I bolted out of the study. It was startling how long it had been since I had felt pure, undiluted fear like this. It was as if I were five years old again, wading through the crowd at the county fair, having lost my grip on my mother's hand. No. Not this house. I didn't want it. I didn't-fucking-want it.

As soon as I sped into the bathroom—the only place where one could have some god-damned privacy in this mansion—the sight in the mirror over the sink startled me. I didn't recognize that girl, her sunburned cheeks, or the scrape on her forehead.

Who are you? I thought. What happened to you?

I washed my face in the sink, a maw opening in my chest. The creaky spots in the bathroom floor were like landmines, and I still hadn't re-memorized their locations. When I reached the bathtub, the tiles groaned beneath me.

Beyond the door, the voices were quiet. Then Mom's falsetto carried up the stairs: "Rhi?"

"Give me ten minutes!" I yelled.

I was so hot and cold at the same time that I felt drunk. I stumbled into the tub and stripped, turned on the faucet, and waited until the water started to steam. I just sat in there and pulled my knees to my naked body as the basin filled with hot water. It shot up my nose, making me choke and sputter. I rotated the handle all the way to the right until the water scalded my skin, until it was almost unbearable. Maybe if I stayed like that for long enough, I would disappear into steam, too.

The fear grew so powerful I felt like I might vomit into those stupid flowers Mom had arranged at the center of the dining room table. It was fear because my devious father had left me the house; fear because my two worlds were about to collide. I covered my mouth and screamed, my fist and the blast of the shower muffling the pathetic sound that came out of me. Past the rainforest sounds of the bathroom, steam leaked out the gap under the door. My own moan, gentle and unhinged, made the hairs stand up along my arms. I stared at the door as if something might reach under and catch me. A shape, phantom-dark, loomed there. I blinked and let out my breath. It was just a charcoal-gray towel hanging on the back of the door, still seesawing gently from when I had shoved it open.

Mom was waiting for me downstairs, nursing a cup of coffee. She pulled me into the kitchen, away from Tom, away from Beverly, and away from Daniel Kane, the will-reader. I was grateful for it. A sweet vanilla smell wrapped me up as we sat down. Then Mom gave me a smile, equally vanilla-sweet and warm. I smiled back, tight-lipped, without teeth.

She studied my face: my skin and the flush of my cheeks, my sharp chin that sharpened more when I spoke and especially when I smiled, my autumn-leaves-auburn hair, and my round gray-blue eyes. Doesn't she look just like Victor did? perhaps she thought.

If you browsed through the pictures of my family, you might wonder whether my brother was adopted. Mom, Victor, and I all had blue eyes. Tom's were jet-black, void of any feeling. It was the ginger hair that confirmed we were related. I remembered a time when Tom liked me. There was proof: photographs of us trick-or-treating dressed as Peter Pan and a Disney princess, and videos of us putting on plays on the back patio, starring ourselves and Choco, our azure-eyed Siamese and Common European shorthair mix. But we were four years apart, and once Tom started middle school, it seemed like my very existence offended him.

"That's just how it is with siblings," Mom would tell me when I was still small enough to climb onto her lap, my face stiff with tears after a fight with Tom. I could still feel her fingers grazing over my ear as she played with my hair. "Aunt Ellen and I didn't become friends until we were in college."

There was a handle of vodka on the coffee table in front of Mom. When I reached for it, she jumped like a skittish cat, and I pulled my hand away.

"Don't worry. I won't do it." I hesitated, my eyes falling to the nervous tap of her gray Nikes. "I'm not a drunkard like..." I shook my head.

"Stop it, Rhi," Mom whispered. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do," I cried out. "I'm not eight years old anymore. I'm old enough to know that Dad was wrong and the way he educated us was fucked up—"

There was a short crack. Skin on skin. I swallowed. Mom had slapped me. I swallowed again and wished I could make what I said disappear.

