I glance past his shoulder, where I picture the coziness continuing between my daughter and the woman who’s got no place here. The longer Willow stays, laughs, and fills the space that was never meant for her—the more my insides twist. An ache of guilt and anger. A woman I’m letting trespass on a life I planned for someone else. I shake myself from my thoughts, focusing again on Dad. “One that’s on its final hour. Now let’s get this little gathering over with so I can take her to the airport.”
Dad follows me inside, shutting the door behind him—and locking it. He’s always been protective of our property. Or maybe it’s the people inside he’s always been protective of.
He takes it all in—quiet, steady, measuring the work, every beam, every floorboard. “Those weatherproof?” he asks, nodding to the glass panels behind him.
And every window.
“Guess we’ll find out during the next blizzard,” I tease.
Dad shakes his head, not finding the humor.
“Place looks great, Dallas,” Ginger comments, taking slow steps down the stairs. “Bit nippy up there, but I like it.”
“Heater’s going in Monday,” I repeat for what feels like the seventh time this weekend.
Ginger wiggles a finger. “You be sure it does. That girl’s going to catch a cold sleepin’ up there.”
I look at the fireplace. “I’ll set us up down here for tonight. Supposed to drop to the forties.”
Dad looks at me, one brow raised. “When you tellin’ her?”
I know he’s referring to the news about Ellie’s grandmother. And I havenoidea.
Willow returns and my heart stills for a moment. But she’s alone. “Hey, Ellie’s upstairs rearranging her stuffed animals in alphabetical order?” she frowns, like she’s not sure how.
I smirk. “By name, I bet, not species.”
“You used to rename the horses,” Ginger says. “Your Dad had named them Silver, Snow, Rhino, and Larry. You remember what you called them?”
“Ginger,” I warn.
“Oh, I want to know.” Willow beams.
“Of course you do,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
Ginger smiles. “He named them Spout, Snout, Ricky, and Licky. Think he even used one of them names for his stuffy too. Snout, was it?”
“Spout,” I correct like an idiot.
Dad chuckles.
Willow laughs and it’s impossible not to watch as her head falls back, hair tumbling off her shoulders, and her hand pressing to her stomach like it hurts. “Oh man, that’s good. How long did that go on?”
“Till he was twelve,” Dad says with a grin.
Willow laughs harder, touching Ginger’s arm like she’s family. “Well, at least there’s no proof. When I was twelve, I thought I could fly. So I stood at the top of our L-shape sofa, handed my sister a camera and said, ‘Take a picture while I’m mid-air.’”
Ginger’s eyes widen. “You did not.”
Willow nods. “Got two pieces of evidence. A photo—and this scar on my bottom lip.”
Ginger takes a closer look. “I don’t see a scar.”
I have to look away before my eyes become permanently glued to that bottom lip.
Also, I’ve already seen the scar. The night she attacked me. And a bit more clearly yesterday under the skylight of my kitchen when I caged her between my arms.
My stupidity started there. Faint as a whisper on her skin. Kind of liked it about her. Sure as hell didn’t thinkthatwas how she got it. The corner of my lip twitches and I twist my neck—looking for that damn suitcase.
