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fingertips. She’d never noticed things like this in her father’s

house, but then, her father’s house hadn’t been old, and it

certainly hadn’t looked like this. No one could own this much

real estate in New York without being a multi-millionaire.

Cassia couldn’t believe Adalynn had bought the house for

under a hundred grand. No wonder she had money left over to

fix it up.

Adalynn was in the kitchen. Humming.

Cassia froze when she heard the lilting melody. Something

about it reminded her of her mom, but she swallowed thickly

at the rush of bittersweet memories. She only wanted to think

of her mom as she remembered her. She didn’t want to think

of her father. Of the man who had killed his own wife, a

woman who was the mother of his children. Her father should

be in jail, probably a thousand times over for the things he did.

It occurred to Cassia as she walked to the fridge and took

out the plastic container of orange juice while Adalynn

hummed over a frying pan with eggs in it, that if Adalynn had

ever entered her name into a search engine, she probably knew

all about her father.

It made Cassia nervous to ask, but as the eggs crackled and

popped—scrambled and semi-burned was about as far as

Adalynn ever got with making anything—she found herself

voicing her thoughts anyway.

“You know who my father is.” Okay, maybe she wasn’t

being very subtle. Was she supposed to be? Maybe it was

better to just come out with it, even if it did seem to be coming

out of the blue.

Adalynn froze. She looked like a suburban goddess in a pair

of skinny jeans which were dusty from the day before and