The day their parents came home was torture in slow motion.
Richard’s SUV pulled into the driveway just after six p.m., headlights cutting through the dark like searchlights. Elara and Cade had spent the afternoon scrubbing evidence from the house—washing sheets, airing out rooms, hiding the empty wine bottles deep in the recycling bin. They’d barely spoken. Every brush of fingers while passing a sponge felt like a live wire.
Now they stood in the foyer like polite strangers, smiling too wide as Mom and Richard burst through the door with suitcases and sunburns and stories about snorkeling in turquoise water.
Group hugs. Cheeks kissed. Questions fired rapid-fire.
“How was the house?”
“Did the generator work?”
“Any trouble with the pipes freezing?”
Elara answered on autopilot, hype
