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herself.
    “Will you at least consider helping us for a week or two, just while we find our feet and start a treatment plan for Taryn?” Katherine asked. “With your knowledge and experience, you can make sure Brodie has retrofitted the house with everything we might need for her care. A few weeks would give us a little breathing room so we can take our time looking for the best possible person for the job.”
    The request was reasonable and certainly made sense. Refusing to give up a few weeks of her life for her dear friend would make her sound churlish. Immature, even.
    “When is Taryn being transferred from Birch Glen?” she asked, doing her best to keep the weary resignation from her voice.
    To Katherine’s credit, not so much as a trace of victory flashed in her expression, even though she must have known Evie couldn’t say no. “Friday.”
    “I suppose I could give you a week or two, as long as you can help Claire with my responsibilities here.”
    Claire squeezed her arm. “Of course. Take as long as necessary. Whatever Taryn needs.”
    “Just a few weeks. No more than that. I’ll help you hire another therapy coordinator and set up the treatment plan, but that’s all.”
    She could handle anything for a few weeks, couldn’t she?
    “That should be plenty of time to point us in the right direction.” Katherine pressed her cheek to Evie’s, filling her senses with flowers and guilt. “Thank you so much. I know it’s difficult for you and I’m very sorry, but believe me, we’re so grateful. I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you for this.”
    “You don’t owe me anything, Katherine,” she answered, taking a subtle step back. “Tell Brodie to donate whatever fee he would have paid someone else for those few weeks to the scholarship fund.”
    At least something good should come of this, she thought, as Katherine and Claire began discussing another fundraising event the high school student body officers wanted to sponsor for the Layla memorial fund.
    Evie let their conversation drift around her, focusing instead on double-checking the kits for her class that evening to help beat off the residual twinges of panic. After a few moments, one of the mothers asked a question about their display of Greek worry beads and Evie was grateful to help the customers, an excuse to leave her friends and the heavy weight of their expectations.
    “They’re called komboloi, ” she explained. “Traditionally, they’re made with an odd number of beads and then a metal spacer in between. Touching them at various times throughout the day is believed to help with relaxation and stress management.”
    “I certainly need that,” the woman said, rolling her eyes at her busy preschooler in the play area.
    Evie smiled. “They’re easy to make and they can really relieve tension. There’s something very soothing about working the beads between your fingers. Lots of people even put them on their key chains. Want to try one?”
    The two women exchanged glances. “Sure. Sounds like fun,” the other young mother said.
    “You can use any kind of bead, though usually people use amber or coral because of their soft, comforting texture.”
    Evie pointed them toward the beads, then went to gather the basic supplies for them. While she was helping them, she would make one for herself, she decided on impulse. It had been too long since she had crafted a piece simply for her own enjoyment—and she had a very strong feeling she was going to need all the stress management tools she could find in the coming two weeks.

CHAPTER THREE
    B RODIE ’ S HOUSE IN the exclusive gated Aspen Ridge community wasn’t quite what Evie had imagined.
    Given her preconception of the man as someone who always wanted something bigger and better than anyone else—at least in the various businesses and developments he owned around Hope’s Crossing—she had expected something opulent and overwhelming. The house was certainly vast and sprawling,