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Especially when she found out where Rory was headed.

Her phone led her down a few winding roads. Rory watched as the houses around her got bigger and bigger, turning from single-family homes to gargantuan mansions. The people in this town certainly had a lot of money. The Barrys must also be loaded.

She turned onto a tiny street, following a smooth path that led to a pair of towering wrought-iron doors, blocking the way to the colossal estate on the other side. It was like something you’d see in a period drama, tucked into the countryside of Ireland or England—not Rhode Island. The estate could fit ten houses the size of hers in Misty Bay. Maybe more.

The camera at the top corner of the gate kicked into gear, the lens whirring to focus on Rory in her car.

“Can I help you?” asked a gruff voice from the intercom system next to her.

She looked up, noticing that there wasn’t any kind of camera system for her to see whoever was talking on the other line. It sounded like a man though. Was it Fred? Could that be her father?

She cleared her throat, taking the chance anyway. “I’m Rory Michaels.”

Her response was followed by soul-sucking silence. But she stood her ground, her eyes still on that camera.

It felt like an eternity passed before she finally got a response.

“Stay there.”

The intercom system cut off. She wondered if maybe the person would open up the iron gates, letting her drive through. But after a few moments, she watched as a tall figure exited the front entrance of the estate, now taking the paved path toward her.

She stepped out of her car, leaning against the hood as she waited. Her pulse quickened, but she tried keeping her cool and looking relaxed.

When the man made it to the gates, she finally knew who her father was. After looking through all the photos she could find of him in her mother’s secret memory box, she would be able to recognize those sea-foam green eyes anywhere. The same ones she saw in the mirror every day.

Fred Barry. Her father. It really was him. And he was nothing like the perfect father she’d pictured in her head.

His eyes were similar, but everything else about him was different. His face was covered in scruff, his build bulkier. He wore a flannel, jeans, and work boots.

And despite his happiness in that photo on the football field, in that moment, he looked everything but. There was no welcoming smile or running hug, like what she always dreamed. Instead, he looked peeved.

“Did she send you?” he asked roughly.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he sneered. “Did she send you?”

“You mean my mother?”

“Who else would I be talking about?”

Rory’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t even say Gabi’s name.

“No,” she finally responded. “She has no idea I’m here.”

He huffed, looking away. “How’d you find me?”

“Google.”

He shook his head, looking irritated. “Fucking technology.”

You’ll always regret it if you don’t try.

She took a deep breath, bracing for whatever was to come. “The day I was born, she wrote you a letter. It was sent back.”

“We left Orlando,” he explained. “And when that letter ended up here, I had it sent back.”

Her face felt tight, and she could sense tears coming on. She tried holding them in. The last thing she wanted was to cry in front of this resentful, haunted man. “Why?”