8

After fortifying myself with coffee and a generous portion of Lennox's creamy chicken pot pie casserole, followed by two fluffy

biscuits smothered with peach jam, I phoned Mr.Balfour. Having lived on whatever was cheapest and quickest to prepare for

the past few years—translated: packaged and highly processed—I found home-cooked food to be a sorely missed treat. When the

attorney didn't answer, I left a message, asking if he had time to meet me at the manor this afternoon.

My mind was a murky jumble of thoughts, but one was crystal clear: it was imperative I head the intractable Ms.Bean off at

the pass, firmly and tactfully. Mobs, even smallish covens of well-heeled women, had a tendency to escalate, unredressed.

Some of my most difficult patrons in restaurant work had been the well-dressed, seemingly mannered ones. I'd learned not to

judge any book by its cover, working in the service industry.

I wasn't a person to do things halfway. On the rare occasions I committed to something, I committed 110percent. If—no, once —I accepted this inheritance, my every move would be watched, my motives second-guessed, my decisions subject to ruthless

scrutiny, which made it crucial I start out as I intended to proceed: firm, fully invested, and capable, or if incapable of

something, open to instruction on the matter. Stepping into the vacancy left by Juniper Cameron with anything less than competence

and conviction would never fly here. The beneficent matriarch had been a force of nature and nurture. I hoped we were related,

not merely for the financial legacy but that of character.

I knew nothing of my ancestry. The possibility I'd sprouted from fine, strong roots conferred a tantalizing sense of familial pride. I was grateful that, although I was only twenty-four, I'd lived a life of hard work and responsibility. Had I lived the kind of childhood I'd once envied, I'd not have been half as well suited for the challenges I faced.

As I was stepping through the back door to the rear courtyard, Mr.Balfour texted:

Does 1 work for you? I don't know which bedroom you chose but Juniper's suite is on the south end of the first floor. I do

hope we've not intruded but Lennox took the liberty of procuring clothing and whatnot for you when she learned of the fire,

and you'll find it in a closet there. We suffered a similar loss and know how time-consuming it can be to replenish.

"Time-consuming," he'd said, with his genteel southern manners, when the accurate word was impossible . I had no doubt he knew to the exact penny the appalling extent of my debt. Was there a single detail he and his wife had

failed to consider? My recent concern, that I'd appear the poor relative I was, and feel lesser for it, had been addressed

before I'd arrived. How would I ever get used to living like this—my needs anticipated and met before I even comprehended

them myself?

1 is perfect. How kind and thoughtful of Lennox, thank you. Thrusting the phone in my back pocket, I stepped out onto the patio of cream and smoke pavers hemming the pool, delighted to find them warm beneath my bare toes. Up north, it was thirty-eight degrees and drizzling this morning; I'd checked. Then I'd done a small happy dance in the shower, celebrating the fact that I was here, not there. My emotions certainly were... effusive today, my happiness giddy, my ire combustible.

Only yesterday, I'd been hoping the attorney had booked me into a hotel with a pool so I might soak up some sunshine before

returning home. Now, beneath a sunny, cerulean sky, I stood in a spectacular garden courtyard—sandwiched between the rear

of the manor and the wisteria-draped garage that matched the house for its formidable width—which boasted a resort-style pool

with six fountains, four fire bowls, two Baja shelves with sparkling white chaises, a hot tub large enough to seat a dozen,

a winding water slide, a lovely outdoor kitchen beneath a vine-draped pergola, a dining area, and a large seating cozy with

cushioned sofas and a fire pit.

All of it, allegedly, mine.

I never had to check out and go back home.

I'm not much of a curser. Mom drilled into my head that I was given a brain, it was my responsibility to use it; that resorting

to tired imprecations betrayed a lazy, undisciplined mind. But the fact is sometimes all you can do is shake your head and

say, "What the fuck? Did I die in that fire, too, and this is heaven?"

I didn't, and it wasn't. I was here, and Mom wasn't, and she would never get to see the magnificence that was Watch Hill or

watch me become more than either of us had ever dared dream I might one day be. Heart aching with grief, tears filled my eyes.

"Whuf-whuf-whuf."

I glanced behind me to find Rufus perched on the back of a pillowed chaise, head cocked, studying me with eyes of orange flame.

"I lost my mother in a fire," I told him miserably, sniffling, "and I miss her so much it feels like my soul is hemorrhaging."

"Whuf."

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I forced myself to gather my grief and pack it away. I'd promised myself to corral it, permit only certain, specific hours of the day for weeping, and, by and large, I succeeded. "I suppose you want in."

