I swallow hard, grip the doorknob he just conquered, and step inside the lake house alone, where the silence rushes in like a wave.
Chapter 2
Ethan
Morningsaretheonepart of the day that makes sense.
The house wakes slowly, the way it should.
Kettle on with a soft click. Lunchbox open on the counter, everything lined up — bread, knife, apple, containers in a neat row. Early summer light spills through the kitchen window in a wide, warm stripe, catching dust motes drifting lazily in the air. The tiles under my feet are cool from the night, a slight relief before the day heats up.
I slice the apple into thin, fan-shaped pieces, no bruises—the way Lily insists tastes better. She’s probably right. I’ll never tell her that.
The fridge hums steadily. Outside, a bird calls, something bright and too cheerful for this hour. The house is otherwise quiet.
Then I hear Lily: soft, uneven footsteps coming down the hallway, socks sliding because she refuses to pick her feet up in the morning.
She appears in the doorway, hair a dark, tangled halo, hoodie half-zipped despite the warm air, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it’s already defeated her. Twelve going on thirty.
“Dad?” Her voice is still thick with sleep.
“Mm?” I slide the slices into a small container and snap the lid on.
“That lady.” She steps further in, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “The one who moved in next door last night.”
Her eyebrows lift — worry and curiosity blended together. She gets that from her mother.
“Did you see her hair?” Lily asks. “It’s… neon pink.”
I suppress a sigh. “I noticed.”
“Who is she?”
“No idea.” I close the lunchbox, the sound sharp in the soft morning quiet. Order restored. Routine back in place.
Lily leans against the counter, settling in like she’s preparing to interrogate me. “Do you think she’s running away from something?”
“She’s probably just a city runaway,” I say, handing her the box. “Or one of those influencers who films everything they do. New trend.”
“Do influencers move to the middle of nowhere?” She narrows her eyes like she’s catching me in a lie.
I shrug. “Maybe she needed quiet.”
Lily snorts. “Dad, her hair is loud enough to scare the owls.”
I don’t even try to argue.
Fair point.
Still, it’s not my business. Not our problem. I prefer neighbors who don’t exist.
I sort out Lily’s braid, smoothing down the flyaways, tightening the elastic at the end. Her hair’s already slipping out as it always does, but she likes when I try.
“Bus’ll be here in two,” I murmur.
She tilts her head back and beams at me, cheeks still round with childhood, eyes too knowing for her age. That quick, bright smile she also inherited from her mother, and it’s sharp little arrow, straight to the ribs every time.
“You worry too much.”
