My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

I stood alone in the kitchen with Evelyn and looked around at the altered room, the sea beyond the window flashing silver between the dune grass. The adrenaline that had held me upright since dawn began draining so fast I had to grip the edge of the counter.

Evelyn didn’t fuss. She was too smart for that. She simply opened the refrigerator, found a bottle of water and two lemons, frowned at the expensive wellness juices Diana had stocked, ignored them, and asked, “Where does your mother keep tea?”

The question nearly undid me.

“Second cabinet left of the stove,” I whispered automatically.

She opened it and found the tea tin exactly where it had always been, pushed behind newer boxes Diana had probably brought in and failed to fully displace. “Good,” Evelyn said. “Civilization survives.”