"Whuf-whuf."

"I thought owls hooted. What's with the whuffing?"

"Hoo-hoo."

I blinked. "Some of them say ‘pretty girl.'?"

Pumpkin eyes regarded me, unblinking.

Snorting at my fanciful notion that the fierce dark owl, which didn't look remotely domesticated, might echo me like a well-trained

parrot, I said, "Come on, I'll let you in."

The midnight raptor thrust off with powerful talons, soaring high before swooping low to skim the length of the courtyard,

gliding effortlessly, with the barest twitch of a wingtip, to circumvent trees and shrubbery, fountains and statues, before

alighting in a cubby above the door of a three-story greenhouse at the southernmost tip of the expansive garden.

I hurried to join him.

The house meandered in an unfathomable maze, and I swiftly concluded my guess at the square footage was woefully inaccurate. I estimated the greenhouse alone at five thousand square feet. I'd permitted myself only the briefest of peeks inside, as I watched Rufus glide up to settle on the limb of a jackfruit tree. If I entered, I'd lose the entire morning wandering around, staring open-mouthed at the abundance of exotic trees, foliage, flowers, and herbs. I'd glimpsed kumquat trees, as well as lemon and lime, hemming brick pathways; caught the scent of countless herbs and spices mingling together. Somewhere inside the lovely glass-roofed conservatory, a waterfall cascaded over stone, pooling into an unseen basin, adding humidity to the already humid clime. A waterfall—inside the house! I fancied, if the basin were a small pond of sorts, on a full moon night, I might immerse myself in those waters, salting them with my tears.

After closing the door to the greenhouse, I made my way back to the main stairs of the manor, picked the middle of three southern

corridors, and headed off in search of Juniper's suite, hoping her office, with the all-important genetic testing, would also

be in that direction.

My disorientation grew with every step. Breadcrumbs would have helped, but what I really needed was a stack of Post-its and

a Sharpie. I made a mental note to grab them, assuming I ever found a study in this place, so I could tack one to the entrance

of each corridor, notating which rooms could be found in that direction, until I got the lay of the land, assuming I ever

did. Part of the problem was the seemingly endless interior rooms with no windows but multiple connecting doors, which twisted

and turned into side corridors, making it easy to wander in circles without a view of the yard to get my bearings. Another

part of it was that those interior rooms were only dimly lit by the same amber wall sconces, and I had, as yet, no clue how

to work the Lutron lighting system. I'd poked tentatively at one of the computer panels on the wall but found the myriad options

mystifying. We didn't speak the same language, technology and I.

I opened door after door: a room of hundreds of folding chairs and tables, shelves of linens and tabletop décor for entertaining, another room filled with spring and autumn outdoor decorations, yet another of Christmas garlands, artificial trees, a hundred or more large red trunks of, I assumed, ornaments and jumbo lawn decorations, including an elaborate Santa on his sleigh, and nine life-size reindeer. God, the Christmas party I could throw!

There was a room I could only compare to a petite grocery store, stocked with toilet paper, paper towels, bottled water, dish

soap, laundry soap, and other household essentials. Another stuffed with linens of every kind. A closet filled with boxes

of expensive perfumes, designer scarves and bags, haute couture ties, all with elegant gift boxes, ribbons, and cards placed

neatly beside them. She had a gift closet. Who even did that?

With each door I opened, my astonishment escalated. This wasn't a house. It was a small town, boasting its own private boutiques.

Then I was through the maze of interior rooms, staring down a high-ceiling corridor (with more doors on each side I resolved

not to open) that ended in a pair of tall doors with ornate brass and crystal handles. There was something about those doors,

the elegance of them, their imposing placement beneath an elaborately carved arch, the polished, dark wood, and, in the center

of each upper panel, an etching of two Trinity knots merged together that whispered, You will find Juniper Cameron here .

I knew in my bones that this was her hallway. She'd walked this corridor thousands of times; she'd lived and slept and dreamed at this end of the house, and it seemed those dreams wafted still in these walls. She was here in the faint scent of spicy roses blended with a subtle perfume that was crisp and clean. (I would later learn that for more than seventy years, maids had been placing a fresh vase of ivory and blue roses in both her suite and her office each morning, and they continued to do so after her demise; that her favorite cologne was Gra Siorai, created only for her by an exclusive French perfumery.) She was here in the solemn hush of the hallway, in the regal crown moldings and elaborate wainscotting between doors, the tasteful blue and cream herringbone carpet in the hall.

