The beach house was supposed to be that freedom. A place that belonged only to me. A place my mother would have loved, where the morning air tasted like salt and the light hit the floors like honey.
And now Victoria thought she could claim it the way she’d claimed my bedroom.
I stared at the ocean until my heartbeat settled. Then I picked up my phone again and called my father.
He answered on the second ring, voice sleepy. “Bonnie? Everything okay?”
“Dad,” I said evenly, “did you tell Victoria she could move into my house?”
There was a pause. Confusion, then alarm. “What? No. Why would I—Bonnie, what are you talking about?”
My smile sharpened.
Because that meant she’d lied.
And if Victoria was bold enough to lie this big, it wasn’t about a vacation. It wasn’t about family togetherness.
It was a takeover attempt.
“Nothing,” I said softly. “Go back to sleep. I’ll handle it.”
After I hung up, I walked through my new house in the dark. I traced the smooth edge of the kitchen counter. I looked at the framed photo I’d placed on the mantle—my mother, laughing, hair blown across her cheek by wind.