upstairs in a house that I’m relieved to see more closely resembles a regular suburban dwelling while Elizabeth and I chat about my college plans—yes, I’ll be living in the dorms; no, I haven’t yet picked out a major—over sweating glasses of iced green tea in the kitchen.
When I catch Elizabeth glancing at the microwave clock, I call for Paisley upstairs and explain we still have another stop or two to make, even though this was the end of the line. Outside, Paisley and I make our way quickly back to Clovelly Cottage. We’re both hot and sweaty, and the oven’s temperature display flashes across my eyelids every time I blink. So careless. We’ll take a dip in the infinity pool, wash the afternoon off our skin.
* * *
By four thirty, we’re both showered and changed for dinner, towels and swimsuits drying on the pool deck. I duck into the kitchen for some baby carrots and hummus and find Mary, a tall, plump woman in a tailored white chef’s jacket with black buttons, hard at work on something that smells like garlic and white wine. My mouth waters.
“Dinner’s at six thirty,” she reminds me, and I promise we won’t fill up on snacks.
She glances at the heaping plate of cookies still sitting on the kitchen table. “I see Paisley introduced you to her favorites.”
“We may have gone a bit overboard,” I admit. “Please help yourself.” I remember the fourth paper plate still sitting in my tote in the entryway, and suddenly I get an idea.
“Hey, Paisley.” I slip out of the kitchen and into the family room, where Paisley is dressed in a matching white cotton short and top set on the couch, watching some kid’s show I don’t recognize. I place the hummus and carrots on the coffee table in front of her. “Want to take that last plate of cookies next door?”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “The Andersons are in Lucerne until August,” she says.
“The other next door. The Talbots.”
Beneath her summer tan, the color drains out of Paisley’s face. “To Windermere?” she asks, voice suddenly soft and filled with breath. She shakes her head back and forth, almost violently, fine blond hair whipping in still-wet ropes against the back of the couch.
I frown. I’m not sure what’s going on with Paisley, but I’ve never seen her act like this. “Right, to Windermere,” I say. “I’m sure the Talbots like cookies.”
“No way.” Paisley draws her knees into her chin, and I can see the feathery blond hairs prickle along her arms and legs. She lowers her voice to a whisper and looks straight into my eyes. “It’s haunted.”
I sit down on the couch next to her, smoothing my sundress over my knees and trying not to laugh. Windermere has clearly seen better days, and I can see why a kid might be creeped out by the overgrown vegetation hiding the house from the road. It does look a bit like something out of a gothic fairy tale. “It’s not haunted,” I assure her. “It just needs a little TLC. And Caden seems really nice.”
Paisley nods, her chin bobbing against her knees, still clutched against her chest. “Yeah, Caden’s nice,” she agrees. “But I’m not going over there.” She turns back to face the TV screen, and I can see I’ve lost her.
I glance at Emilia’s office door. Still closed. She might not approve, but running out for a few minutes seems like it would be okay. Mary’s here, after all. I poke my head into the kitchen to ask if she can keep an eye on Paisley for a little while.
Cookies retrieved from my tote, I set off again down the drive toward the road, then hang a left, back toward Windermere.
* * *
At the gate, it takes me a minute to locate a buzzer through the crawling vines. When I do find a small cream button nestled into a flat panel on one of the stone pillars, it looks more like a regular doorbell than the sophisticated intercom boxes installed at the entrances to Clovelly Cottage and the other houses on our route today. I press my finger against it and a dull light glows beneath the plastic, instilling in me a dubious confidence that somewhere inside the house, a chime is ringing.
I wait for a minute that becomes three. Up the drive, I can see two cars parked near the house, an older sports car and something long, expensive-looking, and black. Someone is home. I