Blake
Fifteen Years Earlier
I was surprised by the insistent knocking at my front door. It was a Sunday morning, and people rarely knocked on my door. We had a doorbell, for one thing. And also, it was really early in the morning.
My dad was still asleep, and I wasn’t particularly concerned about the possibility of a serial murderer announcing himself in broad daylight with a knock, so I flung the door open. I was still in boxers and the British Invasion T-shirt I’d worn to bed. I didn’t recognize the irritated face staring back at me when I opened the door, although something about her eyes was familiar, the green rimmed with gray.
Her hair was sandy brown and pulled into a high ponytail, and the glare on her face was real. “Blake?”
“Yeah. It’s my house, so . . .”
“Funny. I’m Sarah,