"Oh my god, Rhi. I am so, so sorry." The very look on Mom's face made me want to stuff the words back into my mouth until I choked. This wasn't me. I argued with my mom, sure, but it was always about stupid shit like a wet towel left on my bedroom carpet. I was never nasty for no reason. I was so ashamed I just wanted to slip upstairs like a mouse being chased by a broom. I should not have said that, let alone mere days after Victor's death. So I sometimes cried myself to sleep while my parents shouted at each other. Boo-hoo. Mine wasn't a unique story.

Mom turned to the fridge without a word, grabbed two eggs, cracked them, and dropped them in a cherry-red frying pan. There was something so odd about the scene—my mother frying eggs, without Tom being there, without house service. It was like stumbling across a dog sitting calmly next to a cat. I did not want to disturb the scene.

When the food was done, she dragged out the chair across the table and sat down by my side again. Her eyes were tinged with red. I didn't move from the seat across from her, where a plate of sunny-side-up eggs waited. I couldn't believe that after all these years she still remembered how I liked my eggs. I hadn't known how to cook when I first moved to Canada. I hadn't understood that food was its own form of affection, that a casserole or a pie was meant to have the same effect as a hug. Now I knew.

"I noticed you didn't eat too much at lunch." Mom buried her face in her hands. After a long pause, she looked up, her cheeks blooming to match the crimson in her irises. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "I saw this last night. After the service."

I didn't get what this she was referring to, not until she handed me her phone. I scrolled through her Instagram feed. Perfectly posed photos of Aubrey in designer clothes, attending exclusive events, and promoting various brands filled the screen. One photo, seemingly taken at a company event a few years ago, showed Aubrey laughing with Victor. He had his arm around her, and she was leaning into him, her eyes sparkling. The caption read, 'So grateful for the support of my amazing business partners!' I zoomed in on the pic, noticing the way Victor's hand rested on Aubrey's back—a little too low, a little too familiar.

I propped myself up on an elbow and looked at Mom. Her eyelids shone with exhaustion, as if she had lived a thousand years since last night. Mom produced a crumpled tissue from her hands and used it to wipe the mascara pooling under her eyes.

"Probably just one of many," she choked out. "But at least he was always home for dinner."

I stared at Mom, and the realization hit me like a ten-ton truck. She had lied to my brother and me for half our lives, telling us Dad's stays over the weekend were work conferences, or that he was hospitalized for the flu when he had actually been with who know which woman, or drunk. She lied about Dad's habits because she thought she was protecting us. Which meant I couldn't trust a thing my mother said about him. It also meant something else, and I did not want to think about how far Mom would go to protect the image of our fucking fake family idyll.

I stood up. "I can't spend a minute longer in this place."

"Oh." A shadow fell across Mom's eyes, taking the smile with it. "Rhi, don't say that. Where do you plan on going?" she snapped.

I didn't answer as I grabbed a Tupperware with shaking hands and dumped my fried eggs inside. I shut my leftovers in the fridge and turned to head upstairs, but Mom caught my gaze long enough to blurt: "Please don't. This is your home now, too. You heard Daniel. He left it to you. Not me. Not Tom. You."

"Mom, he never treated us right."

"He's your father. Don't you love him at all?"

"Of course I love him. Victor Carmichael is my father! I have no choice in the matter." It was the sad truth: you got strongly emotionally attached to your parents, no matter what kind of people they were, because you spent decades sharing a roof with them, and a bond inevitably formed. But loving someone shouldn't mean giving them permission to hurt you over and over, which was exactly what Dad did to us. It shouldn't mean trapping them, which was exactly what he was trying to do to me, even in his death.

"It's just how life has always been with Victor. We spent over three decades together. I don't think I've ever seriously considered living without him. He was always a part of my life, and I of his." Mom looked down at her ring, like she was seeing it for the first time. "Yes, I still wear my wedding ring." She gave a small, pained smile. "If I'm being honest, I'm not sure I could take it off anymore if I wanted to." She attempted it, pulling at the metal band. "No, it's stuck on there pretty good. Guess my fingers are a little fatter than they used to be. It's engraved on the inside with the date of our wedding: July twenty-third, 1991. Best day of my life."

