The old Victorian house on the hill had always felt haunted by secrets. This summer, it held new ones. My cousin Mia and I were staying with Uncle Victor while our parents traveled through Europe. At 23 and 25, we told ourselves it was just practical—free rent, a quiet place to finish our grad school projects. But the moment Uncle Victor opened the door, shirt unbuttoned at the collar and that familiar hungry look in his eyes, we both knew the real reason we’d come.
Victor was 48, broad-chested from years of manual labor on his property, with salt-and-pepper hair and hands that looked capable of both building fences and breaking girls. He’d been the cool, slightly dangerous uncle who always lingered a little too long during family hugs.
“Emma. Mia,” he said, voice low as he pulled us ins
