7

When I was thirteen years old (we lied and said I was fifteen), I began cleaning houses with my mother.

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears the morning I got in the car with her for the first time, and I knew she desperately

wished her daughter was off enjoying a carefree summer in the Blue Ridge Mountains, not donning a makeshift uniform to go

to work. But money was tight, and we never knew when we might have to move again.

Had she given me the choice of cleaning houses or hunting treasures in the forest, scavenging whatever the season offered

our table—nuts, berries, mushrooms, tender dandelion leaves; free food delights me to this day—I'd have chosen to clean. Not

only did it allow me to finally contribute to our modest income, but houses fascinated me even then, unfolding intimate stories,

some safe, others ugly, some happy, others tragic; harboring secrets in drawers, backs of closets, and forgotten pockets.

Before long, I knew which spouses were unfaithful, whose children struggled with grades, hid drugs beneath their mattresses,

wrestled with self-image, were being bullied.

I became emotionally invested in those fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, reading diaries it wasn't my right to open, uncovering secrets that weren't mine to know and most definitely weren't mine to do something about, like leaving a phone number retrieved from a pocket on the lid of a washer (once I figured out who got home from work first) or displaying a used condom (swept from beneath the bed of a woman past menopause) atop a wastebasket and failing to bag trash when I left, or moving a concealed diary to a nightstand, hoping a parent might read it in time.

Small things, really, and if certain family members hadn't been keeping secrets in the first place, my actions wouldn't have

kicked up a storm. But Adeline was cutting herself, and Keith was having yet another affair and thinking of leaving his wife.

How could Mrs.Holden help her daughter, or Mrs.Miller fight for her marriage, if they didn't even know there was a threat?

The third time Mom moved us because of something I'd done, I stopped interfering. That was when I began making my unbreakable

rules: Never care about the people whose houses you clean, or any employer. They certainly didn't care about us. We weren't even people to most of them. Merely faceless fulfillers of a function.

You're not responsible for fixing their families or ensuring they stay together, nor can you predict good will come from the

things you do , Mom had said. A long pause, then sadly, Do you really feel we're so broken, Zo?

Her question cut to the quick. We were wonderful, and she was the best of mothers. I was loved and cherished, never hungry,

never harmed. Our life was good.

Still... we were so unlike the families that lived in those houses of constancy and permanence. It was always just the

two of us, slipping quietly into town, melting away in the darkness. As a child, I'd pretended we were good witches, forced

to flee a wicked warlock, scrubbing away our tracks with twig brooms scented with cinnamon and clove. I'd needed the fantasy.

Easy to begin to feel invisible when you're taught as a child to erase all trace of having been anywhere.

Mom made me feel seen while she was alive. Since the day of her demise, I'd been wafting about, unnoticed as a ghost, lacking even the solace of a house to haunt.

In time I would understand that on the night I stepped across the threshold of the Cameron ancestral home, I couldn't have

been more primed to be seduced by all the house at Watch Hill had to offer had I been raised, intentionally, to succumb. Which

was certainly not Joanna Grey's intent.

More than merely four walls, an impossible dream of a life, home has always been an irresistible word to me.

When I awakened the next morning, I had seventeen text messages from Este, each more frantic than the last.

Since Mom passed, I'd gotten into the habit of turning off my ringer when I went to bed, desperate for those rare, few hours

of sleep I might get. Silencing my phone was a luxury I never had while she was alive. I'd learned to sleep featherlight,

lest she need something in the middle of the night or, God forbid—once the cancer had metastasized to bone—stumble and fall

on her way to the bathroom, breaking something so badly she'd never walk again. Now to sleep was to temporarily die, feel

nothing, a state for which I hungered with every atom of my being, fully aware that the moment my brain kicked awake, the

crushing desolation of grief would once again saturate me to the bone.

I was shocked to find I'd slept a solid eight hours, and even more startled to discover that, according to my texts, the police

were on their way to my short-term rental in Frankfort, Indiana, to break down the door and see if I was alive.

If it were anyone but Este, I wouldn't have believed it—Chief Beckett hated doing welfare checks, referred them to social services whenever he could—but Este had a way of persuading people to comply with her wishes. She'd saunter in, tall, charismatic, and commanding. Even I had fallen prey to her machinations a time or two, accused her of casting spells to get us to do her bidding. She'd cut me a startled look and said, "I would never do such a thing, Zo. The person with the strongest will wins in any situation. You just have to want what you want more than

anyone else does. Passion is the currency of the universe."

