SHEILA

The December air in Northern California was cold, the kind of cold that bit at your nose but smelled like pine and woodsmoke.

I pulled my cardigan tighter around my frame as my younger sister, Cherry, practically vibrated in the passenger seat of the cab. We were spending the three-week winter break at Aunt Linda’s house—a sprawling, estate tucked away in the hills.

When we pulled into the gravel driveway, Aunt Linda was already standing on the porch, a sweet picture of domestic warmth. She looked exactly as I remembered: kind eyes, graying hair pulled into a neat bun, and a smile that could melt ice.

"Oh, look at...