He always did this.

He used hospitality like a shield so I could never complain without looking cruel.

“She needs to leave in the morning,” I said, my knuckles white against the kitchen island.

“Now?” He frowned, looking at me as if I had suggested something monstrous.

“No,” I said. “But you are sleeping on the couch tonight. Get your things.”

His jaw tightened, a brief flash of anger crossing his face before he smoothed it over.

“Fine,” he muttered. “If it makes you feel better to punish me for being decent.”

He took a blanket from the linen closet and walked to the living room.

I spent the night in the small guest room, staring at the ceiling.

Every creak of the old house sounded like an intrusion.

At six in the morning, the smell of brewing coffee woke me.

I went downstairs, my joints aching from the stiff guest mattress.

The rain had stopped, leaving a gray, heavy fog outside the kitchen window.

Rylan was sitting on the sofa, his hair messy, staring at his phone.

He didn’t look up when I walked past.

I began filling the kettle at the sink, my hands cold.

“Dani left an hour ago,” Rylan said to the wall. “She felt unwelcome.”

“Good,” I said, not turning around.

“You’re becoming very cold, Calla. This house is changing you.”

I shut off the tap.

Before I could answer, I heard the heavy click of the front door latch.

The brass doorknob turned from the outside.

The heavy oak door swung open, letting in a draft of damp morning air.

Solene stood on the threshold, wearing her beige trench coat and holding a large, leather suitcase.

She didn’t knock.

She didn’t ring the bell.

She simply walked inside, shaking her wet umbrella onto the Persian rug my grandmother had brought from Persia fifty years ago.