The tires crunched slowly over the gravel as the cab turned up the long driveway. Trees arched overhead like a tunnel, filtering the late afternoon sun into golden slivers. I chewed the inside of my cheek, my fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of my tote bag. Home renovations. That was the reason Mom gave. As if I didn’t know better. She wanted space. I’d been away at school too long, grown too opinionated, too much like my father, and now I didn’t fit anymore.
She sent me here instead. To him.
The house emerged between the trees like something out of a movie. It was all glass and dark wood, sleek and expensive. Cold. My mother had called it a “guesthouse,” but this was no cottage. This was a secluded retreat buried in the hills, miles from the nearest store, where the air smelled
