The photograph weighed heavily in Aila's hand, as if the paper itself absorbed the chill creeping through her veins. He said he'd kill me. Her mother's looping script stared back at her, each letter a slash through the safe memories Aila had clung to.
She placed the photo down carefully, like it might explode if disturbed again.
Then she reached into her satchel.
The letter.
She hadn't dared open it on the train. Some instinct told her it needed to be read in the house where it was written. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper, aged and creased with secrets.
My dearest Aila,
If you're reading this, it means I'm gone—and not by choice.
There are things I should have told you long ago, but I stayed silent to protect you. That silence is now my burden. You will find answers in this house, but you must look carefully. And, Aila, you cannot trust anyone. Not the people you grew up with. Not the ones you loved. Not even him.
Find the key.
Start with the lighthouse.
Forgive me.
—Mom
Aila read it three times before the weight of the words settled in her chest. Not even him. There was only one "him" that could mean—Liam Hart. The boy who once promised her forever and then disappeared without a word the night her life fell apart.
And now he was here again. Still gorgeous. Still closed-off. Still dangerous, apparently.
Aila folded the letter and slipped it into her coat pocket. Her mother had written about a key. And the lighthouse. She hadn't set foot in that abandoned tower in years, not since—
A knock at the door shattered her thoughts.
She jumped. Her heart pounded like a war drum as she stepped toward the foyer. Another knock. Louder this time. She hesitated, then opened the door.
Liam stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, his sandy brown hair damp from mist. His eyes—those same stormy gray eyes she used to trust—searched hers.
"Aila," he said, voice low and uncertain. "I heard you were back."
She didn't move. "You heard? Or you were watching?"
A flicker of guilt passed through his face. "It's a small town. People talk."
"Do they also talk about how my mother fell down the stairs and died in a house she never walked through in the dark?"
His jaw tightened. "You think it wasn't an accident?"
"I think you didn't come here to offer condolences."
He looked past her, into the house behind her. "Can I come in?"
Aila hesitated.
Her mother's words echoed in her mind.
Not even him.
She stepped aside.
"You have five minutes," she said. "And you'd better make them count."