I locked the door behind her.

The house was silent again, but the dread was gone. I wasn’t a victim waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall. I was the executioner, and my axe was made of paper and ink.

Chapter 4: The Return of the Prodigal Parasites

Lauren’s prophecy came true in less than forty-eight hours. It was a brilliant, unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon—the kind of spring day that begs for lemonade and open windows.

I was in the front yard, methodically pruning the deadwood from the climbing rose bushes, when a battered yellow taxi groaned to a halt at my curb. The door opened, and the illusion of Cancun spilled onto the asphalt.

I recognized Ethan immediately, though he looked like a degraded photocopy of the man in the picture. His designer polo was rumpled and stained with travel sweat.

His jaw was covered in patchy, uneven scruff. The arrogance he wore like a tailored suit had evaporated. Rachel climbed out the opposite side. She dragged two massive, overstuffed suitcases—one of them a Tumi bag I distinctly remembered buying.