And then, with the same dogged determination that had driven her to New York, she forced herself through those moments. Sometimes it felt like she was dragging herself from one side of the moment to the other through a pit of mud.

Then she would picture Mick’s smug, patronizing face, and the image would help her find the fire once again. How could she ever have thought he was her mentor, her mild-mannered surrogate uncle? He might have copied her designs, but she refused to allow him to steal her dream. And despite his status in the fashion world, he and his design director knew what they had done, whether they admitted it or not.

The trouble with being a design thief was that he would forever be in the trap of having to steal. Caroline knew she had an infinite variety of designs inside her. A thief was limited to those he could appropriate from others.

“You are an empty soul, Mick Taylor,” she muttered under her breath. “As empty as—”

The phone vibrated again. She wrenched it out of her pocket, but missed the call. As empty as my bank account. Christ.

She exited the bus as the phone vibrated yet again—another notification of an incoming call and a voice mail. She didn’t recognize the number. Maybe for once it would be good news. God, wouldn’t it be nice if she found a gig?

She ducked inside her apartment building to escape the street noise. The usual pile of junk mail had escaped the too-small boxes and littered the foyer of the building, which always seemed to smell like soup. Nothing of note. Coupons, credit card offers, her Con Ed bill with a U-shaped heel mark where someone had stepped on it, stamping it with the honeycomb tread of a high-end Apiary shoe.

She threw the mail on top of her duffel and lugged it upstairs, then set it down to let herself in. The door wasn’t locked, which rankled her. Since Angelique and her kids had come to stay, Caroline’s tiny space was even more crowded than ever. “Hello?” she called.

The apartment was quiet. There was . . . something. Something was off. Caroline couldn’t quite place the niggling sensation that prickled across her skin. It was subtle, just a peculiar heaviness in the air. An unfamiliar scent.

“Oh, hey, Angelique,” she said, shaking off the feeling.

Her friend was napping on the overstuffed sofa. She didn’t stir. Her routine was erratic sometimes, although each day after getting the kids off to school, Angelique went to church at Saint Kilda’s. It was just something she did, and she seemed private about it, so Caroline didn’t ask questions.

“Ange.” Caroline dragged the duffel into the room. “Hey, girl,” she said. “You left the door unlocked. Bad idea to—” Her phone buzzed again, and this time she picked up. “Hello?”

“This is the attendance clerk at Sunrise Academy,” said a voice. “We haven’t been able to get hold of Ms. Baptiste, and her children are waiting to be picked up. Your number is listed as an alternate contact. Would you have any idea where she is?”

“As a matter of fact, I just walked in the door, and she’s here.”

“Oh, good. Can you tell her to come right away? Unfortunately, it’s late and no one can stay with Ms. Baptiste’s children.”

“I’ll tell her,” Caroline said, feeling a twinge of annoyance as she rang off. How could Angelique forget her kids? “Hey, girl,” she said. “You need to get over to the school, stat. Your kids are waiting.”

Angelique still didn’t wake up. She didn’t move.

Caroline felt a weird knot of apprehension in her gut. Crossing the cluttered room, she swept aside the window drape and looked at her friend.

“No.” Her voice was a low plea of disbelief. “Dear God, no.” She froze for three beats of her heart. One—the angle of Angelique’s head. Two—the ashy pallor of her skin. Three—some kind of drug paraphernalia on the floor.

Caroline didn’t scream. Not out loud, anyway.

Then she stumbled back and dove for her phone.

While law enforcement people and paramedics swarmed the place, Caroline shook with unbearable fright. She answered the first round of questions with wooden, disjointed replies. Then she rushed to the bathroom and threw up.

Someone from the medical examiner’s office came. More questions. All signs pointed to an accidental drug overdose, to be verified by a toxicology report. Overdose? How could there be an overdose when Angelique didn’t use drugs?

“It happens,” a guy said, standing over Caroline as she hyperventilated. “Addicts know how to hide things.” He said the body would be removed by the ME and an investigative report would be prepared.

She couldn’t take it all in. Words like the body and the deceased had never been uttered before in her presence. Angelique, an addict? How could that be?

She managed to call the school again. Tried to choke out an explanation of the inexplicable. She arrived at the school just as darkness was settling over the city. The principal was there, along with a social worker. Flick and Addie, in their little tartan and navy uniforms, were in the main office, eating Goldfish crackers and watching a kids’ show on a laptop.

Caroline forced herself to stop shaking. She went into the office and sat on the floor next to them. “Hey, you two,” she said, her voice a bit too bright.

“Want some Goldfish?” Flick held out the container.

“No, thank you.” She closed the laptop. Looked at the principal and social worker, who stood by. “I’m here because something happened to your mama,” she said. Good God. “It’s terrible news. Addie, Flick.” She drew them close, their tiny warm bodies feeling so fragile. “The worst possible thing happened. Your mama died today.”

Addie tilted her head to one side. Then her sweet face crumpled. “She can’t be dead. I don’t want her to be dead.”

“Nobody does. She would never leave you on purpose. It was an accident. She took a bad drug and it caused her to die. You won’t be able to see her anymore, but you’re safe with me.” Every word felt wrenched from her. “I’m so sorry it happened. So very sorry. We’re going to be sad for a long time, but I’ll take care of you.”

Flick pounded the Goldfish into crumbs. His face was blank with bewilderment. “Where’s Mama now?”

“They took her to a special place,” Caroline said. “They have to check and see exactly what caused her to die. And then . . . I’m not sure.” She sent a helpless look at the social worker. Addie dissolved into tears. Flick, just a year older, scooted over next to his sister and put both his arms around her.

“Where are we going?” asked Flick. “Are we going home?”

According to the emergency caseworker, the child protective services system would take them in if there were no other alternatives. The caseworker also said the system was beyond overburdened. There were more children in need than the department could handle. There were emergency foster homes, but that was a temporary measure. The caseworker told Caroline that lacking a guardian, Flick and Addie would be placed among strangers, possibly separated.

It took Caroline about two seconds to nix that idea. She absolutely could not abide the thought of these poor kids thrust into the unknown, their already traumatized hearts shredded, possibly beyond repair. “They’re staying with me,” she declared. “Tell me what I have to do.”

A social worker helped her file a petition for emergency guardianship. With both children in tow and no money for a lawyer, she showed up in court for a hearing. The social worker said there would be no need for a lawyer, since there was no one to dispute guardianship. The boxy, high-ceilinged room was crowded and noisy, and the kids huddled close on a bench until it was their turn. A family court advocate explained that it wouldn’t be a full formal hearing, and that the orders would be temporary.

The judge looked harried, though not overwhelmed. Just . . . resigned and sympathetic. He regarded her thoughtfully, studied the police report, then each of the children. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “I’ve read over everything personally in this case. Ms. Shelby, thank you for submitting your information so quickly.”

There had been a mad scramble for the school’s affidavits, custody evaluations, a notarized will, the police report, and the coroner’s findings. A social worker had visited Caroline’s apartment—so small, but deemed adequate to accommodate the children. While the judge shuffled through a file of papers, Addie’s teacher showed up and escorted the kids out into the hall.

Good, thought Caroline. She didn’t want them hearing what was likely to be said about their mother.

“What was your relationship to Ms. Baptiste?”