The live feed showed a sleek black Mercedes sprinter van idling at our wooden security gate.

On the side of the van, gold lettering spelled out *La Maison Catering*.

They were an artisanal kitchen based in the city, nearly forty miles away.

I checked the gate camera again, watching the driver lean out of his window to press the intercom.

I didn’t press the buzzer from my phone.

Instead, I slipped out of the side door, letting the screen door click shut quietly behind me.

I walked around the gravel path to the driveway, my sneakers crunching in the quiet dusk.

The air smelled of cut grass, humidity, and the faint, sweet scent of pine.

The headlights of the sprinter van blinded me for a second as I walked up to the iron gate.

The driver rolled his window down all the way, a blast of cool air-conditioning escaping from the cabin.

“Delivery for Juliette Sterling?” he asked, looking at a digital tablet.

“I’m Annie, her daughter-in-law,” I said, reaching through the bars of the gate. “What is this?”