Hand reflexively opening and closing, I felt abruptly apprehensive, an interloper where I had no right to be, and realized

I was swiftly becoming like the townspeople who held her in such high regard. But how could I not? She had so much, she'd

done so much, she'd cared for this town for nearly a century. How could I live up to her legacy when I wasn't even certain I could

find my way back to the room I'd slept in last night?

Mr.Balfour thought I might have chosen the suite that lay beyond those doors as mine.

Never.

I'd stay in my modest (yeah, right, but in comparison, certainly) bedroom on the second floor, which I'd found so opulent

and over-the-top last night that I'd believed it to be the master suite. There was wealth, and there was insane wealth. I was treading in the realm of the insane.

I realized I was breathing shallowly, relaxed my hand, squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and marched down the hall

toward those intimidating doors.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when a door to my left flew open and two maids stepped out, pushing a cart piled high with

freshly laundered bedlinens, towels, and pillowcases, canvas pouches of dirty laundry hooked to the sides. "Good morning,

ma'am," they said as one, with nods that conveyed deference.

"Good morning," I said warmly. "I'm Zo Grey."

"We know, ma'am. I'm Betsy," said the older, more matronly of the two, "and this is Alice. Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

"You don't need to call me ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am," Betsy said with another small nod.

"You can call me Zo."

"No, ma'am."

Okay, that hadn't worked. "Is this a southern thing?"

"Yes, ma'am," Alice said, hazel eyes twinkling. "If you weren't the heir, we'd call you MissZo, but as the heir, it's ma'am

to us, and all the staff."

"Did Juniper insist on that?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," Betsy said with a laugh, tucking a stray gray curl beneath her cap. "And she knew she'd never break us of

it. It's a matter of respect. Welcome to Cameron Manor, ma'am. If there's anything we can do to help you settle in and get

comfortable, please let us know."

"We saw you selected one of the north bedrooms," Alice said. "Would you like us to move your things to her suite, ma'am?"

"No," I said hastily. "I'm quite comfortable where I've settled, thank you."

"Very well, ma'am."

As they turned and began down the hall with their cart, I asked, "How many members of staff are here during the day?"

Turning, Betsy said, "There's old Clyde Baird that staffs the south parlor to oversee deliveries and whatnot, with the assistance of two houseboys you'll find on the south porch. Six maids arrive at nine thirty in the morning, departing at four in the afternoon. Juniper liked the early hours to herself, but if you'd like us to work a different shift, you've just to say so. There's a crew of two to six gardeners, depending on seasonal needs; a horticulturalist who sees to the greenhouse; two men who tend the pool, ponds, and fountains; and a part-time mechanic who keeps the cars running smoothly. Then, of course, there's the crew that tends the land. A team of maids comes quarterly and on a holiday schedule to do a deep-clean of the house, baseboards and light fixtures and such. The staff increases threefold during holidays, but for now it's the skeleton crew."

The skeleton crew: a mere fifteen to twenty-one people. "Thank you, Betsy."

"You're welcome, ma'am."

I watched as she and Alice vanished beyond a door to clean a bedroom that was, no doubt, never used, dazed and dismayed by

the extravagance. How was a woman who'd barely kept her head above water most of her life supposed to grow accustomed to such

excess, such... wastefulness? Was it wastefulness when it provided what I hoped were good jobs with benefits for so many?

It was no wonder Juniper had insisted I live here for three years. It could easily take me that long to fully comprehend her

world, decide if I could fit into it, if I wanted to. Her legacy was turning out to be far more complex than I'd imagined.

I turned back to those double doors that both invited and intimidated.

"She chose me," I whispered. For whatever reason, Juniper Cameron believed I was her heir. I would never be able to fill her

shoes if I didn't believe it, too. Hopefully somewhere in her suite were the papers that proved it.

I hurried to the door, ran my fingertips over one of the engraved symbols before closing my hand around the cool crystal knob,

and pushed open the door, then paused a moment, reluctant to enter. Not that her suite wasn't inviting. To the contrary, it

was the loveliest, most welcoming space I'd seen in the manor so far, light and airy and feminine.

The herringbone carpet continued into the suite, but transitioned from navy and cream to an aqua and ivory pattern that was no-pile yet plush beneath my feet. As opposed to the rich dark mahogany throughout the manor, the elaborate woodwork here was gloss-white, the furnishings coastal and breezy, with floor-to-ceiling windows on virtually every wall. What remained between was dressed with a pale, shimmery wallpaper that seemed almost crystalline, refracting light. Upon closer inspection, I realized that was because the fabric was actually dusted with tiny, sparkling crystals—like I said, insane wealth.

