He Watched Me First

Twelve Hours Earlier

Twelve hours before I found the photographs, I was sitting in the back of my mother's new husband's car, watching my old life disappear in the side mirror.

"You could at least pretend to be happy," Mom said from the front seat. She was wearing the pearl earrings Richard had given her — the ones she touched every time she mentioned him, like a nervous habit she'd mistaken for love.

"I could," I said. "But I won't."

"Nora."

"You asked me to come. I came. That's all you get."

The silence that followed was the kind we'd perfected over the last six months — thick, loaded, full of things we'd both stopped bothering to say. She wanted me to be grateful. I wanted her to admit she'd married a man she'd known for four months because his house had more rooms than our apartment had walls.

The iron gates opened automatically. The gravel drive was long enough to have its own zip code. And then the house appeared through the trees, and I understood why my mother had traded everything familiar for a man who smelled like old money and smiled like a campaign poster.

Ashford estate. Three stories of dark stone and silence. Ivy crawling up the east wing like veins on a wrist. Windows that watched you before you even got out of the car.

Richard came down the front steps. Tall, silver-templed, the kind of handsome that came with tailored suits and firm handshakes. He kissed Mom on the cheek, then turned to me with both hands extended.

"Welcome home, Nora. We're so glad you're here."

I shook his hand. One hand. Didn't smile. "Thanks."

Mom's jaw tightened. Richard's smile didn't waver. He was good — I'd give him that. The kind of man who could absorb rudeness and make you feel like you were the one who'd embarrassed yourself.

He led us inside. The foyer was absurd — marble floors, a chandelier that cost more than our old apartment, a staircase that split in two directions like the house couldn't decide where it wanted to take you. Everything smelled like wood polish and money.

Mom chattered the whole way upstairs. The renovations. The garden. The guest cottage by the lake. Her voice was bright and stretched thin, the way it always got when she was performing. She'd been performing since the wedding — happiness so aggressive it made my teeth ache.

My room was at the end of the second-floor hallway. Big. Airy. Four-poster bed. Fresh flowers on the nightstand. It looked like a hotel room designed by someone who'd googled "what do teenage girls like" and given up halfway through.

"I put extra pillows," Mom said, hovering in the doorway. "And there are towels in the en suite. If you need anything—"

"It's fine, Mom."

She flinched at "Mom." She always did. Like the word reminded her of something she'd rather forget — that she was someone's mother before she was someone's wife.

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Her voice dropped. "Nora. Please. Give him a chance. Give us a chance."

"There is no 'us.'" The words came out flat. Rehearsed. Because I'd been saying them in my head for months. "There's you and your new husband. I'm just the luggage you brought along."

Her eyes went red. Not crying — she wouldn't give me that. Just red, like she was holding everything behind a dam that was starting to crack.

"That's not fair," she whispered.

"Neither is making me move into a stranger's house three weeks before summer."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then she just nodded, once, and left.

I dragged my suitcase to the bed and started unpacking. Hung up a few shirts. Plugged in my phone. Scrolled through messages from friends I'd already started to miss. "How's the mansion? Is your stepdad hot? Send pics lol."

I didn't reply. I didn't know how to explain that the mansion felt less like a home and more like a trap with nice curtains.

The room was too quiet. Not empty quiet — full quiet. Like the house was holding its breath. Like it was waiting for something.

I walked to the window and looked out at the garden. Hedges, stone paths, a fountain that wasn't running. Beyond it, the tree line, dark even in daylight.

I didn't look up. I didn't think to.

One floor above me, a window I couldn't see from this angle faced the same garden. And behind it, someone was watching me unpack. Watching me stand at the window with one hip c****d, the way I always did when I was thinking.

He'd been waiting for me to arrive.

And now I was here.