Because if I thought the worst of Grant was already on the table, Rebecca Thornton had just made it very clear I was still missing pieces.
Part 6
I didn’t answer Becca that night.
I packed. I showered. I changed into jeans and a soft gray sweater that still smelled faintly like the lavender detergent I bought in bulk because Grant said it made the sheets feel “expensive.” I deleted that thought as quickly as it arrived. Then I drove to Carmel with the windows cracked and the Pacific beside me like a dark, breathing animal.
I left Grant a note on the kitchen island. It said exactly this:
You have thirty days. Do not contact me except through Blackwood.
I thought about adding something vicious. Something about my dress. Something about funerals and parasites and basic human decency. But he wasn’t worth the extra ink.
The cottage sat on a narrow bluff behind a stand of wind-bent cypress trees. It was smaller than I expected, white clapboard with black shutters and a porch that faced the ocean. When I unlocked the door, the place smelled like salt, lemon wood polish, and a house that had waited to be lived in.