On her last morning home, the pale Ozark light slanted through the bedroom window, catching in the folds of the shirts Isobel was folding into her carry-on. The suitcase sat open on the quilt her grandmother had stitched by hand—faded blues and soft creams worn to a buttery texture after years of washings.

The door creaked open and Fancy slipped in, her hair loose, a mug of coffee in hand. She perched on the edge of the bed with a sigh that was half affection, half ache.

“Hey, sis,” she ...