I was thirty-seven years old, divorced, and supposed to know better. I owned a beat-up two-story house on Maple Ridge Road, fixed kitchens for a living, and trusted wood more than people.
Wood told the truth.
People smiled while hiding knives.
Mara Collins had moved into my spare bedroom eighteen months earlier with one suitcase, two laundry baskets, and a seven-year-old daughter named Ellie who carried a stuffed rabbit by one ear.
Mara said she needed a safe place.
I said the room was available.
Both of us lied a little.
The truth was, she needed shelter from Victor Hale, her rich, polished, snake-smiling ex-husband.
And I needed someone to make my empty house feel less like a punishment.
We made rules the first night.
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