My twenty-fifth birthday ended with dinner at the house. Just the three of us. Graham, Delia, and me. Mrs. Finch made a cake. It was chocolate, with buttercream frosting, and it was the first birthday cake I had had since my mother died.
After dinner, Graham went to bed early. Delia and I sat on the porch. The ocean was dark, and the stars were out.
"So what now?" Delia asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm going to stay for a while. Maybe until the end of the year."
"And then?"
"And then I'll decide."
Delia nodded. "I want you to stay."
"I know."
"I mean it. I know we didn't start well. But I want you to stay. Not because of the trust, and not because of Graham. Because you're my sister."
I looked at her. She was not the same woman who had sat across from me at dinner and lied. She
