Since her appointment with Cliff wasn’t for another hour, she took a few side streets and found an old café named Caro’s. It was kind of cute despite the fact that it was located in the middle of absolutely nowhere. But what got her out of the car was her growling tummy. The doughnuts hadn’t really done it for her.

To her dismay, the place was closed.

Damn. Back in her car, she programmed Cliff’s address into the bitchy GPS and ended up parked in front of a small, older house sitting on the edge of town. A discreet plaque read: CLIFFORD PORTER, ATTORNEY AT LAW.

Quinn was a little early, but the receptionist was there. A distracted-looking woman in her early twenties wearing a headset, she held up a finger while she glared at her printer—which was blinking but not printing. “Dammit,” she said and slapped it around a little.

It still didn’t print.

“It knows you’re in a hurry,” Quinn said. “They can smell fear.”

“Bastard.” The woman pulled off her headset and sighed. “Sorry, I was in class. Online Psychology. It sucked.” She shut her laptop and shook it off. “Okay. Switching hats from prelaw student to lawyer receptionist now.”

Quinn smiled. “Good morning.”

“Well, if it was a good morning, I’d be on a South Pacific island being massaged by Tom Hardy. But that’s another story. I’m Kelly, how can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Porter,” Quinn said. “I’m—”

“Quinn,” Kelly said, giving her the once-over although her eyes remained warm and friendly. “Nice to meet you. Cliff had to run a quick errand, but make yourself at home in his office, he’ll be right back.”

Cliff’s office was small but neat. The walls were dedicated to pictures, some of them going back decades. One had Quinn stopping in her tracks and leaning in closer. It looked like a recent pic of herself and Cliff—except it couldn’t be, for two reasons. One, he was looking at her with familiarity and so much love it took her breath away. And two, the date on the print was 1996, when Quinn would have been . . . ten.

“It’s your mom,” Cliff said, coming into the office.

Still unable to think of the woman she’d known only as Carolyn as her mother, Quinn turned to face him. “And . . . your dad?” she guessed.

Cliff smiled. “They were close. I took over his law practice when he retired a few years back.”

Quinn stilled. “Oh my God. Are we . . . brother and sister?”

His smile widened. “No. Dad loved your mom though. But then again, most men did.”

Quinn looked at the picture again, honing in on Carolyn’s younger, happier face. “She didn’t love him back?”

Cliff came to her side and eyed the picture as well. “She wasn’t one to be tied down.”

“Just knocked up then?”

Cliff met her gaze. “I take it you’re curious about your father.”

“To say the least. I have less than zero information. Did you know him?”

“Not personally,” Cliff said. “His name is Eric Madden. He’s a professional bull rider, or was until his age caught up with him. He still lives on the circuit, but he’s their traveling chef now. He rarely comes through town anymore, if at all.”

Quinn’s legs felt a little wobbly and she staggered back to a chair and sat heavily. “A chef.”

“Yes.” Cliff poured her a glass of water. “I’m guessing that hits a little close to home. I’m sorry. He was contacted about Carolyn’s death, but he didn’t respond. In any case, I’m very glad you changed your mind about coming to Wildstone to discuss the estate and your inheritance. There are decisions to be made.”

“I don’t want to get ahead of myself,” she cautioned. “This is a fact-finding mission only.”

“Fair enough.” He pulled out a file. “Here’s Carolyn’s will. Her assets include some property. Everything gets passed to the heirs.”

Quinn’s head jerked up. “Heirs? As in plural?”

“Yes. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He paused and there was a quiet empathy in his gaze. “You have a sister, Quinn, born from the same parents you were. Her name is Tilly. She’s fifteen and I just brought her here; she’s outside, waiting to meet you.”

Quinn stared at him, trying to take in the words through the bomb he’d just dropped. She had a sister.

She’d had a sister.

She’d lost that sister.

And now she had another.

Her head spun in circles and she had absolutely no idea how to land on any of the emotions racing through her at the speed of light. Rising to her feet, she headed to the door.

“Quinn—”

Ignoring Cliff, she strode out into the main room and turned in a slow circle. It was empty.

Kelly burst in the front door, looking breathless. She put a hand to her heart and gulped in air. “That girl can run.” She met Quinn’s gaze. “I’m sorry. Tilly didn’t take to the news of a sister very well. She’s gone.”

I’m sorry. She’s gone . . .

Those four words were a terrifying, horrifying, nightmare-inducing repeat of what she’d been told the night of Beth’s accident, when she’d stood in the ER staring in shock at the doctor.

I’m sorry. She’s gone . . .

“Gone?” Quinn repeated past a clogged throat.

Kelly nodded. “She’s faster than I am. Plus she can climb a tree and I can’t, so—”

“Which tree?”

“What?”

“Which tree did she climb?” Quinn asked with urgency.

“The park at the end of our street has a grove of oaks on the far side of the play set, and one of them has a huge tree house where some of the teens stash stuff and hang out,” Kelly said. “She’s—”

Quinn was out the door.

She made it to the park before having to stop and bend over at the waist to gasp in air. She needed to get to a damn gym.

When she found the play set, she eyed the huge grove of oaks. Great. She moved in closer and stopped to listen.

Nothing but the buzz of what she sincerely hoped weren’t bees. “Hello?” she called.

There was a loaded silence and then . . . “Go away.”

Quinn took a deep breath and told herself that this was her sister. Her blood sister. She and Beth had been . . . well, everything to each other, everything, and Quinn missed her like she’d miss a limb. But after her death, Quinn had purposely backed away from any sort of emotional attachments because she couldn’t open up her heart like that again, she just couldn’t.

But Tilly hadn’t asked to lose her mom, to be left alone in the world. The ground had been ripped from beneath her feet, and much as Quinn wanted to run, she couldn’t. She located the tree with the tree house and moved beneath it. No ladder. Of course not, that would’ve made things easy and heaven forbid anything be easy. “I’m Quinn,” she said to the tree.

“I know who you are. Go away.”

She could. It would certainly be the easy thing to do. She could turn on her heel, walk away, return to L.A., and never look back. She would once again step onto the hamster wheel and run in place in her little rut, ordering the same coffee every day, getting in the same fight with Marcel every day, never looking up.