I sat back on the chair and stared at her, incredulously.

"I had no one left in my life, Rhi. My nana had been dead for three years. Her fanciest clothes came from Chico's and she sometimes left the house with parakeet crap on her shoulder. Victor and I, we were high-school sweethearts. Same age, same class. I got pregnant with..."

"With Tom, when you were eighteen, I know." I had heard this story dozens of times.

"Yes. We married young and we built everything together. As equals."

But were they ever equals? This was not the first time that the thought crossed my mind. Perhaps my father got what he deserved.

"Will you please stay at least until your flight is due? Till Thursday?"

Ugh. I had two major character flaws. One: I had trouble asking people for things. And two: I had a hard time saying no when someone asked me for something. It was a pretty self-destructive combination, one would say.

"Fine," I huffed.

"And... thank you for listening to me."

"Sure, Mom. Learned it from my therapist. Did you know that this thing they call 'therapy' is way too easy? All you do is sit and listen, then you are told things you kind of already know."

"You're right." She pulled me in for a hug. "Remarkable how little we do things like that though, isn't it?"

The weight of the mansion deed in my name still felt heavy, still alien. I didn't understand why Dad left it to me, the one who ran away. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, a sharp, insistent sound that broke the quiet.

"I'll get it," I said, needing a distraction.

I opened the door, and there he was. Eli. He grinned. Dang, he looked so yummy, even in those old jeans and a slightly crumpled t-shirt. I mentally went back in time to when he used to have a floppy mushroom cut and a chubby round face. Eli caught me staring at him, and my face burned so hot I felt as if I could disintegrate. I averted my eyes.

He had slimmed out and muscled up in the usual manly places now, but he still had awkward-boy mannerisms, like the way his eyes never met mine as he nodded and said, "Hey, 'sup. Came to pick up the old man."

"Eli," I managed, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself. It was nice to see a friendly face after the will-reading shock.

"So," he said, his eyes sparkling with that old mischievous glint. "Now that you're kinda back in town... you wanna grab a drink? Catch up properly? I'll be your designated driver tonight."

I hesitated. "I... I don't know, Eli. Things are kind of complicated right now."

Mom appeared behind me, her expression softer than it had been all day. "Oh, Eli! It's lovely to see you. Rhiannon, dear, why don't you? It would do you good to get out for a bit."

I looked at her, surprised. She actually seemed to want me to go.

Eli's smile widened, hopeful. "Yeah, come on. Listen to your mom. Just one. My treat. We can go to O'Malley's. It hasn't changed one bit."

I wavered. A drink with Eli sounded tempting. But was it a good idea, based on what had just happened between us last night? "I... I don't know..."

"Nonsense," Mom said gently, giving my arm a little push. "Go on. You haven't seen Eli in ages. It'll be nice."

I looked from Mom's encouraging face to Eli's expectant one. A small part of me—the part that remembered easy laughter and shared secrets—wanted to say yes.

"Okay," I said, a small smile finally breaking through. "Okay, one drink."

Eli's grin broadened. "Great! Let me just tell Dad about the change of plans." He glanced back into the house. "Tom can drive him back home. He's probably still dissecting the will with him anyways."

I kept things light at O'Malley's, steering clear of the unsettling events surrounding Dad's death. And Eli, bless him, seemed to sense my boundaries; his usual easy flirtation was reined in, and his questions remained respectful. But when a text from Daniel Kane arrived during our ride home, he whistled and sized me up.

"Your old man really left the mansion to you?" He turned slightly toward me, his warm brown eyes earnest.

I shrugged, picking at a loose thread on my jacket. The weight of that unexpected inheritance still felt surreal.