I forced myself to stride briskly through the foyer of the suite, past the table holding a large vase of blue and cream roses,

to a bedroom where a tufted velvet bed faced an ornate fireplace and, beyond that, a door to a bathroom with lavish marble

murals on the walls of the shower and above the deep jetted tub. Beyond the bathroom was a serene spa with a hot-rock sauna,

a waterfall feature spilling down a gleaming silver wall, and two massage tables. I couldn't fathom the luxury of having a

masseuse come to my house. I stepped swiftly into that mind-boggling bathroom, searching high and low, every drawer, each

vanity top. (I mean, really, the woman had either pilfered my trash or swiped my hair for answers. That could work both ways.)

To my astonishment, I found not a single brush or comb. How was that even possible? The woman had to brush her hair. But no:

not a single strand of gene-laden locks. Feeling incredibly foolish, but driven by an obsessive desire to know, I crawled

about the floor, seeking forgotten nail clippings or stray hairs that might have drifted into an untidied corner. But the

suite had apparently been meticulously cleaned and stripped of all trace of genetic material. I mean, really—no brush? Not

even a toothbrush? The trash can was empty, as I was fairly certain at that point it would be. Next, I went to the shower

drain. Spotless, emitting the faint smell of bleach. I searched the massage table, the blankets, and came up empty-handed

there, too.

Knowing I'd be disappointed, I ruffled her pillows, stripped back the sheets. Not a speck of anything.

No television, either; no trace of technology in the suite. And no study.

The closet was the size of my north bedroom, with opal carpet, sea-green wallpaper, custom drawers and shelves and glass cabinets

all around; the transom ceiling was hung with four petite crystal chandeliers. It must have been recently emptied of Juniper's

clothing, as only a small corner of it was in use. On a dresser island was an envelope with my name on it. I hurried over

and withdrew a brief note from Lennox that said Welcome, Ms.Grey! I guessed you at a size four but after a few months of our cooking, a six might better serve, so you've

doubles of everything. Enjoy! All you see is yours.

The last phrase reverberated, gong-like, in my head. That was exactly what I was having such a hard time accepting: that any

of this extraordinary wealth, even the tiniest portion, was actually mine.

I drifted slowly toward the clothing with a mixture of trepidation and something uncomfortably close to reverence. Walmart

was my mall. Here were labels bearing the names Dior, Versace, Chanel, Hermès, and Armani, with tags still on that made me

gasp with shock and ever-pragmatic horror. There were suits, dresses, and evening gowns, with coordinating shoes, scarves,

and purses displayed on shelves beneath them.

Near a pile of department store boxes that I assumed contained whatever "whatnot" was, I found designer workout gear, jeans by brands I'd never heard of, and (oh, thank you, Lennox, for something I understood!) soft flannel shirts and hiking boots. A stack of tees, sweatshirts, underwear, bras, half a dozen nightgowns with matching robes. Socks, tennis shoes, boots, sandals, flip-flops, hats, gloves, jackets.

Plucking a Chanel dress from the rack, I held it in front of me, eyeing myself in the mirror with wonder that vied with deep

unease. My new wardrobe far exceeded the armor for which I'd hoped, and I had no doubt Lennox had chosen it to ensure I was

prepared for a potentially fractious confrontation with portions of the town, but this dress alone would have paid our rent

for a year. I'd never worn anything that cost more than thirty or forty dollars in my life. And there were two of everything. With the exception of exchanging texts with Este, nothing about my morning was comprehensible. Beneath pleasure

lurked anxiety. I'd read news stories about lottery winners whose worlds went straight to hell after they struck it rich.

"Tools," I murmured, returning the dress to the rack. If I thought of the outfits as useful implements, it was easier. Exiting

the closet, I saw two bellboy carts tucked discreetly to the side and made a mental note to come back and transport the items

later.

I'd meet Mr.Balfour in my other dress this afternoon. I needed time to wrap my head around slipping into something that cost

more than my car.

Abruptly, I couldn't leave the south end of the manor fast enough, but as I made a beeline for the door, I discovered a second

envelope propped against the vase of flowers with my name written on it in bold yet feminine handwriting. I picked it up and

turned it over to open it, only to find an old-fashioned, scarlet wax seal embossed with the initial C where the folds of the envelope joined and a message penned beneath on the back of the creamy vellum: Do not open this until you've been in the manor seven full days and nights.

