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Okay, not like a fancy restaurant downtown. Not like Embarcado. But like a food truck or something. I haven’t run the numbers yet and I’m not exactly a math person.
My half-brother, Blake, was the math guy and look where that got me.
“I’m just worried about you,” Trinity says, her voice small in a way that makes me realize how long it’s been since either of us has spoken. Like we’ve both been so lost in our own thoughts that she barely knows that she spoke out loud.
“Don’t be. This is going to be great. It’s exactly what I need.”
And if my excitement sounds a little forced, I’m grateful she doesn’t call me on it. Because I need her to be excited about it. Because I need to be excited about it.
Before she responds (excited or not), I say, “And, oh my god, if this place is anything like the pictures, you’re going to die. It’s gorgeous! I’ve got the guest cottage all to myself and there’s a pool. I’ll send pictures tomorrow after I get settled in.”
She makes this non-answer noise that pretend conveys gushing enthusiasm. “If it’s really that far out in the country, make sure not to let Mr. Sniggles outside, because I bet they have coyotes and stuff.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.” Like I hadn’t thought of that already and lived in terror of that thought. “Okay, I’m pulling up now,” I say quickly, because I honestly can’t take much more of her fearmongering. I need a pep talk here. I don’t need to be giving her a pep talk. “I’ll send pictures as soon as I have them. Love you. Okay, by.”
I reach into my bra and hang up the phone. A moment later, my phone buzzes against my tit. Repeatedly. So I pull it out and toss it onto the empty seat beside me. From the back of the car, Mr. Sniggles makes an anxious-sounding meow.
“Please don’t get carsick.” I eye the pet carrier in my backseat through my rearview mirror. Because honestly, that would be the last straw.
I slow down as I turn onto the private drive leading to the Donavon estate. After several more twists and turns, the oak lined drive crests then widens to reveal a stunning view of Lake Travis. I let my car roll to a stop as I take in the view. I’m at the top of a hill, which slopes gently down to the guest cottage on my left. The main house is dead ahead. It seems to hug the cliff. Most of the house seems to be a single story, but the north wing is three floors. Its modern design gives it the appearance of badly stacked giant toy blocks. It’s a house only someone very rich would build.
Not for the first time, I wonder how Mr. Donavon earned all this money.
I have no idea. Because part of my contract was a promise not to google him.
Yeeeahhh … that was one of the weirder clauses.
But the lawyer promised me it wasn’t because Mr. Donovan has a criminal background.
And lawyers never ever lie, right?
I swear to God, Mr. Sniggles can read my thoughts and is laughing his ass off in the back seat. I follow the drive until it forks, then pull up the email from the lawyer to verify which branch of the fork I’m supposed to take—it’s the left one.
A moment later, I park in a spot by the most gorgeous guest house I’ve ever seen.
It’s sleek with a mid-century modern vibe. Between the pool it overlooks, the row of sliding glass doors and the lush greenery around it, I feel like I’m stepping into a David Hockney painting.
I had planned to arrive in the early afternoon, but by the time I packed and drove out here, it’s closer to dusk. It’s fall, but this is Texas, so the temperature is just shy of blistering and the chirping of the cicadas is nearly as oppressive as the heat. I use the key Mr. Harris gave me to unlock the door and carry all my stuff in. I bring Mr. Sniggles in first, but don’t let him out of the cat carrier until I’ve brought in the rest of my stuff and gotten his litter pan set up.
The house isn’t big, but it has everything I need. A mud room/laundry room that leads straight off the carport. A single bedroom that’s bigger than my entire shithole apartment in Austin. A bath and a half—I guess in case the guests in the guest house have guests of their own? The full kitchen and living area face the sliding glass doors.
Even after I open Mr. Sniggles’s crate, he doesn’t venture out until I dump out a can of cat food onto a plate and sit cross-legged on the living room floor to lure him. He glares at me as he eats, before stomping over and curling up on my lap. I swear he only sits on my lap when he knows I’m sitting in an uncomfortable position I can’t possibly maintain for long.
As I give him scritches on the top of his head, I give him the pep talk I wish my sister had given me.
“We’re going to love it here. I promise. And if we don’t, it’s only a year, right?” When he seems to glare at me, I add in a dose of honesty. “Yeah. It’s going to be weird for me, too.”
Chapter Two
Ian
* * *
Someone has been in my house.
I reach this conclusion based on the following evidence:
