Two hours later, we stood outside 219 Hawthorne Avenue, a tall Victorian house with steep roofs, narrow windows, and the kind of cold beauty meant to impress people rather than comfort them. Inside, every surface gleamed: polished hardwood floors, crystal chandeliers, expensive abstract artwork. It was the type of home where even silence felt carefully designed.
“Harper,” Clara said, already sounding detached and businesslike, “show Ethan where he can put his things. I need to answer some emails.”
Harper guided me upstairs. At the doorway of the master bedroom, she looked at my suitcase and the two small boxes containing what remained of my previous life.
“Are you staying?” she asked quietly. “Or just visiting?”
“I’m staying,” I said while crouching beside her. “I’m your stepdad now. I’m not leaving.”
She nodded slowly, but her face became blank in that careful way children learn when they no longer trust happy news.
Three weeks later, Clara left on a business trip to Salt Lake City. She stood near the front door in a fitted black suit, her perfume sharp and expensive.
“Be good for Ethan,” she told Harper.
Her eyes held the little girl completely still.
“Remember what we talked about.”
