I got out of the car and found the white single-story home impressive, intimidating, modern, and unwelcoming. The circular front porch led up to a large wood-and-glass double door.

When I set foot out of the car, a woman opened the door, and it wasn't Marguerite. She was much younger than my employer and blond. Her gray slacks and plain, almost mannish blouse should have marked her as an employee, but her manner didn't as she waited for me to approach her.

This was off to a great start, I thought, making my way up to her and feeling rather out of place in my jeans and casual cream halter neck.

"Good afternoon, Miss. Ronan. I am Anika Shetland, Mrs. Shetland's daughter-in-law and personal assistant."

"Good afternoon," I subconsciously mimicked her cool manner and reserved tone.

"Follow me," she took the lead, not saying another word as she led me through the foyer and two passages to the back of the house. She opened a door, and as I stepped into the spacious apartment, she turned to face me.

"This will be your lodgings for as long as you are in Mrs. Shetlands' employ. You may use that door to enter the back garden, but the rest of the house is off-limits.

"Meals will be served in your room, and you will meet Mrs. Shetland in her office if she requests your company. You will be expected to be dressed and ready by eight sharp. That computer has been set up for work, and the wi-fi password is taped to the desk. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, when will I meet Mrs. Shetland?" I didn't like the sound of any of this, and why did I feel like the new nanny in one of those old-fashioned nanny novels?

"She was a little under the weather the last two days, and she'll inform you when she feels better. She has left you some files on the computer to occupy your mind in the meantime. Dinner will be served to you at eight, breakfast at seven, and lunch at noon on your patio if the weather permits. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting in ten minutes."

And just like that, she left me alone in a strange house, standing in the middle of the opulent but cool and unwelcoming flat with its off-white walls, carpeted floors, and well-decorated but cool interior. I instantly regretted not staying with Joanne and getting to know my family better.

I walked through the large open-plan room with its large white bed, the small sitting area, no tv, no sound system, a massive bathroom, and a walk-in closet, not feeling welcome. As I returned, the driver brought in my bags.

"Thank you," I said, and he nodded. He had the window up between us the entire trip, and he might not be in his limo, but the window was still up.

I called my grandmother again, but she still wasn't answering her phone, which worried me. As badly as I wanted to call Kayla, she was out of signal range at the cabin.

~Hi, Mom. I arrived safe and sound. I still have to meet my new boss, but the place is quite impressive. We'll talk tomorrow; I am gonna shower and unpack.~

I left her a text message, suspecting she'd instantly know I wasn't happy, and in her current frame of mind, she'd get in her car and fetch me. That didn't mean I wasn't half in the mood to let her. Grandma had disappeared, Kayla wasn't available, and Shannon was my Mom for the first time in my life, not just my Mother.

The distance between us had evaporated, and if I were honest, half of it stemmed from my insecurities. There was nothing I wanted more than just being part of my family and enjoying them. Everything had been so unnecessary to begin with, but it was what it was.

***

What little I saw of the house was just like this room, perfectly decorated, cool shades of white and gray with pastel shades here and there, but sterile. This wasn't a home; it was a house—posh, fancy, and not to my taste.

Grandma's house, with its earthy shades and touches of color influenced by her Spanish background, was large but homey, warm, and inviting. You wanted to curl up on the couches and lay on the beds. I didn't even want to touch that white bed, afraid I would smudge it.

Joanne's house, although modern with its gray, white, and black interior, was nothing like this. Small compared to even Grandma's house, you could tell she had just moved in, but her personality had already invaded all the little nooks and crannies.

"Well, we are here," I said just to disturb the silence. "Might as well make the best of it."

With a sigh, I unpacked, took a shower, and, curious, opened the expensive laptop to find out what Barbara wanted me to do. It didn't take long for me to frown at her notes and words, feeling that even though she had hired me, Mrs. Shetland didn't want my help.

***

The tasks she allotted me amounted to general editing, and even as I read these snippets of the manuscript, I agreed with my mother—Barbara Shetland had lost something of her magic.

"This is so sad," I said, and talking to myself wasn't uncommon.

She knew her craft too well, and although she spun her stories with the practice of a seasoned veteran manipulating and controlling her audience, it came across as sterile as this room.

"Let's get to it."

She'd left me twenty chapters from various stages of a completed manuscript, and I could clearly see the story unfold, yet it created in me no need to know more. This was not a book you'd start reading and be unable to rest until you'd finished the last page. Even worse, it didn't leave me wanting more. Reading it was a chore.

I read the comments she added, and something was just off about the whole thing. Come morning, Mrs. Barbara Shetland and I needed to have a talk. She wasn't going to waste my time, and I wouldn't waste hers. If she didn't really want my help, she should not have hired me. This book had potential, but it was so bogged down in the formula of her writing it lacked... heart. She was stuck in a rut, and it all felt so dated, even unbending, that I couldn't get into the storyline.

Even so, I forced myself to work through her edits, and I did all of them, finishing at about three in the morning. I had to stop myself not to do more than she wanted; if she fired me after we have our little discussion, I would have done my part.

Kayla and Erick's writing had been chaotic, but I had fun working with them and loved helping Eric find his voice as Kayla played ghostwriter, and she had a knack for it. This was like peeling paint from a wall with my fingernails, and I hated every moment.

I pushed back the surprisingly comfortable chair, shut the laptop, and stretched the painful kinks from my muscles as I yawned. The house was as quiet as a tomb, and although I didn't notice it much while working, it gave me the creeps.

And why did it still bother me that Grandma knew Barbara and didn't tell me? I rechecked my phone and noticed a message from my Grandma.

~I met up with friends I hadn't seen in a while and decided to cancel my trip to Spain.~

"Bull." The sound of my voice echoed through the room. Why did my grandmother lie to me, and why did she deny what we both knew?

Well, if she spied on me on the beach, she wasn't sick or something. I don't know why she did it or what she intended to do, but she had clearly changed her mind because nothing else had happened. But who went through our stuff at the hotel, and why?

I took off my wrap and got in bed, and it was softer than it looked. I was tired enough to sleep through a hurricane, but why couldn't I shake the feeling that whatever Marguerite planned wasn't entirely averted by our quick thinking?