It didn't hurt that she was gorgeous, with a British Nigerian mother and a Scottish father, blue eyes that ran the gamut from

cloudless azure when happy to storm-filled ultramarine when impassioned by something (which was 99percent of the time), and

a fascinating mishmash of an accent. Este was as unpredictable as my life was routinized, could be a total pain in the ass,

and I adored her. Most of the time, like any sisters, blood or chosen.

I'm fine. I'm in Louisiana , I texted.

WTF?!!!

I'll call you in a few days and fill you in. She was never going to believe what had happened. I didn't. Given time, maybe I would. Assuming it wasn't all snatched away

any second now.

My ass. Talk.

When my phone vibrated, I thumbed it to voicemail. I'd been avoiding her since the day of the fire. Bonding deeply over the challenges the world had thrown our way, we prided ourselves on our strength in the face of adversity, and I'd been anything but strong the past few weeks, weeping at the slightest provocation, battling grief and depression. I despise spreading a mood around if it's not a good one. People have enough problems; they don't need mine. Este and I were similar in many ways, but our lives had diverged sharply since high school. She'd graduated college three years ago, had already begun to establish a reputation as an artist of considerable talent—as she'd informed me so grandly at the age of nine that she would—whereas, until yesterday, I'd been buried in the debt and rubble of my life, unable to see a way to dig myself out. Her star was rising; mine had sunk to the bottom of a pit of wet concrete. I'm still hiding from people. Give me a few more days.

It's been two weeks! That's all you get. Where in Louisiana? Why? And how long are you staying there?

I thought about it a moment, then—avoiding the why—replied, Not sure yet. Maybe indefinitely.

I'll be there this afternoon!

I sighed. Once Este made up her mind, I was as likely to divert a meteor from its path. She'd find a flight, get a cab, and

be on my doorstep in a matter of hours if I didn't deflect her with an alternate plan .

How about Friday? Can you get away? Come for the weekend?

I can always get away. Address?

Town called Divinity. Place is Watch Hill.

Address?

I frowned, puzzling. I don't know that there is one. Fact was, the house didn't need one. You won't have any problem finding it. Ask anyone in town, they'll point you to it. I snickered, imagining the look on her face when she glanced up and saw the house for the first time. Wondered if she'd shiver

with the same sudden chill.

You can't come before 6 p.m.

Why the hell not?

Long story. I'll tell you when you get here. 6. No sooner.

Although I wasn't remotely convinced the inheritance was genuinely mine, on the off chance it might be, I wasn't about to

jeopardize it.

I began to put my phone down, but it lit up again.

Did they find a safe? After the fire?

I blinked. What?

Your mother told me that if anything ever happened to her, there was a fireproof safe in her closet. She wanted you to have

it. Do you?

When did Mom tell you that? I hadn't known about the safe, but Este did?

Years ago. I dropped by but you weren't home. She was in a weird mood. She actually offered me tea, like I was a real person

and everything. This I could hear Este saying dryly. Our mothers so despised each other, they'd been icily civil to us, at best. Did it survive the fire?

I was still struggling to wrap my brain around the fact that my mother had told Este something she'd not told me. Did you have tea with Mom? I asked, trying to imagine the bizarre event.

Eyeroll emoji. How is that even relevant?! Do you have the damn thing?

It survived the fire. What do you know about the safe?

Nothing, just that she wanted you to have it.

Three dots for a long moment, then,

Has anything strange happened to you since Joanna died?

I equivocated, Strange how?

Answer the question.

We can talk when you get here.

Bet your ass we will. Something happened. But you're okay?

Yes.

Not freaking out about anything?

Not at all.

It was a small, necessary lie. If she thought I was freaking out, she'd be here this afternoon, and I needed time to process

my swift and strange reversal of fortune and, with any luck, stop crying uncontrollably at unexpected times. Not at all.

Friday then. 1 pm.

6!

CU

6! I mean it! It's important.

That was Este. No rules. She lived audaciously. If passion was the currency of the universe and you got as good as you gave, it was no wonder her life was so rich and colorful, and mine so impoverished. I'd done the right things, the necessary things, stoically and, I hoped, with a bit of Mom's grace. The only passions I'd ever indulged were my one-night stands.