I frowned. Was this from Juniper? Did it contain the genetic testing that would tell me how we were related? Why shouldn't I open it for a week? Or more specifically, "seven full days and nights," which struck me as a rather bizarre way

to define a week. Technically, that was more than a week. I'd arrived Monday night. That meant it didn't count as a full day

and night.

Furthermore, who would know? Was I being watched? I rubbernecked, checking every corner of the suite's foyer for cameras.

None that I could see. Would opening the envelope constitute a breach of the estate's contingencies? Was this a test?

Irritated by yet another mystifying, controlling dictum, clutching the envelope, I hurried out the door, figuring it might

take me so long to find my way back, I'd scarcely have time to change for my meeting with Mr.Balfour.

I divined a logic to the manor's layout on my return, realizing it made use of the interior, windowless rooms for storage

purposes, while those on the perimeter with windows were used for habitation. So long as I didn't get diverted to the middle,

it was navigable. I peeked into a stately two-floor library of burnished wood with tall, arched old-fashioned windows, multiple

guest bedrooms, a small kitchen, and two more parlors of sorts. Having bypassed the interior maze, I was back at the main

entry of the house in under five minutes, unfortunately sans Post-it notes and Sharpie. Still, I felt reasonably certain of

my ability to retrace my steps to Juniper's suite when I was ready to fetch my new wardrobe, so I considered the morning,

so far, a win.

I was seated in the parlor near the front foyer at five minutes to one, composing my thoughts, when Betsy ducked her capped

head in to inform me Mr.Balfour was waiting for me in the south reception room.

"Why didn't he come to the front door?" I asked as I followed the sturdily built, bustling woman to one of the southern corridors I'd not explored.

"None but family uses the main entry," she replied, moving briskly down the corridor, not missing the opportunity to whisk

a dustcloth along the lip of the wainscotting as she went.

Which meant it had only been used by a single person for a very long time, and emphasized the insult levied by Althea Bean

assailing the main entrance. "I heard Juniper had a daughter."

The back of Betsy's head bobbed affirmative. "Two, ma'am."

Mr.Balfour had only mentioned one. "What happened to them?"

"The second was stillborn, leaving Ms.Cameron unable to conceive," she said, turning down an offshoot from the main corridor,

where she stopped abruptly and pressed her palms to a section of wall that sprang open. Gesturing me to follow her through

the faux wall into yet another corridor, she continued, "The first died in her twenties. That would have been in the early

seventies, ma'am."

Juniper had lived alone for the past fifty years in this sprawling fortress with hidden doors. I would be pressing my hands

to walls for days to come. Once I knew where they all were, I'd find them charming. Until then, I'd feel even more ill at

ease than I already was. "What about her husband?"

"She never wed," Betsy replied.

My brows rose. Seventy or eighty years ago, being pregnant and unwed was scandalous. But while poor and unwed made a woman

an outcast, rich and unwed had probably only gotten her called eccentric, "an independent thinker" ahead of her time.

"As generous and kind as Juniper was," Betsy went on, "not a person in Divinity would say a word about her decision not to marry. Besides, it's always been the Lady of Cameron Manor, never a gentleman, since the house was originally built, and they rarely wed."

Juniper's direct line had died out with her daughters. Which meant, way back, the lines had diverged. I'd have to begin my

search a century in the past. "Did Juniper have siblings?"

"I'd have to ask Gran, see if she recalls anything of those days, but she's only seventy-six. Her sister, Ava, is eighty-nine

and may recall more, if she's having one of her good days."

Surely there were records of the Cameron family tree, if only names scribbled in a Bible somewhere. "Can you tell me where

Juniper's office is?"

"Third floor, southwest wing."

"Above her suite?"

"Approximately."

"You wouldn't happen to have a map of the house or floorplans, would you?"

She laughed gaily. "As if that would help."

"What do you mean?"

"Some things you just have to get a feel for, ma'am. Cameron Manor's one of them. She has her quirks, that's for sure. I can

give you a bit of an overview. If you stand outside, facing the front porch, north is to your left, south to your right. The

front of the house is west, the rear east. The manor was designed so entertaining and business meetings could be held separate

from the private quarters. The north half of the house is private residence, the south devoted to storage, business, and entertaining."

I frowned. "Then why are Juniper's suite and office in the southwest wing?"

"Weren't always. Had the wing converted decades before I was hired on. Heard she wanted to be closer to the comings and goings of visitors, feel more connected to the town. To the rear is the southeast wing, which is reserved for parties and whatnot, and if you don't know where the hidden doors are, you'll not find your way from the front wing to the rear. The original master suite of the manor is in the northwest wing, but it's not been used for a long time, nor have the floors above it." Betsy shivered. "We tend to steer clear of that portion of the house."

