I hated to think my own flesh and blood could have done such a thing. But that was the wrinkle: Laurel wasn’t my flesh and blood. Sure, we’d grown up under the same roof, lived by the same rules our parents had imposed, but there was always a big chasm between us. I was adopted; she wasn’t. We never let each other forget that. The only real flesh and blood I had was Emma.
And Emma needed answers, fast. Because it looked like my killer could be closer than either of us realized—maybe even under the very same roof.