He had no idea that sixteen miles off, on Willow Creek Lane, a wide white porch was waiting for me beneath a sycamore tree.

He had no idea my trust held eighty-nine million dollars in cash, or that the closing deed was lying on Arthur Vance’s desk awaiting my final signature.

I looked at my fourteen cardboard boxes piled against the casita wall, packed with my books, my bedding, and my kitchen towels.

If I tried hiring a moving van in daylight, Daniel would spot the truck in the driveway and call his lawyer to enforce the temporary injunction.

I had to get those fourteen boxes out of the casita without making one sound in the driveway.