Rosalie stood at the kitchen window looking toward Baba’s old workshop.
One corner of the roof sagged lower than she remembered it sagging last winter.
Or maybe she had finally stopped pretending not to notice.
Her eyes settled on the workbench barely visible through the cloudy window.
And for no sensible reason at all, she thought about a key.
A guest-house key.
Sitting beside one of Baba’s carburetors while rain came down hard enough to turn Nolan’s family estate into a swamp.
The memory opened before she could stop it.
Nolan’s family property never looked real to me.
The first time he showed me all of it, I thought we were entering some private park.
Acres of land spread behind iron gates and stone walls.
Broad staircases climbed between terraces built into the hillside.
Huge fountains rose from circular basins big enough that I probably could have swum across them.
Stone figures stood along some of the garden paths, pale faces staring at nothing.
Nolan barely looked at any of it.
People at school talked about his house constantly.
They called it a mansion.
That word felt too small.
The manor sat on the highest section of the property, all heavy gray stone, tall windows, steep rooflines, broad balconies and enough chimneys to make me wonder if half the place was secretly on fire.
Behind it, the formal gardens eventually gave up and became trees.
Dense enough in places that the manor disappeared.
Nolan called that section the woods.
I called it the forest because it annoyed him.
Farther down sat the lake.
Private.
Of course.
A gazebo stood near the shoreline.
A long dock stretched over the water.
Usually the pontoon sat on one side, the speedboat on the other, with a houseboat tied farther down.
There were swimming pools too.
More than one.
I once asked Nolan why anybody needed multiple swimming pools when they also owned a lake.
He shrugged.
“Maybe they’re afraid the water will get lonely.”
By sixteen, I had mostly stopped being impressed.
The place had expensive everything and comfortable nothing.
Nolan spent more time at Mimi’s than he did there.
That summer, he decided we should camp near the lake.
I followed him down one of the trails carrying a sleeping bag and half the food because apparently inviting somebody camping meant making them haul their own weight.
He walked backward in front of me carrying one end of the tent bag.
“You forgot water.”
“I didn’t forget it.”
“You didn’t bring any.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I remembered it existed.”
I stared at him.
“You brought six sodas.”
“Three each.”
“We’re staying overnight.”
“You planning to drink Lake Rosalie?”
“It is not called Lake Rosalie.”
“It should be.”
“It’s your family’s lake.”
“Exactly. I have naming authority.”
“You don’t even have water authority.”
Nolan stopped.
“That was terrible.”
“You deserved it.”
We found a clearing above the shoreline where the trees opened enough to see the water.
The manor barely showed through the branches.
I suspected that was why Nolan liked the spot.
He set up the tent.
I sat on the cooler.
“You could help.”
“I’m guarding the food.”
“From what?”
“Animals.”
“There aren’t any animals here.”
I looked around.
“You own several acres of trees and somehow negotiated an animal-free zone?”
“Yes.”
“Impressive.”
Nolan shoved a tent pole through the wrong sleeve, swore, and pulled it back.
“You’re doing great.”
“Get off the cooler.”
“No.”
“Rosalie.”
“Nolan.”
He looked at me.
I smiled.
He muttered something.
I chose not to hear it.
We spent most of the afternoon around the lake.
Nolan took the pontoon out and drove too fast for a pontoon, which defeated the point of owning the slowest boat in existence.
“You could slow down.”
“I could.”
He didn’t.
Wind whipped my hair straight across my mouth.
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re having fun.”
“My hair is attacking me.”
“Cut it.”
I kicked the back of his seat.
He laughed.
Later we sat on the dock with our feet hanging above the water.
The speedboat bumped softly against the side.
I looked toward the houseboat.
“Why do you need that thing?”
“I don’t.”
“Your family.”
“They don’t either.”
“Good talk.”
“Thank you.”
“What does it even have inside?”
“Bedrooms. Kitchen. Bathroom.”
I stared at him.
“That boat has a bathroom?”
“Yeah.”
“Better remember that later.”
Nolan looked at me.
“Why?”
“You have the planning skills of a raccoon.”
