“Of course.” Layla smiles. “Back door is through the kitchen, on the left. You’re welcome to go for a run, too. If you like the shoreline, it’s just us for about ten miles.”
“Great,” I say, instead of Lovely of you, to mistake me for a high-functioning Were. I catch Koen’s eyes as I step away, watch the way his muscles begin to contract to follow me, and shake my head minutely, hoping he’ll understand what I’m trying to communicate: I’m an emotional mess and I’d love to be alone for a second, just in case I burst out crying or puke up the French toast I didn’t even eat.
He doesn’t like it, but he stays put.
The Caines’ yard is a grass-covered cliff above the shore, something right out of an impressionistic painting. The ocean is less than a couple hundred feet away, and when I close my