"Why?"

She glanced over her shoulder at me, lips compressed. "Juniper instructed us not to clean there but once a year, and skip

the rooms damaged by fire."

"What fire?" Was this "the charring" Mr.Balfour had mentioned? Wondering if it was a safety issue I needed to address, I

made a mental note to inspect the northwest wing sooner rather than later. It must have been a recent loss, I mused, for I

couldn't see Juniper permitting unrepaired fire damage in her pristine home for long.

"We're here, ma'am." She paused outside a doorway and ushered me through. "Will you be wanting dinner served this evening?

And if so, what time?"

"No, thank you. Lennox did a lovely job stocking the fridge. But I'd like to talk with you more. Will you be here tomorrow?"

She shook her head. "I've a week off. Taking Gran in for hip replacement."

"The week after, then. Wishes of a speedy recovery for your gran."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

"Are you certain you couldn't get comfortable calling me Zo?"

"Afraid not, ma'am."

Sighing, I watched Betsy pivot and vanish down the corridor, then turned and entered the reception room.

"You didn't like Lennox's choices?" Mr. Balfour's smile fal tered when he caught sight of my attire, a simple black dress and sandals.

"Your wife has exceptional taste," I assured him as I approached a seating cozy comprising two sofas at right angles with

armchairs forming the other two sides of the square. "I'm looking forward to trying things on later tonight." Warmly, I added,

"Please tell her I've never had better chicken pot pie in my life, although my mother would be crushed to hear that." It wasn't

true. Mom's was better, but I liked Mr.Balfour. He'd championed me this morning, spared me an unwitting ambush.

A flush of pleasure stained his cheeks as he rose from the sofa, and I could see, even after fifty years of marriage, Mr.Balfour

was still very much in love with his wife. "I'll be sure to tell her that," he said. "I trust you slept well?"

"Better than I have since Mom—yes, thank you." I avoided saying those words, as more often than not, they brought a swift

burn of tears to my eyes. "After I let Rufus into the conservatory, I did some exploring. The house is lovely. Overwhelming,

but every bit as gracious and inviting as you said."

" Overwhelming has always struck me as nothing more than unexpected change wed to unfamiliarity, both of which quickly fade. Although, at

times, discomfiting, I find change exciting, invigorating, and hope you do, too. Does this mean you've decided to stay with

us?"

My breath hitched halfway up my windpipe and lodged there. This moment would define the rest of my life, and my choices were

at opposite ends of the spectrum. Stay and inherit abundance beyond my wildest dreams or return to a life of drudgery and

debt.

In that breathless, suspended moment, an image arose, unbidden, of children, and how amazing it would be to fill the manor with a family of my own. I could see them racing up and down the corridors, discovering the eccentricities of the house with gales of laughter. What a childhood Cameron Manor would offer! With secret doors and rambling oaks to climb, a fabulous pool in which to swim, forest and caves to explore, and of such importance to me, a fine education all the way through grad school if desired, the ability to chase their dreams without hardship and struggle. Life here promised stability, constancy, community. Roots, permanent and strong. It wasn't merely my own path that would be enriched, but that of all future Grey generations.

If I returned to Indiana, I wasn't certain there would be future Grey generations. I couldn't see myself bringing babies into a world where I had to work constantly just to keep our

heads above water. That was a hard life for a child. I knew; I'd lived it. Nor was I the type of woman a rich man might marry

and save, not that I wanted one to do so. I'd never once imagined my wedding day, a thing to which it seemed most women I

knew had given far more than fleeting thought. Este had hers planned right down to the last detail. She didn't want kids,

but she definitely wanted a husband. I longed for children, but had never bothered to flesh out the man in the picture, I

suppose because there'd been none in my world. Given Juniper's solo life, perhaps I really was a chip off the old and illustrious

Cameron block.

Here, I could have as many children as I wanted, give them an incredible life. I could fill these halls with their laughter,

and my arms with the love of a large family. I could make my own tribe and never feel orphaned and alone again.

I saw no point in delaying the inevitable. I'd choose this a thousand times over and be grateful to the end of my days. "Yes,

I've decided to stay," I told him firmly.

His blue eyes danced. "I can't tell you how delighted I am to hear that. I have a copy of the settlement papers for your attorney to review before you sign."

I had no attorney, but with five thousand dollars a month, I could afford one, and would, for my peace of mind.

