(Blair’s POV)
James and I drive in silence, the quiet in the car heavy with a guilt we both share but haven’t yet named.
The moment I round the corner onto Maple Street, my breath hitches. My foot instinctively finds the brake pedal, slowing the car to a crawl.
"James," I whisper, the name catching in my throat.
He doesn't ask what I mean. He is staring, too.
The house. Our house, is unrecognizable.
The warm, buttery yellow paint I chose after college is gone, scraped down to the bare, bleached wood.
The beautiful, curved wrought-iron railing Scarlett's father meticulously installed is ripped out, replaced by sharp, modern steel.
But the real devastation is the front lawn.
The old oak tree, the one that used to anchor the tire swing and shade the porch on hot afternoons, is not
