She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling the blond locks from her forehead and then dropping them where they fell back into their perfect cut. "It's so weird to think of the threads that tie everything together, threads that connect through layers and layers of time. When I got this tattoo, I was ignorant of the future and how a rose would figure into it. But the connection was already there, even though I couldn't see it. Nothing is freestanding."

"This might be hard for you to believe, but I'm sorry the killer turned out to be Gavin," Mary said. "And I'm sorry for everything that bastard has put you through."

"He always wanted me, and now I wonder if that's what this was all about. Was he pretending those girls were me? Is that where the rose came into play? You were right about him all along. I just refused to see it. I was clinging to my youth, and the memories of that youth-the youth before he killed Fiona. I just don't think I wanted to face it, or didn't want to believe that Gavin murdered her, because if he did… then I was also responsible."

"Why do you think that?" Mary asked cautiously, not sure she wanted to hear Gillian's answer.

"I was jealous of Fiona. You know that. I complained about her to Gavin." She bit her lip, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. "I even said I wanted to kill her. That Gavin and I should kill her."

It was what Mary had always suspected. But now that Gillian had finally come clean, her confession didn't hurt the way Mary had expected it to hurt. It no longer carried with it the weight of a horrendous betrayal. Instead, it signified the loss of childhood innocence.

"The only person responsible for Gavin is Gavin," Mary told her.

"No. He was so impressionable. And he was infatuated with me. I should have known he would do whatever it took to make me happy. Even kill somebody."

"Gillian, you were a child. A child."

She shook her head. "We talked about it just once, but I should have known."

Everybody had spiteful feelings at one time or another. How could Gillian know that those feelings, planted in the wrong mind, could be transformed so horribly? For her sister's sake, Mary moved on to another subject, one that had been bothering her ever since Gillian had brought it up. "Are you going to tell me what Gavin did to you the other day?"

"What? Oh, that." Gillian had apparently already dismissed it. "He kissed me. Not a nice kiss. A mauling kind of kiss."

"That bastard," Mary said, even though she was relieved to find it had been just a kiss. It could have been much worse.

"It doesn't matter. It seems irrelevant now. The mauling is nothing compared to everything else he's done. I feel like such a fool. You were on target when you said I wanted to be a cop because I thought I could somehow make things right."

"You have to accept the past and move on."

Gillian looked at her in disbelief. "I can't believe you're saying that. I can't believe you, of all people, are telling me that."

"I'm being a hypocrite, I know, but it's the best advice to give. I'm not saying I took it myself. I tried, but for some reason I've never been able to let it go. I'm just like Mrs. Portman, who sits in that dark tomb of a house, that shrine to a daughter who's never coming back."

She must have sounded pretty forlorn, because Gillian-always the demonstrative one-got to her feet and put an arm around her, her head on her shoulder. Mary stiffened, then relaxed. The contact was comforting. "We're a bit of a mess, aren't we?" Gillian said.

"I didn't realize how much of one until I came back here." After a moment's hesitation, Mary put her hand over Gillian's. "The past has hooks that reach into infinity, into yesterday and today and the future."

"Like a fucking rose tattoo," Gillian said.

"Yeah. Like a fucking rose tattoo."

In the cage in the corner of the room, Birdie woke up. "Hel-lo, hel-lo," he said, bobbing his head.

Chapter 23

Blythe loved parties. When the girls were little, she baked cakes and lit candles, and was sure to commemorate every occasion that presented itself. Because life was to be celebrated, and you never knew how long the good times would last so you had to embrace them.

After Fiona was killed, Blythe tried not to think about the young girl's death too deeply. Though she ached for Mary and saw her daughter change, she tried not to allow it to darken her own aura. After all, someone had to remain optimistic. They couldn't all drag themselves through the days, bemoaning the unfairness and ugliness of life. With hindsight, she realized now that ignoring what had been going on around her hadn't helped-it had only made things worse.

But Mary was home, and her daughters were speaking to each other again, and maybe they would be able to spend Christmas together for the first time in years. True, Gillian was suffering, but Blythe would be there for her. She would help her get past the pain.

It was time to celebrate.

She made a sinfully chocolate cake from a prize-winning recipe she'd gotten from a little cafe in St. Paul. It was moist and full of gooey layers, just the kind of decadence required for the ultimate party.

She'd baked bread and prepared a tossed salad. Her special lasagna was in the oven. Wine waited to be opened. Lights were turned down, and candlelight reflected off glass.

The doorbell rang.

"Mary!" she shouted. "Will you get it?"

She heard Mary's footsteps on the stairs. It made her think of the old days, when they were a family.

They could be a family again. Couldn't they?

She heard a male voice. Anthony? Such a nice man. And so good-looking. One voice was joined by another, announcing the arrival of Gillian.

In a flurry of cold air, they burst into the kitchen. Anthony handed her a bottle of wine. Gillian inhaled, praising the odors coming from the oven.

Nothing about Blythe's place was formal. They ate in the dining area connected to the kitchen. Wine and conversation flowed, along with laughter. As if by unspoken agreement, they didn't mention the recent case or Gavin Hitchcock.

When Blythe brought out her masterpiece of a cake, everyone applauded, then sighed. Mary and Gillian, both chocolate addicts, closed their eyes and almost purred. The meal had lasted over an hour, but it was done with much too quickly.

"I have something else planned," Blythe said as Anthony and Mary cleared the table.

Mary put a hand to her stomach. "No more food-please."

"Pot throwing."

At Blythe's announcement, Mary and Gillian exchanged a conspiratorial look. They'd been getting along extremely well all evening, Anthony had noticed. "Pot throwing?" he asked, drawing a blank.

"As in pottery and a potter's wheel." Gillian got to her feet and rubbed her hands together. "This will be fun."

Anthony quickly made up an excuse, horrified at the thought of an artistic endeavor, especially one that involved clay. "I'm going to have to get back to the hotel. I haven't packed."

"Packing won't take you all night," Mary said, immediately seeing through his ruse. He was surprised she was encouraging such a leap. But then he noticed the way she was smiling at him-obviously amused by the idea of putting him in an uncomfortable situation. Or could it be that she'd simply had too much to drink?

He rather liked the idea of witnessing this more relaxed side of his partner. He smiled back. "Sounds like fun."

Blythe's shop was located off the kitchen in what used to be the garage. Shelves were lined with bowls and pots in various stages of production. Some were drying. Some had recently been removed from the kiln and were awaiting glaze. Others were ready to be fired, and many had already been glazed, fired, and were now cooling.