"You okay in there?" Beth's worried voice pulled me out of my artistic haze, and I frowned at my newest creation. The white paint on the white background felt gratuitous but necessary, and the red and black splashed around the middle was almost cathartic to paint. The nightmares had kept me from sleeping the whole night, so I had chosen to paint. It wasn't unusual for me to have a frenzied night or two of painting, especially back in school when I had projects and deadlines. But this was the third night I had chosen not to go home and to paint here instead, with my phone on silence.

I couldn't articulate why I was avoiding my parents. Maybe I was just afraid I wouldn't be able to keep it together if I saw them alive. Rationally, I should have sped to their home, embracing them and telling them how much I loved them. Instead, I painted horrific scenes of blood on snow alone in my studio, as if trying to exorcise demons before seeing them again.

"Mom call?" I asked as I opened the door, trying to hide my worry with a sardonic smile.

"No, but she did slily mention that she hopes you will come home for dinner tonight after one of our meetings."

"Is it Thursday?"

"Yep, Thursday Family Dinner night. You have about an hour to clean up and change before you have to leave." Beth pushed me toward my bathroom but stopped as she passed my painting.

"This feels different," she said, leaning closer to the painting as if the nearness would make her understand it more. "You don't usually like painting this abstractly," she added.

"I know. It's just an image that has been bothering me lately. I thought painting it would force it to leave me alone."

"Hmm, looks creepy. Maybe go the other way. Paint something happy instead." Beth turned away from the painting and continued to push me toward my ensuite.

"Maybe I will when I can get away from my parents again. I think I'll be grounded after so many days away."

She ignored the comment and rolled her eyes slightly, knowing I had likely never been grounded. "Have you at least told your mom about what happened?"

"I called Dad. He tells her everything," I assured her. Though Beth had a great relationship with my mom, I was closer to my dad. He had been the one who showed up to parent conferences, cheered me at competitions, and explored art museums with me while Mom had been busy creating an empire. I loved both of them dearly, but I felt more comfortable around Dad.

"You hurt her feelings when you do that, you know," Beth said quietly, a hand on the shoulder to gentle her accusation.

"I know, she's just so hard to talk to sometimes." I laid my hand on hers and enjoyed the moment. I hadn't realized until that moment that Beth was the peace I had looked for for five years with Tim. No one made me feel as accepted and seen as Beth did.

"Everything good takes effort, Nicole, including relationships with your parents."

"Wow, thanks, I won't need therapy now." I had to lighten the moment. I had to get rid of the grief that threatened to take over my soul again. This was a new life, and I wouldn't spend it regretting my stupidity before.

"Oh, shut up and get dressed. Your mom invited me to join you so you would go home. And you know I hate being late," Beth teased as her hand slipped off my shoulder, and she stepped through the door again.

I laughed and closed the door on her pretend astonished face. Her final words had lifted another weight from my chest. It was good Beth would be at dinner with me. This would be my first time seeing Lisa since the accident, and I wasn't looking forward to it at all.

Dad opened the door before I could, and I almost cried when I saw his loving, worried look. His perfect beige skin could not hide the dark circles that appeared anytime he didn't sleep a solid eight hours a night, a tell-tale sign that he had been worried about something. From the hug that enveloped me, I knew that 'something' had been me.

"Mija, I'm glad you are home," he murmured into my ears as he squeezed a few tears out of me with his embrace. "I was so worried."

"Papa, I'm sorry." I didn't know what I was apologizing for. Was it staying away for days and allowing my parents to worry or letting them die in my last life? I had neglected them so much in my life, confident they would always be there for me, without realizing how important their presence was. Especially my father, who had always been the one who understood me.

"Why are you crying, Mija?" Papa wiped the escaped tears from my face.

"Papa, I have so much to tell you. I'm sorry I didn't come home sooner."

"We will have time after dinner, no?" My father shifted one arm around my shoulder and nodded at Beth.

"Mr. Mason," Beth nodded in response, "I'm sorry to have stolen your daughter."