Nor had I ever seen an ounce of explosive passion in Mom. Love? Yes. Deep and unconditional. Quiet joy, frequently. Wild,

unfettered energy? Never. Placid mom, placid daughter. Hunter women were explosively self-possessed. Grey women were tidily

self-contained. Once I'd also have said Grey women held no secrets from one another. Yet Mom had told Este something she'd

never told me. It bothered me more than I cared to think about, so I shoved the thought away, focusing, instead, on the here

and now.

As I sprawled in the softest sheets ever to caress my skin, atop the most luxurious mattress on which I'd ever slept, in the

finest home I'd ever glimpsed (excluding the hideous, off-putting exterior), I vowed that once I signed those papers—and yes,

I would sign them; I had no life to which anyone but a fool would willingly return—I would choose my dreams and pursue them as fiercely

as Este did. Mom would want no less for me. If heaven, as such, existed and she was there—which of course gentle, good Joanna

Grey would be—I imagined she was beaming with joy, delighted by my unexpected reversal of fortune, ecstatic at the abundance

of opportunity with which my life was suddenly rife.

Thoughts of Mom jostled to mind fragments of the almost forgotten nightmare. Hugging her, only to realize it wasn't my mother

at all. The throat-thickening stench of decay, the greed and evil of the entity that had clutched me. The odd, muffled laugh

I'd imagined I'd heard from within the walls of the house.

"Absurd," I snorted, as I tossed back the covers and pushed up from bed. I'd been exhausted, emotionally and physically, in an undeniably strange house and stranger situation. Of course I'd had a bad dream.

My choices for the day staggered me: Shower in a luxurious spa bathroom or take a morning swim? See if there was a car for

each of those bay doors in the garage, and use one to go sign papers that would make me a millionaire 150times over, or stay

put and explore the house I was allegedly to inherit? Find Juniper Cameron's office and search for genetic testing that proved

we were related, or go down to Divinity to look for a job? Should I get a job or look into nearby colleges?

At the very least, I decided, I should allow myself the three days until Este arrived to acclimate and ponder my options.

I had a future to plan, dreams to dream, and, in the sweet, golden light of morning streaming in the window above the pool

with the cushioned chaises upon which I was determined to spend at least an hour this afternoon, not one of them was a nightmare.

Last night in the gloom, Cameron Manor had seemed to loom vast and menacingly around me as I, a tiny dot on a map I'd never

seen, fumbled my way blindly through it.

In the soft, dewy light of a Louisiana morning, it felt completely different, seeming to stretch invitingly in all directions.

Come see me, explore me, I'm all yours! it exclaimed brightly.

Inconceivable.

Despite my skepticism, I was game. When I stepped from my bedroom after the most indulgent shower I'd ever taken, finally washing the drugging scent of Kellan from my skin, and the staircase beckoned up rather than down, I yielded to the temptation to explore without purpose. I was mistress of my day for the first time in longer than I could recall and determined to savor the luxury for however long it might last.

As I ascended the stairs, I noticed eight sizeable stained-glass panels set into the roof of an atrium of sorts that capped

the stairwell far above me, with what appeared to be manual cranks attached to the frames. Each of the loden and gold panels

featured a symbol with three branches of intricate spirals, rotating counterclockwise, that seemed of archaic origin, and

I made a mental note to ask Mr.Balfour about them. I was eager to know historic details of the manor, in case it really was

my history. The idea that I might have roots stretching back centuries was quietly intoxicating.

When I reached the third floor, I skirted the balustrade, trailing my fingers along the railing, trying to acclimate myself

to the idea that this was all soon to be mine—this lovely banister and the decidedly awful wallpaper and the gilt-framed portraits

of staid Camerons in antiquated attire. I strode down a long corridor with half a dozen closed doors on either side, which

ended in a wide parlor at the front of the house, with fireplaces at each end tall enough to stand upright in; a necessity,

I supposed, in centuries before modern heating. The room was furnished more casually than those I'd glimpsed last night, with

an eye to comfort, all thick rugs and overstuffed chairs and a plush sectional. It was the perfect place to curl up with a

book on a rainy day.

Beyond a west-facing wall of windows, yet another vine-draped, cast-iron balcony spanned the width of the parlor. I opened

the door and stepped out onto the narrow terrace, breathing deeply of the sultry morning breeze, staring down at the town

of Divinity through the limbs of a pair of colossal oaks bracketing the front entry to the house.

