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September took it as a good sign that her father wasn’t in a closed-door conference with her older brother, March, heads bent together planning some sort of new business coup that would garner them a boatload of bucks while putting good people out of work, their usual modus operandi.
    â€œI actually came to look in the attic for some of my grade school work,” September told her, seeking to ease around Rosamund who was firmly planted between September and the back stairs to the attic.
    â€œGrade school? What for?”
    â€œI’m thinking of framing some of my artwork and selling it for some extra cash.”
    â€œHa, ha. So funny. I don’t really want you to go into the attic right now, if you don’t mind. I’ll tell Braden, and you guys can figure it out later.”
    â€œAre you serious?” September stared at her.
    â€œAs a heart attack,” she answered coolly.
    For the first time it occurred to September that the awful Verna might have been a better choice for a partner than Rosamund. And she might even have been right about that Rosamund-bitch thing.
    She was debating on telling Rosamund the true reason she wanted to search the attic, when March strode through the front door as if he owned the place. He stopped short upon seeing September and Rosamund together. “Nine, what the hell are you doing here?”
    â€œVisiting,” she said. “Dad’s at The Willows.”
    â€œI know. I’m heading there next. Since when did you start ‘visiting’?”
    â€œOh, you know. Just missed my family.”
    He peered closely at her, trying to discern if she was putting him on. He looked like Auggie: dark hair, the Rafferty blue eyes, strong jaw, lean build. But where Auggie always had the light of amusement in his eyes, March was stern and cold, like their father. September’s older sister, July, favored both her brothers’ looks, whereas May, the sister closest in age to September—whose death when September was just fifteen shattered them all anew a few short years after Kathryn’s death—also looked the closest to September: the same athletic build, high cheekbones, auburn hair, and, of course, the Rafferty blue eyes.
    Now, it appeared they were about to have a new member of the family.
    As if reading her mind, March glanced at Rosamund’s rounded figure and frowned. He’d married a woman while in his twenties, but the union hadn’t made it five years; Jenny, his ex, had liked the money and lifestyle, but had liked her Pilates instructor more.
    March and Jenny had one child together: ten-year-old Evie, who lived with him half the time, Jenny the other half. Evie was downright beautiful with long, dark hair and eyes so blue they looked violet, but she was as unsmiling and uncompromising as her father. At least that’s how September remembered her, and that’s certainly how Evie had appeared two months earlier at July’s birthday party at The Willows. But then Evie had been the only child at the outdoor picnic, so maybe that accounted for her attitude. September hated to think that, like March, who was as demanding, inflexible, and humorless as Braden, Evie had inherited those same Rafferty traits.
    â€œHave you seen July?” he asked September and Rosamund both.
    â€œShe’s not at The Willows?” September responded, as her sister ran the winery for her father.
    â€œI just called there and they said she hadn’t shown up today.” He sounded irked.
    Rosamund shrugged and said, “I’m not her keeper.”
    â€œI haven’t seen her since her . . . birthday,” September admitted, acutely aware that, though she’d gone to the picnic for July, she had merely called March on his birthday and had ignored her father’s altogether.
    If March noticed, he gave no sign of it, saying impatiently to Rosamund, “When you see her, tell her I need to talk to