XXIV BREAK IN THE CLOUDS （AUGUST）

I'm almost crawling out of my skin by the time I disembark at Minneapolis–Saint Paul International and plow through the busy terminal to the rental pickup area.

For a last-minute same-day flight, all that was available was a rental van that looks like it should have FREE CANDY painted on the side in creepy serial killer script.

Beggars really can't be choosers.

Still, I wish I'd been a little choosier as I wrestle the boxy van onto the road and set out for a small town of only twenty thousand people called Northfield. It's only a forty-five-minute drive, but I nearly chip a tooth as the van rattles over potholes left behind by another grueling Minnesota winter.

I don't know how people live in this state.

I also don't know if it's the shocks or the suspension, but this thing needs service.

Only Aunt Clara would drive me to this.

Clara—and yes, dammit, Elle.

All so I can try to fix this. So I can save Little Key.

So I can prove I can get over my bullshit.

Enough to tell the truth when I tell Elle I love her and I trust her.

And I'm sorry as hell for exiling her from my life the way I did, when she's all that's worth holding on to.

The address the investigator found leads me to a small brick house on a cozy lane with a tidy fenced yard. In the back is a chicken coop, true to the PI's word.

The chickens roam contently, a mundane backdrop to my frantic pulse as I park, get out, and walk to the gate.

I don't have her phone number, so I couldn't call to let her know I was coming.

This might be a very unpleasant surprise.

I scrub my hands against my thighs and step up the walk to knock on the door.

"Just a minute!" a woman calls ahead of footsteps pattering toward me to answer.

As the door opens, I'm struck by a memory.

The same face, petite with silvery red hair in the same braid.

Only, back then she was younger.

Dinner over Aunt Clara's sketches.

Me, organizing her colored pencils, and this friendly face helping Clara in the kitchen. Deb underfoot wanting to help, too, but just banging giant spoons everywhere.

Me, thinking they were so noisy, but it was the kind of noise I loved, and when this woman laughed, Aunt Clara laughed too.

They looked at each other so warmly—warmer than Mom and Dad ever did before the accident.

Their secret smiles made everything feel like home.

I stare at her with my heart stalling.

"I remember you," I say weakly.

Yvette Sullivan shakes her head, smoothing her hands over her flower-patterned blue cotton dress. "I'm sorry, who?" She stops, her eyes widening. She looks at me hard, her fingers fluttering to her mouth. "August? Little August Marshall? Is that you, all grown up?"

How had I forgotten?

Back then, I'd been too young to understand.

I just thought she was another old friend of Aunt Clara's who came over to help.

"Miss Yvette." I find myself smiling. "It's been a long damned time, hasn't it?"

"Too long!" she says, then steps back. "Come in, come in, please. It's so good to see you." She casts me a nervous look, licking her lips as she leads me into a cozy home decorated with paintings and sketches, some of which have a distinctively familiar hand. She looks back again uncertainly. "Wow! I never expected—wait, Clara's not—is she?"

I suck in a breath as I realize what she must think.

That I've come to tell her Aunt Clara has passed away after a deathbed confession, or something equally terrible.

"No, no," I assure her. "Aunt Clara's still alive and making trouble. That's why I'm here. I need your help—and frankly, I think your daughter needs it too."

She stops cold at the entrance to her living room, decorated in soft earth tones and plush cushioning. Hurt flashes in her eyes.

"Marissa? How do you know her? I never brought her over when—well ..."

"She's suing me, for one," I say dryly. "And Aunt Clara too. Marissa wants Little Key, and ownership of the Inky intellectual property."

Shock flashes across her face.

"What? Why?"

"Because she claims that her father—your late husband—came up with the idea first. She thinks Clara stole it and ran with it, and that's why he drank himself into an early grave. Because she took everything from him."

"Oh, my ..." Yvette clenches her fingers in her skirt, frowning, trying to understand. "But that's an outright lie. Inky was always Clara's. Lester never could duplicate her work, though he tried like mad."

I didn't realize how tense I was until I hear those words.

Even though I wasn't invited, I sink down in the closest chair, burying my face in my hands with a heavy sigh that turns into a crazed laugh.

"Oh shit. Thank God," I say. "No, thank you, Yvette."

I get it now.

I understand everything.

I know why Aunt Clara gave in. Why she lied.

The secrets she was keeping, that she's been keeping bottled up for an eternity.

What she was running from and trying to protect.

Apparently, I'm not the only idiot Marshall who does stupid shit to run away from love.

But I might be the only idiot Marshall who can fix it.

I pull my hands down from my face and look up at Yvette, who watches me with confusion.

I can't blame her.

For the first time in a long time, there's hope.

"Please," I whisper. "Clara needs you. Marissa needs you. I need you. Will you come back to Seattle with me? To save Clara's legacy? You're the only one who can help me set many wrongs right."