"If you've need of an attorney, I'd not hesitate to recommend any in Divinity, but for the sake of impartiality, you should

select your own. I'll have an account set up at Rutherford's Savings and Loan down on the square this afternoon, with your

first three-months' stipend. The living allowance will be deposited quarterly."

My shoulders lifted imperceptibly as a crushing weight eased. Fifteen thousand dollars meant I could begin calling creditors

tomorrow to set up payment plans. "Thank you, Mr.Balfour." Settling into an armchair adjacent to him, I opened with small

talk. "I noticed symbols in the stained glass above the stairs."

"Ah, yes, on the old windows. They used to crank those open before air-conditioning to ventilate the house. The triskelion

is a Celtic symbol; you'll find many of those in and about the manor. The Camerons left the Highlands of Scotland to resettle

here, as did many of the older families in Divinity, though they're wont to say they never truly left the Highlands, rather

brought it with them, importing odds and ends and even one of the pubs in town, lock, stock, and barrel. The crosses of Divinity

Chapel were hewn from the stone of Ben Nevis and shipped all the way from Lochaber."

"And the symbol on the doors to Juniper's suite?" Mom never told me a thing about our ancestry. It was dizzying to think I

might have Scottish roots and that, here, I could finally learn about the Greys, where we came from.

"I've not seen it."

When I described it for him, he said, "Sounds like the Serch Bythol. Another Celtic symbol, of Welsh derivation, I believe."

I made a mental note of it— serk beeth-ohl —so I might look it up later, then tackled my primary objective. "I got the impression Juniper had been ill for quite some

time."

"Indeed."

"It occurred to me there might be matters she was unable to handle in her last days that require immediate attention. If so,

could you help me address them?"

Beaming, he exclaimed, "Absolutely, Ms.Grey! And may I commend you? Few so recently bereaved would spare a thought for such

concerns. I'll bring you up to speed on pressing issues, and together, we'll dispatch them swiftly. I'll just draft a temporary

provision to allow you to make time-sensitive decisions prior to signing the settlement documents."

Several hours later, with scholarships approved, funding for the Coventry Women's Clinic deposited into the necessary accounts, and expiring loans extended, along with a plethora of other matters I hadn't fully absorbed, I finished tucking the last of my new wardrobe into the closet above two stacks of unopened whatnot boxes. Those, I felt, would only overwhelm me further should I try to explore them. Beyond the French doors of my bedroom, dusk was falling, so I decided to return the cart tomorrow. Not only did I prefer to navigate the manor in the light of day, Juniper's suite made me uncomfortable in a way I didn't understand. Possibly, it was too over-the-top luxurious for me to ever feel at ease in. It was comforting to be back in my smaller, cozier bedroom. With the door shut, I could pretend for a time that the enormity of house and legacy didn't exist.

The envelope I'd found leaning against the vase was, indeed, from Juniper, and Mr.Balfour had stressed emphatically that

I follow her instructions and not break the seal. Now I withdrew it from my pocket and propped it carefully on one of the

closet shelves. Then, after eyeing it a moment, I opened a drawer and placed it inside, removing the settlement papers, which

I planned to read tonight, and putting them on the shelf in my line of vision instead. Seeing the envelope every time I walked

into the closet would irritate me. Some of Juniper's contingencies, I understood. Others just seemed heavy-handed and controlling.

Her limits on guests and the denial of a housemate would rankle me eternally. Este could paint here as easily as in Indianapolis.

I could convert part of the garage into a studio for her. Or have one built, I thought, brows lifting in astonishment at the

thought. I had money. I had land. I could build a studio if I wanted to! The idea was stupefying. I could, I decided swiftly,

at the very least treat myself to a new smartphone so I'd be able to take photos and fully use the internet again.

"Fish out of water," I murmured, reaching for my cell to call Mom and talk to her about how insane all this—

God, how many times is that going to happen ? I thought miserably as I stared at my phone.

When it rang, I jerked, answering it reflexively, then scowled, because it was my landlord, Ray Sutton, who I'd been avoiding

all day. He'd begun calling shortly after noon, left nearly a dozen voicemails. We'd never gotten along well, and I had no

desire to talk to him right now.

"?'Bout goddamn time you answered your goddamn phone!" Ray roared.

"Mr.Sutton, please calm—"

"Skipping town ain't gonna save you, missy! I'm gonna sue you for every penny you make for the rest of your sad-sack life.

You're gonna be working forever to pay me back, or I'll have your ass thrown in jail!"