My mind stuck on the words "Mr. Mason." My father hadn't been born with the last name Mason. My Abuela had never accepted his choice to change his name when he married my mother. It had been a weird stipulation of my grandfather, who had no sons to carry on the Mason name. He also wouldn't let my mother hyphenate her name, which is how many families handled the last name issue. So, to get around hyphenation, my mother took Diaz as her middle name and made it mine as well, Nicole Diaz Mason. I rarely saw my Abuela. She lived in Miami with the rest of Father's family. He came to Stanford to attend business school and met my mother there. He had been slated to take over his family's business, but his heart wasn't really in it, and Tia Rachel had taken over without any fuss. I had always thought Abuela found me useless, unable to speak any Spanish (even when I tried to learn it in school), and not a true Diaz. But when she had come to California for Papa's funeral, she had been my one comfort. Tim couldn't keep her from me, even though he had tried, and her warmth had reminded me so much of Papa.

"You are my daughter, too, so how could you steal anything?" my father responded, breaking me away from my musings as he smiled broadly and slipped his other arm around Beth. Beth returned his smile and let him guide us into the house.

Mitchell, our head butler, stood next to the door frowning (I couldn't remember ever seeing him smile) and closed it once we had cleared it fully. I glanced around the large atrium and tried to absorb as much as possible. After their death, Tim had insisted we sell the house. Despite its beauty and location in a posh suburb, he had felt it wasn't good enough. When we sold it, he used the money to buy something ridiculous in the city center. I didn't realize how much I missed my childhood home until I entered it again that day.

"Nicky!" Lisa flew to me, pulled me from my father's arms, and hugged me firmly. Her long blond hair scratched my face as her expensive perfume assaulted my nose. "Why haven't you returned any of my calls? I've been so worried."

The performance that she put up was so convincing, so masterful, that I could only describe it as Oscar-worthy. My beautiful, waifish cousin had managed to keep me fooled for an entire lifetime, but everything became clear to me after my passing. I was finally able to see through her facade and uncover the many cracks in it. Her smile, which I had always thought lit up any room, now seemed fake and plastic. The hug she gave me felt awkward, and her thin limbs pushed me into her chest with too much force. Even the worry in her hazel eyes, which was genuine, didn't have the edge of love and compassion that I had seen in my father's. As I stiffened unconsciously, Lisa's arms tensed in response, and I knew that she worried that I blamed her for my almost death. Though she was right, I couldn't let her know that, so I forced myself to relax and hug her back.

"I'm so sorry, I was painting. I needed to work through things before I came back to reality."

"Well, it would have been good for you to at least have called HR to let them know you weren't coming to work." My mother's stern voice pierced my heart, and I let go of Lisa immediately. I turned to her and had to fight back tears again as she completed the final steps into the atrium from upstairs.

Catherine Mason wore a simple grey pantsuit that accentuated her long legs and statuesque build, something I had inherited from her but never seemed to pull off as well. Her greying hair was pulled into a loose bun at the base of her neck, and strands of the blond and grey hairs that escaped framed her face in a carefully crafted way to soften the severity of her sharp features. She had aged into her beauty. Instead of her soft wrinkles around her eyes and lips detracting from her, they gave her face character and depth that defied our agist view of what beauty is. Though she had never been ugly, the woman my father had married had been lovely and innocent. Catherine Diaz Mason, the woman who became CEO of Mason Enterprises, was stunning. My aunt Becky stood beside her, a poor copy of the original. Three years younger and decades less composed, plastic surgery had created an artificial texture to her face that was beautiful at first glance and horrifying with overexposure. Her smile couldn't reach her eyes, even if it wanted to, though I suspect that Rebecca Mason-Riley never truly smiled with joy when she was beside my mother.

"I notified them," Beth defended me without prompting. "You know how she gets when she's in a painting fugue, and she had to work through a lot this time."

"Well, I still think therapy would be cheaper for our company," Aunt Becky jabbed. "Your way of working through things probably put your team back a week!"

"How would you know?" Beth snapped. "It's been a while since I've seen you in the office."

"I have other things to do," Becky growled back.

Beth smiled and pulled me towards her. "Well, so did Nicole."

"Alright, enough, I shouldn't have brought it up." My mother dropped her shoulders and strode over to me. Beth backed away as she approached, giving us some space. "We were worried about you," my mother whispered, bringing me in for a quick hug. "Call work next time."

"I will, I'm sorry." I could feel her surprise at my responding embrace. My relationship with Catherine Mason would always be complex, but I loved my mother and missed her desperately when she died. I had no idea how I would repair years of distance and animosity between us, but I knew how to start. "I'll be better about calling work."

Catherine pushed me back to stare into my eyes, exploring what my easy acquiescence could mean. Her face softened as she accepted my earnestness. There were many things between us, but lies weren't one of them. I wouldn't speak to her if I couldn't tell her the truth; my mother never lied.

