Two hours later, I was back at Harbor Hollow.
The afternoon sun was breaking through the clouds, casting long golden beams across the water. I parked my sedan—the one they couldn’t take—in the driveway. There was no yellow truck.
There was no black SUV. There was only the sound of the wind moving through the cedar trees.
I walked up the porch steps. I didn’t need to check the camera.
I didn’t need to look over my shoulder. I unlocked the door. Not with the biometric scanner, but with the old brass key.
I wanted to feel the mechanism turn. Click. I walked inside.
The house welcomed me. The floorboards creaked in greeting. The smell of old wood and lemon oil wrapped around me like a blanket.
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
I made a cup of tea in Walter’s chipped blue mug. I walked out to the back deck and sat in the rocking chair. The wind chimes began to sing.
They were deep, resonant tones. Bong, bong, bong.
I thought about Tessa answering questions in a police station. I thought about Grant calling his creditors to explain why the asset was gone.
I thought about Elaine, alone in a penthouse she was about to lose. I felt a pang of sadness, sharp and fleeting. I grieved for them—not for the people they were today, but for the people I had desperately wanted them to be.
I grieved for the fantasy of a family that would love me without conditions.
But as the wind chimes sang again, the grief faded, replaced by a profound peace. I looked out at the water. I was twenty-eight years old.
I was alone. I had enemies. But I was home.
I raised the blue mug to the horizon, to the invisible point where the sky met the lake.
“Grandpa,” I whispered, the steam from the tea rising into the cool air.
“Grandma.”
I took a sip. It tasted like victory. It tasted like the future.
“I kept it,” I said softly.
“The door is closed. You can rest now.”
