BELLA'S POV
I looked at myself in the mirror in the yellow dress.
I looked like myself. The version of myself that existed before six months of grief had pulled me slightly inward. Before the old house felt like a museum and the new house felt like a foreign country with rules I hadn't been given the manual for.
I looked like a nineteen-year-old girl.
A nineteen-year-old girl in her dead father's favorite terrible dress that she'd brought to her stepfather's estate against all reasonable advice, standing in front of a wardrobe full of clothing that that same stepfather had chosen with a specificity that suggested he had been paying the kind of attention he absolutely should not have been paying.
I found the safety pin on the strap.
Checked it was holding.
Went downstairs.
The kitch