I'd thought the view spectacular from the ground, but three stories up, through a fringe of gently swaying silvery moss, I faced an even more impressive vista. With a high-powered telescope angled the right way, I might examine the minute details of each building, peer into the windows of the homes. Puzzled at the uncharacteristically voyeuristic turn of my thoughts, I glanced over my shoulder and realized I must have subconsciously noted the large telescope on a wheeled base tucked in a far corner, nearly swallowed by a voluminous fall of drape.

My ancestor—if indeed she was—had been a peeping tom. No doubt she'd watched Devlin Blackstone swim nude, too. Good for her about Devlin , I thought, smiling faintly. Spying on the town seemed as disconcertingly controlling as her rules regarding visitors, but

I decided to allow that, perhaps, at a hundred years of age, she'd had few other pleasures. Or perhaps she'd had reason. Or

perhaps she'd not done it at all, but angled the telescope toward the stars.

"You don't want to get in my way this morning, James," a woman said sharply below. "I mean business. Step aside and let me

in. I have important matters to discuss with her."

I glanced down and blinked, surprised. I'd been so distracted by the view that I'd failed to notice the drive had turned into a parking lot while I'd slept. Twenty or more cars were parked at hasty angles around the fountain, and dozens of women were jostling on the stairs, ascending to the porch where, apparently, Mr. Balfour stood sentry, refusing to allow them to pass. At the head of the group was a reed-thin woman with shoulder length ice-blond hair, wearing an exquisitely fitted blue suit and heels, pearls at her neck and wrists, expensive sunglasses perched atop her head, designer purse tucked beneath her arm while I, barefoot, in jeans, fidgeted with the hem of my T-shirt, deciding I might rotate my only two dresses for a while. As no one was looking up and likely wouldn't, I melted back a smidge, wondering if "her" was me.

"No one is going inside, Althea," said Mr.Balfour. "No one is discussing anything with her. I told you, you're to give her

time—"

"We don't have time! The scholarship fund hasn't been approved, and the deadline is Friday. Ten of Divinity's brightest young

graduates still don't know if they can afford university come fall," Althea interrupted.

"To hell with your scholarship fund, Althea," a brunette woman in a peach dress clipped. "The Coventry Women's Clinic takes

priority. The opening is Tuesday, and we don't even have the budget to turn the lights on." Tone softening, she added, "No

disrespect to Juniper, James. We all know how ill she was in her final months, too ill to be bothered with paperwork of any

sort. We're just committed to ensuring her charity work continues."

"How do we even know this alleged heir will continue funding Juniper's charities?" Althea demanded. "What about the loans, the entrepreneur of the year awards?

What if she just takes the Cameron fortune and runs? Will she care for Divinity as Juniper did? How could an outsider? Does she understand the duties and responsibilities that come with the estate?"

"I wasn't about to go into that kind of detail last night, Althea. Ms.Grey traveled a long way and was having difficulty

absorbing the terms of her inheritance. She lost her mother a few weeks ago and is still grieving deeply. She needs time,

and I mean to see that she gets it. Juniper chose me to handle Ms.Grey's acclimation period as I see fit. That, too, is spelled

out in her will."

"Which you still haven't permitted us to see," Althea hissed.

"Nor will I. A last will and testament is a private matter. If you, Ms. Bean—bearing absolutely no relationship to the deceased, nor were you counted among her friends—choose to contest it, there is a legal arena in which you might do so. I assure you, you won't win," Mr. Balfour replied coolly.

"What about genetic testing? Surely that's been done. When will we see the results?" Althea demanded.

"The same time you see the will," he retorted flatly. "Never."

Althea swiftly switched tactics. "The loss of her mother is yet more reason Ms.Grey would benefit from the warmth of women

around her. We'd be of far more use to her at this delicate time than an elderly attorney. A man , at that."

"Yes, James, get out of the way and let us in! Let her be the one to decide whether or not she wants company," the champion of the Coventry Women's Clinic pressed.

"Absolutely not, Janie," said Mr.Balfour. "Two weeks. You will leave her—and me—in peace for a fortnight. Find ways to delay

the openings and scholarships, and I assure you, they will merely be delays. If Ms.Grey doesn't feel up to making the necessary

decisions by then, I'll see to the funding myself, via the estate. Now, leave, the lot of you, before you do what you intended

and frighten her away."

"She's an outsider," Janie said, determined to push, "and a complete unknown. We don't want her here, and there are far more

who feel the same than came with us today. Isabel and Archie can step in without missing a beat."

