“What’s going on?” Silence crackles on the other end. “Mom?”
“I can’t say it over the phone . . . just come.”
Something in me goes very, very still. “Okay,” I breathe. “I’m coming.”
The estate sits two hours outside the city.
With every mile, my heartbeat climbs higher into my throat. This is the second time they’ve dragged me back this week.
The moment the wrought-iron gates appear, I swear I might pass out. Which won’t bode well for me since I’m driving. The guards open them automatically.
The house looks the same as it did a few days ago, so I know it didn’t burn down like our factory. It’s still too big and way too perfect, but it’s standing, so at least we have that going for us.
I park, then step out and head inside.
Once I’ve entered, I head through the foyer without a word, searching for my mother or father. I find them in the dining room.
My mother and father sit stiffly at the far end of the long table, dressed like they’re attending their own funeral. The table is set for dinner—polished silver, crystal glasses, candlelight flickering.
Four place settings.
I stop. “Who else is coming?”
No one answers.
My father doesn’t even look at me. He gestures stiffly toward the seat across from them. “Sit.”
“I’m not sitting until someone tells me—”
“Sit,” he repeats, voice clipped and strained.
My pulse kicks into a sprint. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
I take one step toward the table—
And the dining room door opens behind me.
I turn.
My heart stops.
Holy shit . . .
It can’t be.
But it is.
My mouth opens and shuts as I try to find words, but my throat feels extra dry as the man who’s haunted my dreams for years enters. Lorenzo walks in.
No.
No, not walks. He storms in but then in a complete contrast to his entrance, he closes the door with a soft click that makes my skin prickle.
He’s older now. With broad shoulders, and a defined jaw.
This is not the boy from the boathouse.
This man . . . This is someone else.
