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PROLOGUE

Jocatta Saltonstall had never been mistaken for a tenderhearted woman. She was a firm believer in the old adage Ask for forgiveness, not permission. It was a motto that had landed her in trouble at work more times than she dared to count; still, she was reliable, and as industrious as she was formidable, so upper management had decided to keep her.

Wherever Jocatta went about the office, gossip seemed to follow. She had been with the company for twenty years, some said, and yet she never seemed to age a day. She rarely, if ever, attended work social events, and when she did, she skulked in the corner like a well-dressed metaphorical fly on the wall. A veil of mystery shrouded her, so thick it was almost like a physical garment, making her entirely incomprehensible.

She had a husband, Thomas (a much more sensible name than her own) and two adult daughters, though judging by her taut, silk-smooth skin, she was barely approaching forty. There were rumors too of a third child she kept locked in the attic like the mad wife in Jane Eyre, who probably wasn’t even mad, just an unfortunate victim of the patriarchy.

Far from trying to dispel these rumors, Jocatta didn’t seem to mind them. In fact, judging by the subtle smirks she made upon overhearing particularly ludicrous falsehoods about her mysterious life, it seemed she was rather entertained by the idle gossip.

Perhaps the more the people raved, the less they pried.

She drove an inconspicuous black SUV, the kind that slipped down streets unnoticed, like a black cat at twilight. She was never followed.

If a colleague were to find themselves suddenly desperate to discover where Jocatta spent her time outside of nine to five, they would trail her for precisely twenty-eight miles down the state highway, heading east, before taking a sharp left turn onto a narrow street that led to the very edge of the coast. Only with four-wheel drive would they be able to complete their voyage, trundling down the nearly invisible dirt driveway lined with ancient trees which curled inward and above, all but blocking out the sky.

Here they would meet their journey's end, because at the entrance to the grounds loomed a wrought iron gate with a passcode that only Jocatta, her husband, and her children knew. It wasn’t written down, least of all at Jocatta’s desk or anywhere at the office. So even if she were ever followed, her home would remain invisible.

Upon seeing the fortification of the oceanside estate, this fictitious nosy colleague might wonder if Jocatta was protecting her family from the world, or the world from her family. Luckily, no such colleague existed, and the property remained undisturbed.

At least, for a time.

When Jocatta rolled to a stop that November evening, she knew at once that something was amiss. The gate was securely closed, there wasn’t a soul in sight, no visible disturbance of any kind—yet the air prickled the back of her neck as though the sea had gifted it with claws. She entered the passcode with trembling fingers, her boot hitting the gas with more force than necessary as she wound around the final bend.

She parked in front of a modest-sized house, unremarkable considering the ostentatious barricade surrounding it, a prim, red-painted colonial from the turn of the nineteenth century. She wasted no time exiting the car. Her normally sure hands fumbled the house key as she twisted it in the lock, pushing open the front door.

Pausing only to switch on a light, Jocatta climbed the creaking staircase, up one story, two.

“Blair?” She clutched her keys to her chest like a lifeline as she spotted a letter on the desk, folded carefully like an official notice from the bank. She ran a finger gently over the note as if it were a baby bird, raising a shaking hand to her throat as she steeled herself for the worst.

An hour later, the front door groaned open and closed with a thud. The house was dark and silent. It was just after seven o’clock.

Jocatta barely raised her head as footsteps sounded just outside the parlor door and her husband switched on the floor lamp. She sat in a rocking chair, cocooned in the warm wool blanket their daughter, Venetia, had gifted them many decades ago. Even so, she shivered.

“He’s gone, Thomas,” she whispered. She was still gripping the note.

Thomas stepped forward and held out his hand in a wordless gesture. Reluctantly, Jocatta handed him the letter. He scanned the page. “He says he left because of your vision. What vision?” His voice was gruff as he fell into the armchair adjacent to her.

Jocatta gestured to the coffee table, where a leather-bound book lay open to a page near the middle. Her husband’s face remained impassive, but she saw the tell-tale twitch in his right cheek as he slid his glasses out of his shirt pocket and began to read the handwritten text.

“The vision came to me a week or so ago. I thought my journal was the safest place to confide in.” Jocatta let out a long, wavering breath. “I never imagined Blair would read it… What should we do?”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. He flipped the page. Jocatta stroked anxious circles in her jade necklace. At last, her husband leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead.

“Nothing,” he said, ignoring his wife’s horrified expression. He folded his glasses and tossed them onto the table.

“Nothing?” Jocatta repeated numbly.

Thomas closed the journal with a snap of finality that made Jocatta flinch. “We’ve done enough.”

A spasm of fear wracked its way up Jocatta’s spine. She glanced around the room as though hoping to find a defender in the painting of Joan of Arc or the vase of wildflowers on the mantlepiece. “But⁠—”

“Enough, Jocatta.” Thomas met her gaze at last. His face softened. “You’ve done all you can.”

Jocatta grasped her necklace, her eyes burning. She felt as though the vile spirit of a boa constrictor were wrapping itself around her chest in invisible coils. “The world can be so cruel,” she whispered, reaching for the letter and reading it for what felt like the hundredth time.

“And yet,” her husband intoned, “it seems you envisioned a safe harbor.”

Jocatta snorted. “You know as well as I how unreliable my visions are.” She traced the final words of the letter. “How unpredictable people can be. Especially around us.”