he was shocked that she hadn’t finished the job by now. Despite their estrangement, the threat of that next-of-kin notification phone call was a fear that never left him.
    Paige had been so scantily-clad when she first answered the door that Grant hadn’t allowed himself to really look at her. Some things, a brother shouldn’t see. But now, as she cruised toward him in wool-lined slippers into the firelight, it struck him how thin she was. Borderline emaciation. The long-sleeved pajama top seemed to swallow her, and her face tapered from her cheekbones down toward her chin at angles so sharp they didn’t seem natural—the shape of her skull shining through.
    Using for sure.
    “Place is incredible,” Grant said.
    “The rent certainly is.”
    It occurred to him that he’d missed his chance to inspect her arms for needle-marks when she’d been wearing the short-sleeved kimono.
    Bad detective.
    “How long you been in town?” he asked.
    “A year.”
    “You’re kidding me.”
    “But I’ve only been in this place two months.”
    Grant stepped toward the small fireplace and held his hands to the heat.
    “Want a drink?” she asked.
    “Love one.”
    She padded over to the wet bar, moving like someone with barely the strength to stand—a nursing home shuffle.
    “Still a scotch man?”
    “For life.”
    He watched her reach for a bottle of Macallan. The lowlight stopped him from determining the age.
    “Neat? Rocks?” she asked.
    “What year?”
    “Twenty-one.”
    “Jesus. Then neat.”
    She made a generous pour. Brought it over. Out of habit, he lifted the glass and inhaled. It was a gorgeous nose but flattened by the occasion.
    “Seriously,” she said. “How’d you find me?”
    “Dumb luck.”
    “Facebook?”
    “Yep.”
    “My profile is only a pair of eyes.”
    “But they’re your eyes.”
    Grant sipped the whiskey.
    Miles Davis was blistering through a trumpet solo.
    The fire popping.
    He looked down at his sister, a good six inches shorter than he was.
    No idea what to say.
    He raised his glass. “Some of the best I’ve had.”
    Paige just stared at him and nodded.
    Grant looked around the room as if it were his first time seeing it.
    “No tree?”
    She shook her head. “Think I waited too long. You have to do that kind of stuff early in the season. Before you lose the motivation.”
    It was Grant’s turn to nod.
    “This is weird,” she said
    “I know.”
    Another sip. His cheeks flushing.
    “Do you visit Dad?” she asked.
    “Not enough. Every few