The jet touched down in Santa Barbara just after dusk, the Pacific a dark ribbon beyond the runway lights. I’d spent most of the flight staring out the window, earbuds in but no music playing, letting the silence do its work. Lorenzo had kept his distance—reading reports, making calls in a low voice, pretending everything was normal.
By the time the car wound up the long drive to the Morelli estate, the house was lit up like it was waiting for us. Too many windows were glowing. Too many cars in the courtyard that I didn’t recognize as staff.
I stepped out first, the salt air sharp after the recycled cabin pressure. And then I saw a very familiar face—my stepsister, Georgina, lounging on the front steps with a glass of wine, scrolling through her phone like she owned the place.
My family
