Six houses. One perfect circle of lawn and morning light. This is where Wren's sister, Sylvie, died - a death the coroner ruled an accident. Now Wren has moved in next door with her husband and small daughter, telling herself she's here to grieve. She's really here to investigate. A drug in the autopsy no one prescribed. A threatening note on her door. A neighbor's fraud that looks like a murder motive. And beneath all of it, a voicemail on Wren's phone she has never played for anyone - the last call her sister made, the one she let ring. As the neighbors welcome her - warm, watchful, a little too pleased to see her - Wren begins to understand that everyone on this street knows something. A teenager who mowed her sister's lawn and freezes when he hears Sylvie's name. A grandmother who hasn't slept in fourteen months and watches from her kitchen window every night. A husband desperate enough to leave warnings in the dark. One by one, the clues dissolve into ordinary human mess - a kindness, a party, a pizza delivery, a lonely old man on a porch. The mystery Wren has been building collapses, and what's left is the truth she has been carrying in her pocket since the night her sister died: the last thing Sylvie did was call her. And Wren didn't pick up.
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