The early morning fog in coastal Massachusetts didn’t roll—it wrapped. It moved like something alive, winding around telephone poles and dunes, blurring streetlights into hesitant halos. As my Uber wound its way along the familiar coastal road, I pressed my forehead against the cool window and inhaled deeply, almost able to smell the ocean through the glass.
The landscape shifted from town to sea. One moment there were clapboard houses and weathered storefronts; the next, the horizon opened up, and there it was: a sheet of gray-green water, restless and infinite.
Then, through the thickening mist, I saw it.
The house.
My heart twisted.
From a distance, it looked both completely unchanged and deeply wrong at the same time. The wraparound porch was still there, hugging the front and side of the house like a protective arm. The weathered shingles, once a proud gray, looked freshly painted, losing some of their charm in the glossy uniformity. The white railing had been replaced with something sleeker, more modern, and utterly out of place.
The car pulled into the crushed-shell driveway that crunched under the tires.
And parked right smack where Mom’s old garden shed used to be—where she’d kept bags of soil, chipped terracotta pots, and a radio permanently tuned to classic rock—was a bright red Mercedes.
Of course.
New security cameras peered from the corners of the house like watchful, judging eyes. A large NO TRESPASSING sign was hammered into the ground not far from the driveway entrance. It was glossy and new, with bold red letters that clashed horribly with the soft, muted tones of sand and sea grass surrounding it.
Perfect, I thought.
Before I could even open the car door, the front door flew open and Victoria stormed out, the fog swirling dramatically around her as if even nature had been enlisted in her theatrics.
She was wearing designer workout gear, all sleek black and neon accents, her blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that didn’t dare move in the breeze. The outfit looked like it belonged in some elite city gym, not on the front steps of a weather-beaten beach house that had seen more fishing nets and sandy feet than yoga mats.
Behind her, Lily emerged, phone in hand, camera aimed straight at me.
Of course she was filming.