"If you think for one moment the Alexanders are the solution to our problems, you're more delusional than I thought," Mr.Balfour

rebuked her. "She's a blood Cameron, and Juniper spent the final decades of her life and a considerable fortune finding her.

Leave now, before Ms.Grey awakens."

I frowned. "Blood Cameron" was an odd turn of phrase.

"I'm not going anywhere," the Coventry Women's Clinic advocate huffed. "I'll set up camp on the lawn if I must."

"You'd hardly dare. Come nightfall, you'd race back down that hill," Mr.Balfour growled.

I frowned. What happened at nightfall? Devlin Blackstone was the only thing I could think of that was crepuscular, to purloin

Mr.Balfour's word, and I could scarcely see a woman fleeing him. Rather, she'd race toward him.

"We aren't even certain," Mr.Balfour continued, "that she'll accept the terms of Juniper's will."

Althea rolled her eyes. "If we could be so lucky. There's not a fool alive that would turn her back on Juniper's money. That

impoverished bitch is in debt up to her eyebrows, and she won't leave unless we make it clear just how unwelcome she is."

"But she is welcome, and Juniper is the key word there, as the one who chose Ms.Grey. The matter is final and incontestable. End of discussion," Mr.Balfour

said flatly.

Althea demanded, "Arrange a proper reception so we can meet her tonight, and we'll leave. For now."

"My rules, my way, in my time, as Juniper willed it. Don't push me. She didn't keep me at her side for half a century for

my legal skills alone." There was a pause, then he added quietly, "As well you know. Unless you wish a reminder."

The air seemed to grow strangely heavy, as if abruptly charged with the oppressive tension of a gathering torrential storm,

heat lightning arcing, hot and wild, at the front. It was enough to make the hair on my arms stand on end. I rubbed at sudden

goose bumps, watching in bemused silence as, one by one, the women turned, got in their cars, and drove away. How strange!

Even venomous Althea left in silence, betraying her ire only by the piss and vinegar in her stride.

Clearly, Mr.Balfour held serious sway and power in this town.

I was surprised to find I was trembling.

I was an outsider. Again.

No friends. Again.

Underdressed. Again.

Which shouldn't matter, but the right clothing had a way of making a woman feel as if she were wearing a suit of armor. I'd

watched the girls in high school with all the right clothes; they'd been untouchable . I sincerely doubted Althea Bean (and, really, what kind of last name was that? At least I wasn't Zo Pea) woke and dressed

each day in a suit, heels, and pearls. But when she decided to drop in unannounced on the poor heiress ("impoverished bitch,"

she'd called me!) who, as far as she was concerned, had stolen the inheritance from its rightful heirs, she'd come dressed

for battle. She wasn't on my front step so early in the morning for approval of a scholarship fund. If Mr.Balfour hadn't

prevented their entry, if I'd opened the door barefoot, with wet, uncombed hair and no makeup, to find that pack of women

on the step, it would have made me feel as small and out of my depth as she'd intended. Temper flared, white-hot, startling

me with its intensity, as the dragon in my belly snorted fire, demanding I take instant, aggressive action to defend myself

and check that bitch , which was just weird. I was steady, moderate Zo. My way was to analyze obstacles, nuance difficult situations, not lash

out. Yet adrenaline was surging through my body, and I positively itched to start a fight.

Stilling myself, I breathed, slow and measured, for several moments until my hands unclenched. To my astonishment, I saw that

I'd fisted them so hard my nails had pierced my palms. Grief clearly intensified all emotions, not just sorrow, and I would need to be on guard against it.

The fact was, Ms. Bean's behavior was understandable. (Ah, there was pragmatic, see-it-from-everyone-else's-point-of-view Zo.) Well, maybe not entirely understandable, but local resistance

to my presence certainly was. I'd been too stupefied by the sudden, surreal reversal of my fortunes to consider some folks

in Divinity might be less than thrilled by my arrival, resenting that a complete stranger—and a young one at that—had been

bequeathed the scepter and mantle of their beloved century-old matriarch. Clearly, Juniper had been vital to Divinity, funding

countless endeavors, championing education and fledgling business ventures. Townsfolk were bound to be curious, resentful,

wary.

"Forewarned," I murmured as I stepped back into the parlor and gently closed the door behind me. Is forearmed , Mom used to say.

I hurried back to my room to finish drying my hair and apply a bit of makeup. The clothing I couldn't do anything about. Nothing

I owned was on Althea's level.

Except the steel in my soul.