Surmising he didn't have insurance, I held the phone away from my ear with a sigh. There was little point trying to interrupt

him. Mr.Sutton was off the wagon more than he was on it and, with an alcohol-fueled temper, would rant until he ran out of

steam. I'd expected he might tear into me about the fire and was surprised he'd waited so long to do it, but this display

of fury was excessive, even for him.

I began to hum softly, trying to tune out his crass invectives and threats. Whenever he finally paused for a breath, I'd tell

him what the fire chief had told me the day of the fire: Mom hadn't cooked in over a year—the most common reason for house

fires—so the likely cause was faulty wiring or a defective appliance. Carrying insurance on the structure was his responsibility, not mine. I should be suing him for not maintaining his rental property in better condition.

Holding the phone a sanity-preserving foot from my ear, I opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The night

sky was exquisite, indigo and scarlet. The ever-present wind on Watch Hill tousled my hair and caressed my skin. Closing my

eyes, I inhaled deeply of the fragrant breeze, seeking my placid, calm center, which had been so elusive of late.

I was here, not there in chilly Indiana with Ray Sutton screaming at me face-to-face. I was safe. I had money. I wasn't going to jail nor would

I be—

Abruptly, I clapped the phone to my ear and exploded, " What did you just say?"

"I said you burned my house down, you crazy bitch, and you're gonna pay me every penny you owe me! Plus interest!"

"Before that."

"I got proof! They found accelerant, and you , missy—"

"Who found what accelerant?"

"You a goddamn moron? Fire chief. Gasoline. I told 'em you got motive out the ass. Burned my house down to get rid of that

waste of a mother of yours. Everybody knows she wasn't dying fast enough, with you going deeper and deeper into debt every

day. Well, you've gone and done it now, missy, you picked the wrong—"

I heard nothing more. Crimson rage exploded inside my skull, obliterating sound, darkening vision. The dragon in my stomach

roared with bloodthirsty savagery, shaking herself so violently that scales clacked together like heavy iron plates. I felt

as if I were shivering and boiling at the same time. I wanted to say hateful things to Ray Sutton. I wanted to tell him the

truth about what the town of Frankfort thought of him. I wanted to slice into his soul and tell him he was the reason he'd lost his son to an overdose at seventeen, that gay wasn't a perversion or wrong, that Mackie Sutton had

possessed one of the kindest, gentlest souls I'd ever known. Had Ray been standing in front of me, I'd have gone for his jugular

with my teeth and nails.

Waste of a mother. Not dying fast enough. Accusing me of murdering the woman I'd loved more than anything in the world.

Accelerant .

The word reverberated inside my head as I struggled to comprehend it.

Because he'd lost his son, because I knew why Ray drank, and because I try to be the woman I expect myself to be, no matter how ugly life gets, I thumbed the phone off without saying another word, blocked Ray's number with shaking hands, and immediately dialed the Frankfort fire department.

"Tom Harris," I demanded sharply when a man answered. My heart was hammering so hard, I felt woozy.

"He's out for the next few days."

"This is Zo Grey. Ray Sutton just called and told me they found accelerant at my house. Do you need my address?"

"You kidding, Zo? It's me, Tommy Jr. You used to wait on us at Cracker Barrel. Mom's in the hospital again. That's why Dad's

off, but I know he means to call you soon as he can."

From talk at the diners, I knew Tom's wife, Dottie, was battling breast cancer, and whenever she was admitted to the hospital,

Tom, who'd shaved his head in solidarity, never left her side.

"We don't get fires burning that hot around here," Tommy Jr. continued. "Found gasoline and a damn-hell lot of it. Dad wants

to know if you had gas stored in the basement. If you didn't, somebody sure wanted your house gone. Ray's got no insurance,

stands nothing to gain, or we'd be looking at him."

For a moment I couldn't speak. Finally, I managed, "Your father said a safe survived the fire. Can you ship it to me?"

"No can do. Only Dad can release stuff. You have to talk to him. I'll have him call you."

I said a quiet thank-you and hung up.

Then I closed my eyes, slipping back to the afternoon of the fire, standing in the street, staring, blankly, at the charred

remains of my world.

Seeing it, this time, as arson.

Burned too hot, too fast , Tom said to me that day. Didn't stand a chance .

We didn't store gas in the basement. We didn't have gas anywhere on the property. No accelerants of any kind.

I opened my eyes, staring blankly into the night, my hands curled into fists. Grief was hard enough to deal with. Now I had white-hot anger on top of it, and far more questions than I'd already had.

My mother hadn't died in an accidental fire.

Someone had killed Joanna Grey.