“Oh my God,” Bo muttered as he tore off his cap and stared at the spectacle.

Winter’s mind finally grasped what was happening. Jonte was running alongside Winter’s mother’s car, which lurched fast, then slow, then fast again. “Brakes!” the old Swede shouted. “Use the brakes before you turn, not after!”

The blood all but drained from Winter’s body when he spotted the Packard’s driver. Astrid? Mother of God, it was. His sister was squealing with either terror or delight—he couldn’t tell which—as she shifted gears and the car’s transmission made a sound that no one should ever, ever hear their car make. And Aida was perched in the passenger seat, cheering her on.

“Shit,” he murmured. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He scanned the street and saw a couple of other cars pulled over to the side, their drivers probably in fear for their lives—and he didn’t blame them. His sister was on a mad path of destruction that flattened a flower bed when she made a jerky, sharp turn into the driveway, veered erratically to the right, nearly smashing the car’s mirrors against the open gate, then came to a screeching halt a mere inch away from plowing into the back of the Pierce-Arrow.

Jonte stopped in the middle of the driveway and bent over, clutching his heaving chest. Bo ran to check on him, but the man was only winded. Probably the most exercise he’d had in years. Winter breezed past them and made a beeline for the Packard.

Astrid saw him coming and flattened herself against Aida on the car’s seat. “I only took it around the block a couple of times.”

His gaze skidded over the length of the Packard, looking for damage as he approached. He could hear the staff tittering on the porch behind him, all of them now back outside to witness Astrid’s exhibition.

“I didn’t hit anything!” she said, then something caught fire behind her eyes. “And guess what—I loved every second of it.”

A goddamn challenge. Wicked little girl . . . he wanted to . . . Christ alive, he didn’t know what he wanted. He looked at Aida.

“Go on and be mad at me,” she said, just as defiant. “It was my idea, and I don’t regret it. She did just fine. Might’ve scared a few of your neighbors, but some of them looked like they needed a little excitement.”

He counted breaths, staring down at them while the staff grew quiet.

For a moment, he didn’t know what he was thinking or how he felt. A strange numbness took root inside his chest. Looking on the scene in front of him, he expected to be reminded of the accident . . . to feel the same fear he’d felt during the weeks after, every time Bo drove him somewhere, every time Astrid got in a car. Sometimes he’d wait outside for Jonte to return with her, making himself sick with worry while he remembered the sounds of the accident . . . remembered how he’d been pinned by the steering wheel, unable to move as he called out to Paulina and his parents and no one answered.

But forcing himself to think about those things was different than the memories coming without warning. And he was forcing it, wasn’t he? As if he were testing himself.

He stared at his baby sister, trying to will his mother’s face in place of hers, but all he saw was Astrid’s rebellion. Behind her, Aida offered him a patient smile that made his insides quiver. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her; he wanted to scream at her. For God’s sake, didn’t she understand what he’d been through today? He’d been fighting for her—threatening people, pushing his lawyer, ordering up black magic from Velma to get revenge on the people who nearly killed her . . . ringing the house every few hours to check on her like a nervous mother bird.

He felt raw on the inside. Overwhelmed. Defeated.

“Did you see me?” Astrid asked Bo, a little breathless and puffed up with pride.

Winter cut a sharp look Bo’s way. If he said one single word of encouragement to her, he’d pummel the boy’s head into the pavement for pulling a Judas and siding with the girls. But his assistant just stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels as he locked gazes with Astrid. He didn’t give her a verbal approval, but he might as well have applauded—anyone could tell he was fighting back that damned smart grin of his.

“I wasn’t great, but I think I’ll manage it better next time,” Astrid said proudly.

“Not bad,” Aida agreed, poking his sister affectionately on her arm. “Not bad at all.”

Christ. They were all teamed up against him, and witnessing Astrid’s burst of self-confidence, Winter had the sinking feeling he was on the wrong side of this argument. His own guilt and fear had prevented his sister from experiencing this moment of happiness.

And in one day, after losing everything she owned—after nearly being burned alive in her own bed—Aida had done what he was never able to do: she’d stepped into his home and swept away two years of melancholia hanging over the household.

Winter tried to say something, failed, and headed into his home.

TWENTY-SIX

AIDA GAVE WINTER SOME TIME TO CALM DOWN. QUIET FURY HAD transformed his face into something she barely recognized. She’d overstepped and pushed him too far. God only knew what was going on in that mind of his right now. He might be thinking of the accident. She probably made the memory fresh for him again and could only imagine how painful it could be.

Maybe she was wrong to think his life could be changed with a simple push, and maybe this wasn’t the right way to go about it. Too much at once. She should’ve thought it through instead of acting on impulse.