“That is extremely specific.”
“And accurate.”
After dark we built a small fire near the campsite.
The portable radio sat beside Nolan.
A song played quietly beneath the crackle of wood.
I had a bag of chips in my lap.
Nolan reached over and stole one.
“You have your own.”
“Yours taste better.”
“They’re from the same bag.”
“Exactly.”
I slapped his hand away when he reached again.
“Get your own food.”
He leaned back on his elbows.
“Everybody thinks we’re dating.”
I nearly dropped the chips.
“What?”
He stared at the fire.
“Nothing.”
“You just said everybody thinks we’re dating.”
“I know what I said.”
“Who?”
“People.”
“People who?”
He shrugged.
I narrowed my eyes.
“A girl asked me about you yesterday.”
His head turned.
“What girl?”
I caught that.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“Melissa.”
Nolan made a face.
I laughed.
“She likes you.”
“That sounds unfortunate.”
“She asked if you had a girlfriend.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“That I didn’t know.”
Nolan sat up.
“You know I don’t.”
“I know.”
“Then why’d you say you didn’t know?”
I shrugged.
“She annoyed me.”
A small smile touched his mouth.
“Good.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“You clearly do.”
“Nope.”
I watched him.
There had been more and more of those conversations.
Nolan getting irritated at things that shouldn’t bother him.
Nolan asking who I was talking to.
Nolan pretending he hadn’t asked.
I figured he was being overly protective.
He had always been protective.
The difference was still too small for me to name.
A few drops of rain hit the leaves.
I looked up.
“Is it supposed to rain?”
Nolan looked toward the sky.
“No.”
A drop hit his cheek.
He wiped it away.
“Apparently the sky disagrees.”
The rain stayed light for maybe ten minutes.
We crawled into the tent once it turned steady.
By midnight, the weather became ridiculous.
Rain hammered the fabric.
Wind pushed one side inward.
Water dripped through a seam near my sleeping bag.
I moved.
Another drop hit my shoulder.
“Nolan.”
A muffled sound came from his sleeping bag.
“Nolan.”
“What?”
“You said this was waterproof.”
“It was.”
“Past tense is doing a lot of work there.”
Thunder cracked.
Nolan sat up.
A fat drop of water landed directly on his forehead.
I pointed.
He wiped it away.
“Don’t.”
I started laughing.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It hit you right in the face.”
“Wonderful.”
I shifted again.
Then froze.
Nolan looked at me.
“What?”
I sighed.
“I have to pee.”
“No.”
I stared.
“What do you mean no?”
“You cannot possibly need to pee right now.”
“Tell my bladder.”
He pointed toward the woods.
“Trees.”
My mouth fell open.
“Absolutely not.”
“There are hundreds.”
“I am not squatting behind a tree in a thunderstorm.”
“I’ll turn around.”
“Generous.”
“I’ll sing.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Another blast of thunder rattled the tent.
I grabbed my sweatshirt.
“I’m going to the guest house.”
Nolan stopped moving.
I noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nolan.”
He checked one pocket.
Then another.
Then his jacket.
I already knew.
“Where’s the key?”
He closed his eyes.
“Don’t.”
“Where is it?”
“I may have left it.”
“Where?”
“Baba’s.”
I stared at him.
“Where at Baba’s?”
He looked guilty.
“Workbench.”
“The guest-house key is sitting on Baba’s workbench?”
“I was helping him with the carburetor.”
“That information does not help me pee.”
“I know.”
“So now what?”
Nolan glanced toward the manor.
I followed his eyes.
“No.”
“We can use the main house.”
“At one in the morning?”
“Side entrance.”
“Your dad?”
Nolan looked away.
“He should be asleep.”
Should.
I hated that word coming from him.
“And if he isn’t?”
“We stay quiet.”
Rain ran down the tent.
My bladder made the final decision.
“Fine.”
We ran.
Within thirty seconds my shoes were soaked.
Within a minute my sweatshirt clung to my arms.
Nolan nearly slipped on the stone path near one of the fountains.
I laughed.
“Shut up.”
