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friend’s arm. Why had she waited so long to make contact? Even a simple phone call would have sufficed. “I missed you,” Jessie whispered, about to say she was sorry again, but catching herself.
    Betty nodded confident reassurance, her eyes closing as she did so, and she crept closer to Jessie, embracing her in another hug.
    They sat and talked for another hour, trading history and current life. Jessie kept staring at the dear woman, now old and feeble, who had practically rescued her family during her mother’s illness. She had delivered groceries and covered dishes. She had mended their clothes. And she never let Jessie pay for her own ice cream.
    Jessie smiled and reminded her dear friend of the memory. Betty put her hand on her chest and clucked.
    “You took Andy’s money!” Jessie kidded. “It used to make me so mad!” She reached over and covered Betty’s hand. “But thank you … twelve years too late.”
    Betty merely waved it off. But their eyes met and the old rapport passed between them. “So where are you headed next?”
    Good question, Jessie thought, taking a deep breath. Her blood boiled as she thought of her grandmother again, and in the space of a moment, her plans had changed. Time to do what she should have done years ago.

Chapter Eight
    DORIS CRENSHAW …
    Jessie should have known. Who else could afford to buy the house and then display it like a trophy—or the spoils of a victory? Who else wanted to own everything that had once belonged to her father? And her mother? And to her? None other than the woman who’d kidnapped her mother. And caused her father’s death. The woman Jessie swore she would never see again.
    People don’t change, Jessie thought, remembering Betty’s comment. Betty was still her old sweet self—Pollyanna, to be sure, but that was forgivable, and frankly refreshing. But no less naïve.
    No, Jessie thought again. People don’t change. They only become exaggerated versions of their younger selves. They finish the journey they began. If they were insensitive and tactless in youth, they become mean and twisted in old age .
    She could only imagine what had become of her grandmother. Even now, at twenty-four, her childhood imagination flew away with her, landing squarely on the image of none other than the wicked witch. Jessie squeezed the steering wheel. It wasn’t her grandmother’s house. It was their house. Her father had restored it, and her mother had painstakingly made it a home. Jessie had seen the before-and-after pictures. Sure, it wasn’t a castle. And it wasn’t the Broadmoor, obviously. But it was theirs. Well, theirs and the bank’s. Jessie’s parents had had little money and owed the bank a great deal for both the house and the gas station. Jessie had always assumed that after her parents’ deaths, the house had surely been sold and any profits used to pay off debts. But she had never imagined her grandmother as the buyer. Doris Crenshaw didn’t even like the house. Jessie couldn’t remember but a handful of visits by her grandmother. How dare she take the house! Wasn’t taking her mother away enough?
    Jessie’s rage only deepened. As much as she despised her grandmother, she had questions and she wanted answers.
    Barge right in there, eh? Begin a machine-gun fire of insinuations and accusations? Hi, Grandma, haven’t seen you in years. Thought I would drop by and yell a bit. Ratta-tat-tat!
    No. She would start slowly. Give her grandmother a chance to answer. Then she’d start firing away.
    Jessie settled into the drive south, having nearly convinced herself of her reasons, ignoring the underlying feeling that her motives were more complicated.
    Before she’d left the ice-cream shop, she had made a promise for dinner the following night, which pushed her trip west back another day or two. As they were saying good-bye, Betty had pointed to a yellowed photo a couple of photos above the one of Jessie and Andy. Jessie had been aware of crossing