"Dinner is ready," Mitchell announced from the dining room entrance. My mother smiled at me and dropped her hands from my shoulders, accepting Papa's arm as she led the rest of us to the dining room.

Uncle George stood staring out the glass windows on one side of the dining room. George Riley was the youngest son of the main branch of the Riley family. They had dominated the industrial food supply business for decades, but George played a minimal role in his family's company. Instead, he became a philanthropist and supporter of the fine arts. In fact, Uncle George and I had always gotten along well. His love of art transcended any petty feuds his wife had with our branch of the family. We could talk for hours about our favorite paintings, and often, he would call me first when there was a new gallery opening or an artist he wanted to support. After I married Tim, Uncle George was the only family member who had met Tim's approval, so I spent even more time with him. So, when I saw him staring out the window, I knew he was thinking about how lovely the view was, whereas my aunt coveted it. Uncle turned away from the windows as we walked in and smiled absently at us all. He had a scotch in his hand, and I wondered how many of them he had already consumed waiting for us. For all his good qualities, Uncle George could be a rowdy drunk. It was why Aunt Becky never let him drink at large social gatherings, but she didn't restrict him at Thursday night dinners.

"Ah, the prodigal child has returned," Uncle George slurred with a smile, confirming the large amount of alcohol flowing through his veins. "Is your painting finished?"

"Not quite yet," I answered with a quick hug before moving to my seat at the table. "I will send you a picture when it is."

"Excellent. Marcus is always asking about your next work. They do sell pretty well." Marcus was his partner in one of the galleries he propped up with Riley money. It was the only one that occasionally made a profit because Marcus had a good eye for what was hot. He had sold a few of my paintings when they hit the right marketability. He had passed on many more. I respected his opinion. He didn't let my relationship with his financial backer affect the bottom line.

"I'm not sure Marcus would like this one." I laughed at the thought of my murder scene being hung and sold at a high-end gallery. Of course, only I would know what it really meant.

Lisa sat across from me, still looking somewhat wary. "Well, at least Marcus likes some of your work. He has never even glanced at my photographs."

"Your work is lovely," Aunt Becky insisted. "Marcus just doesn't sell photographs at his gallery, you know that."

"Of course." Satisfied with her mother's interjection, Lisa concentrated on the salad plate that had been set in front of her. "Oh, speaking of art." She lifted her head again and glanced at me. "Are you going to the auction this weekend?"

My mind shuffled through the past to find what she was talking about and landed at the annual charity auction my family helped sponsor. The artists or other wealthy donors always put up priceless pieces of art, and I always loved to go and watch the show. The money went to the local children's hospital and foundation, so I didn't mind bidding for some works I thought I'd eventually put up in my house. Tim had sold all of them once we got married. They hadn't fit in with his aesthetic. In my past life, the auction had been the second time Tim and I had met. The rest of the Lamb family had bowed out of the auction because of Robert's death, but Tim had still shown up, saying he had been asked to represent the rest of the clan. He had swept me away with his charm, and I had never looked back.

This time would be different, though. This time, Robert Lamb had not died, and Tim had not rescued me from the pool. So, what would happen at the auction? My heart sped up at the multiple possibilities, and I realized I could not know the outcome of this life. I had changed things and couldn't predict what would happen next. The thought terrified me, but I knew I couldn't avoid the auction; it was my mother's passion project, and it would hurt her for me to bow out.

"Yes, I wouldn't miss it," I responded finally, realizing every eye at the table had fallen on me. "I hope to bid on one of the sculptures I saw in the catalog."

Uncle George perked up at the catalog's mention, and the conversation moved to its contents. I would have missed Lisa's contemplative gaze if it had been my last life. Her devious mind was planning something, and though I couldn't know what it was, I knew it had to involve Tim and me.

Well, this time, I would be prepared. I unconsciously rubbed the phone in my jacket pocket. This time, I had an ace up my sleeve named Robert Lamb.

My mother raised an eyebrow as she noticed my silent smile, and I shook my head. I couldn't share my thoughts with my mother until I had evidence that Becky and Lisa meant her harm. As dignified and businesslike as my mother was, she still had a blind spot for family and wouldn't believe anything I told her until I had solid evidence. But I was working on that, or at least the detective Beth's friend had introduced me to was, and hopefully, I would get it to my mother before they could do her any harm. 

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