My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

The beach house was never simply real estate. You know that better than anyone. It was the first place I felt entirely myself after marrying your father. It held our happiest years and some of our worst. It held you learning to swim, your father teaching you cards at the kitchen table, my mother napping on the porch with a paperback over her face, storms that broke windows and still felt holy. Houses remember what people refuse to. That is why I put this one beyond Diana’s easy reach.

I lifted my eyes for a second, unable to continue. The older officer had taken off his hat. Madeline was staring at the tabletop as though the grain might split open and rescue her.

Evelyn touched the back of my wrist once. Just enough.

I read on.