“You almost died.”
“I did not.”
“You windmilled.”
“I recovered.”
“You looked like a drunk flamingo.”
Nolan shoved wet hair off his forehead.
“You look worse.”
“That’s impossible.”
We reached the covered side entrance breathing hard.
Nolan punched a code into the keypad.
The lock clicked.
We stepped inside.
The laughter disappeared from him first.
I felt it before I understood it.
The manor swallowed sound.
Our shoes squeaked against stone.
Tall windows climbed nearly to the ceiling.
Rain streaked the glass.
Dark wood framed the hallways.
Paintings hung beneath little brass lights.
Furniture sat arranged in rooms large enough to echo.
Nothing looked touched.
Nothing looked lived in.
Nolan put one finger to his lips.
I nodded.
Then I watched him move through his own house.
He stepped over one section of floor.
Avoided one stair completely.
Stopped before crossing an open hallway and listened.
He knew every place that creaked.
Every door that carried sound.
Every spot where somebody upstairs might see him.
I followed close behind.
At the foot of the main staircase I whispered, “You live here.”
He looked at me.
“That doesn’t mean I want him knowing I’m here.”
I stopped.
His face had changed completely.
No grin.
No sarcasm.
His jaw was tight.
I looked toward the second floor.
Nothing moved.
Nolan touched my elbow.
“Come on.”
We reached the kitchen.
It was enormous.
Two islands.
A refrigerator twice the width of Mimi’s.
Copper pans hanging above one counter.
I looked around.
“I need a map.”
“You know where the bathroom is.”
“I know.”
I started toward the hall.
Behind me, Nolan opened the refrigerator.
I turned around.
“What are you doing?”
“Food.”
“I said I had to pee.”
“You also complained we didn’t pack enough.”
“Separate crisis.”
He pulled out sandwich meat.
“Go.”
When I came back, two towels waited on the island.
Nolan had built sandwiches.
I wrapped one towel around my shoulders.
“You stealing?”
“I live here.”
“You’re sneaking through your own kitchen.”
“Technicality.”
He handed me a sandwich.
I looked at the massive dining table in the next room.
Then Nolan.
We sat on the floor.
For whatever reason, neither of us even considered the chairs.
I ate with the towel around my shoulders.
Water dripped from Nolan’s hair onto his shirt.
I pointed.
“You look ridiculous.”
“You’ve said that.”
“It remains true.”
He took a bite.
A sound came from upstairs.
Nolan froze.
So did I.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Heavy enough to carry through the ceiling.
Nolan put his sandwich down.
A door opened somewhere above us.
He reached for my wrist.
“Come on.”
“Nolan.”
“Now.”
We moved.
Fast.
Quiet.
He pulled me down the side hallway.
Another footstep.
Closer.
The kitchen suddenly felt too bright behind us.
Nolan opened the side door.
Rain hit us immediately.
We ran back outside.
Neither of us stopped until we reached the tree line.
I bent forward with my hands on my knees.
Rain poured off my hair.
Nolan stood beside me breathing hard.
I started laughing.
He stared at me.
“What?”
“We just ran out of your own house like we robbed it.”
“Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“No.”
“It’s absolutely funny.”
He tried fighting it.
Lost.
A laugh escaped him.
He shook his head and pulled me farther beneath the trees.
We ended up at the guest house anyway.
Nolan knew one window didn’t latch.
Naturally.
I watched him climb through.
“You have terrible security.”
His face appeared behind the glass.
“You’re criticizing security while assisting a break-in.”
“It isn’t a break-in if you live here.”
“You literally just used that argument against me.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I needed a bathroom.”
He unlocked the door.
I stepped inside.
We found dry blankets.
I took one couch.
Nolan took the other.
By morning, the storm had disappeared.
I woke first.
Sunlight spread across the floor.
Nolan slept with one arm hanging off the couch, his hand almost touching the rug.
No clenched jaw.
No listening.
No watching the door.
I stood near the window.
Across the lake, the manor rose over the trees.
Stone.
Glass.
Money.
All of it belonged to Nolan’s family.