"It's... a lot of house," he said.

"You have no idea," I replied, a small, wry smile touching my lips.

A comfortable silence settled between us. It was different from the awkward silences of earlier; this one felt companionable, like we could just be, without pressure or expectation. I appreciated that. I really did.

"So, does that mean you're... you know... back?"

"In Gaffney?" It was not a hard question, but I was having trouble answering.

"Yeah. Are you here for good?"

"I need to figure out what happened to my father. But I still have a flight to catch on Thursday." I then picked at the rubber peeling from his steering wheel.

His expression shifted, the easygoing charm replaced by a flicker of concern. "The markings you mentioned... you're serious about that?"

I nodded. "I am. Something wasn't right, Eli. And I need to know what it was."

He was silent for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. Then, he leaned a little closer, his voice low. "If you need anything... anything at all... while you're digging into this, just let me know, okay?"

"Thanks, Eli. I appreciate that."

He smiled a small smile that didn't push, that didn't ask for more than I was offering. When we arrived close to the mansion, he parked the car and got out. I followed him, thankful to be able to leave it at that. On our right was a chain-link fence blocking off the elementary school playground. They had replaced all the equipment since I was a kid.

"I kinda remember you guys playing with those little plastic bears in Ms. Brogan's kindergarten class. She said they were for practicing counting, but you guys always made bear armies out of them," I giggled.

"Yeah, those innocent kindergarten days. After that, everything got a lot tougher, more competitive."

"I bet."

"For sure. Everyone thinks they've got a little Tom Brady. Parents of first graders are slipping the coach videos of their kids' games now." His laughter was warm by my neck. He was standing close to me, so I could smell the minty body wash lingering on his skin, the cola and booze on his breath.

Uh-oh. My heartbeat was alarmingly irregular. Part of me wanted to forget about the stupid investigation and simply exist without an agenda, even just for one night—do whatever things Eli had in mind when he told me he hoped I'd come to O'Malley's with him. Things normal people did all the damn time. A laugh bubbled between my lips.

"What?" Eli turned to me.

"Nothing."

He nudged his shoulder into mine playfully. "Say it."

I shrugged. "Your taste in girls is predictable."

His cheeks went pink. "I don't think you of all people should complain about my taste in girls."

My heart stuttered as Eli's hand started moving toward my face. He cradled my chin, and my blood humed. He leaned in, his lips soft and perfect-looking, and I wanted to kiss him again, badly. I knew it would be nothing like the shitty eighth-grade kiss we had in a movie theater, that it would be just like last night, and that it was okay to want it this badly—

I placed my hand flat against Eli's chest. Stop.

He opened his eyes, confused. "Sorry—I thought—"

"Eli," I said, my voice a little breathless. "It's... it's a bad idea. I... I don't want to start something... something I can't finish. I don't want to... to hurt you, Eli. Not again." The last part was an admission, a confession of the guilt that still lingered from years ago.

He was silent for a long moment, his stubborn gaze searching my face. "So, that's it? Just because you're leaving in a few days, that means we can't... that we can't even have this?" He gestured between us. "And what if I want to try again, despite the distance?"

"It's not that simple. It's... it's complicated." I hated how vague I sounded, but I didn't know how to explain the tangled mess of my emotions, the fear of vulnerability, or the need to protect myself—to protect him, too. "I just... please, Eli. Just... let's leave it at this, okay?"

No one waited for me when I entered the mansion, even though Tom's car beeped as if it were trying to alert the whole neighborhood when I passed it by, and the stairs groaned so loudly under my weight I thought the whole house might collapse. I left the lights off in my room as I stripped off my clothes. The amount of adrenaline coursing through my body made getting into pajamas a task.

I slept in staccato bursts, alternating between checking my phone for an update from Eli and scrolling on social media to see the same image of Victor and Aubrey, time and time again.

I needed to figure out how his death happened. And I needed to figure out how to get rid of this house.