1
AURORA
The mansion looks smaller than I remember. Standing at the wrought-iron gates, I squint up at the sprawling structure perched on the edge of the cliff, its windows reflecting the afternoon sun like dozens of accusing eyes. Twelve years ago, my father walked off that terrace and into the churning Pacific below.
I take a deep breath. What a morbid pilgrimage this is.
After being on a break in Europe since my mom passed last year, I felt the need to come and face this place. To finally stare my fears dead on without mom here to hold my hand.
“Ms. Harrison?” The caretaker appears from around the side of the house, keys jangling. “Everything’s ready for your stay.”
Harrison. Not my father’s name. I became a Harrison after Mom married my stepdad, Derek. Sometimes I wonder if Dad would be hurt knowing I took another man’s name, or if he forfeited the right to care when he chose to leave us.
“Thank you.” My voice sounds hollow, even to me.
The massive front door groans open, unleashing the smell of lemon polish and a scent of undisturbed air, like walking into a time capsule. The foyer’s marble floor echoes beneath my boots, each step amplifying the silence.
To the right, the living room where we’d played board games during storms. To the left, his study where he’d work late into the night; the light under his door was my childhood lighthouse. Straight ahead, the wall of windows frames the endless ocean.
“The cleaning service comes weekly,” the caretaker explains, mistaking my stillness for concern about dust. “Mr. Harrison, your stepfather has maintained everything exactly as it was.”
I nod, surprised. Derek never mentioned keeping Dad’s house intact all these years. What do you preserve in a shrine to suicide? The last place someone wanted to be?
My fingers trail along the banister as I climb the stairs. Photos line the wall of Mom with her beautiful smile, me missing my front teeth, and Dad looking progressively more hollow-eyed as the timeline advances. The happy family we were supposed to be.
The main bedroom door is closed. I reach for the handle, then let my hand fall. Not yet.
Instead, I walk to the terrace doors at the end of the hall and push them open. The salt-laden wind whips my hair across my face as I step outside. Below, waves crash against jagged rocks, constant and eternal.
I step away from the terrace and follow the stone path that winds toward the cliff’s edge. A drizzle has begun, misting my face and dampening my hair. I don’t bother going back for a jacket. The cold feels right, somehow. Cleansing.
The path grows narrower, slicker with each step. My boots sink slightly into the mud as I approach the spot where the property ends, and nothing but air exists. The ocean below is angry today, churning and frothing against the rocks. Did Dad hear this same roar before he stepped off? Did he hesitate, even for a second?
I inch closer, peering over the edge. The drop is dizzying, at least two hundred feet down to the jagged rocks and violentsurf. My toes reach the very precipice, tiny bits of dirt and stone skittering down the cliffside as I shift my weight. To feel what he felt. To understand.
The rain intensifies, making the ground treacherous. I sway slightly, a strange vertigo taking hold.
Suddenly, strong hands grip my shoulders, yanking me backward with such force that I stumble and fall against a solid chest. The impact steals my breath, while warmth seeps through soaked fabric.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a deep voice demands, rougher than the storm around us.
I twist around in his arms, my hands pressing against a chest that doesn’t yield. “Get your hands off me!”
He releases me immediately but stays close. His tall frame blocks my path back to the edge, rain darkening his hair to a deep brown, water dripping down a face that’s all sharp angles and barely contained fury.
“Who are you?” I demand, trying to ignore how my pulse hammers where his fingers had gripped. “You’re trespassing.”
“I was about to say the same thing.” His eyes narrow, assessing me with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly despite the cold rain. “I own the property next door. I saw someone at the cliff’s edge in the rain and thought...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but his jaw clenches.
“You thought I was going to jump?” The realization hits like a slap.
He shrugs, unapologetic, those gray-blue eyes never leaving mine. “It looked that way from where I stood.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” The defensive edge in my voice betrays me. Was I? No. Just... looking. Understanding.
“I wasn’t going to jump,” I repeat, my voice steadier this time. Rain plasters my hair to my face, and I push it back with trembling fingers that have nothing to do with the cold.
The stranger studies me, doubt etched in the furrow between his brows. He takes a step closer, and I’m acutely aware of how my soaked clothes cling to my body, how his gaze drops for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my face.