Yet he slept better inside a guest house he had climbed through a window to enter.
At sixteen, I knew his father frightened him.
I knew Nolan stayed away whenever he could.
I knew Mimi’s kitchen mattered to him.
Baba’s workshop mattered.
Their couch mattered.
I didn’t understand what any of that would look like years later after all of them were gone.
The memory thinned.
Rosalie blinked.
Baba’s workshop stood beyond the present-day kitchen window.
One hand rested against the edge of the sink.
No rain.
No lake.
No sixteen-year-old Nolan sleeping on a guest-house couch.
She had forgotten about the key.
The sandwiches.
The way Nolan’s hand had closed around her wrist when the footsteps started upstairs.
Or maybe she hadn’t forgotten.
Maybe she had simply stopped going anywhere near that part of her own head.
The doorbell rang.
Both dogs erupted.
Rosalie flinched.
“Jesus.”
One launched off the couch.
The other skidded across the floor behind him.
The doorbell rang again.
Then came three hard knocks.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
Rosalie frowned.
“What the hell?”
Another knock.
Harder.
Not someone selling anything.
Not a neighbor.
Not anybody planning to stand politely on the porch.
Rosalie walked into the hallway.
“Coming!”
The bell rang again.
“Yeah, I heard you.”
The dogs crowded the entryway.
She nudged one aside and looked through the peephole.
A man stood on the porch.
Tall.
Dark jacket.
His face moved partly out of view.
Rosalie caught a cheek.
Dark hair.
Then his shoulder.
Something tightened low in her stomach.
She left the deadbolt locked.
“Who is it?”
Silence.
One dog growled.
Then the man outside spoke.
“Rose.”
Rosalie stopped breathing.
Nobody called her Rose.
Not anymore.
Her fingers moved to the deadbolt.
The lock clicked.
She opened the door.
Nolan Devereaux stood on her porch.
Not sixteen.
Not inside a memory.
Not beside a Ferrari beneath television lights.
Here.
His hair was disordered.
A cut split the skin near one eyebrow.
Dirt streaked the left side of his jacket.
Something dark marked the cuff of his sleeve.
Rosalie’s eyes dropped.
Blood.
Nolan followed her stare.
“It’s not mine.”
Rosalie looked back at his face.
That did absolutely nothing to improve the situation.
“Nolan?”
His eyes found hers.
For half a second, his face loosened.
Then he looked toward the street again.
“Hi, Rose.”
Rosalie stared.
“Hi?”
His mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
It died before it formed.
A dark SUV sat crooked along the curb.
The driver’s door hung open.
Rosalie pointed past him.
“You parked like an asshole.”
Nolan glanced over his shoulder.
“I know.”
“That’s your opening?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He checked the street again.
Left.
Right.
Rosalie stopped thinking about his face.
Stopped thinking about the twenty-three years between them.
Nolan was scared.
Not uncomfortable.
Not nervous.
Scared.
She had seen fear on him before.
It usually came out as anger.
Silence.
A locked jaw.
This was different.
“What happened?”
Nolan looked at her.
“I need your help.”
Rosalie almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because apparently the universe had decided sanity was optional today.
“You disappear for twenty-three years, show up at my house with somebody else’s blood on you, and your first actual sentence is ‘I need your help’?”
“When you put it like that…”
“Don’t.”
Nolan shut his mouth.
The dog nearest Rosalie growled again.
Nolan looked down.
“Still hate everybody?”
“They have standards.”
“That one always bite?”
“Only people who show up covered in blood.”
“Fair.”
Rosalie should have kept him outside.
That was the obvious move.
Ask questions.
Call somebody.
Find out whose blood was on him before letting him inside.
Instead she looked at his face again.
The cut.
The exhaustion around his eyes.
The way he kept checking behind himself.
Sixteen-year-old Nolan moving through his own house without making a sound flashed through her mind.
Rosalie stepped back.
“Get in.”
Nolan hesitated.
Only a second.
Then crossed the threshold.
Rosalie shut the door behind him.
Locked it.
The deadbolt slid into place with a hard metallic click.