As if she might shiver to pieces. She wanted to wrap her arms tight around her sister’s body, to hold her together, but she knew Lydia would only push her away.

Sylvie felt awkward in front of Nicole, who was beautiful, and whom she’d just met for the first time. She wondered if this young woman thought she was a terrible person for falling in love with her sister’s husband. This was the first time Sylvie had considered what the opinion of strangers might be, and she felt naked, lacking, under Nicole’s gaz

As soon as I’m inside and the lock is engaged, I slump against the door. I let out a silent scream and squeeze my eyes shut. This is not good. This is not good. This is not good. She is not from Eden, North Carolina—I am. Her mother didn’t die from breast cancer—Mine did. Her name is not Lucca Marino—Mine is.

All that pain, all that guilt, those seven little ghosts – for Mrs. McCullough never forgot a single one – had, to her amazement, packed themselves into a box and whisked themselves away at the sight of baby Mirabelle: so concrete, so vivid, so inescapably present. Now, at the thought that Mirabelle might be taken as well, Mrs. McCullough realized