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There’s a peace here I can’t describe.

Birds chirp overhead and I look up, finding ravens soaring high in the cloudy skies. We’re lucky this year—the weather isn’t too cold yet, and the grounds are still dry enough for me to enjoy my lunch in my special slice of heaven.

My haven.

My mind flashes to the way Ethan looked at me last week during the interview—when he told me he hoped The Strata could be a haven for its visitors.

The depth in his gaze and the thickness in his voice.

My chest niggles, the phantom ache reappearing, and my phone rings. I quickly answer.

“Liam, you’re up!”

“Lexy, it’s noon. I might work in cybersecurity, but I follow normal hours, you know.”

I grin. “Sorry, the twenty-year-old you is still fresh in my mind. Punk hair, wild parties, living like a vampire.”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“Trust me, I know. What’s up?” My stomach grumbles. I rummage through a bag I brought with me—the one with the food. Feed the body, feed the mind.

“Did you get the box? The staff were cleaning your old room at the mansion. Said you forgot some things—might be important. I left the box with your doorman yesterday.”

I take a sip of the honey lavender iced tea—because iced tea is better than hot tea, even if it’s fifty degrees right now—and reach into my other bag to pull out the small box he’s referring to.

“Got it. Thanks for bringing it by.” Opening the box, I eye the contents—a few old photos of me in my leotard, some Post-it notes with scribbles on them, several pens and markers, two small notebooks, and a wallet I don’t recognize.

“You’re coming to Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday, right? Charles and Tay are going to be there.”

“Wow, the Andersons let Tay off the hook?”

He chuckles. “Charles might as well be married now. They’re doing the alternating holiday thing.”

Silence falls and a question perches at the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to ask because I know what the answer will be.

Liam figures out and answers anyway, “And no. Our parents aren’t coming back.”

A knot lodges in my chest. I’ve made peace with it, but the old wound still flares up from time to time.

How can someone forget their own kids? I’ll never understand that.

“I figured. Liam…I miss Grandma and Uncle Ian. Remember how Grandma would make her turkey just right? Crispy on the outside and tender inside? Then Uncle Ian would eat most of it and complain how his students would make fun of his belly later?” Uncle Ian was a world-renowned ballet choreographer. I fell in love with the dance because of him.

It’s one of my biggest regrets to this day—not being able to say goodbye to them.

A ragged exhale comes across the line. “Firefly…a lot of shit happened while you were asleep. Some people weren’t who they seemed to be. I want to tell you more, because I know you have questions. But I can’t, unless you drop out of your medical trial. I’ll tell you this, we have the most important people in the world with us right now, and I miss Grandma too.”

He doesn’t mention Uncle Ian. It seems significant.

My gut clenches and the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Why do I feel like I know the answer? Why is it—

A piercing pain stabs the base of my skull. I cry out, my phone clattering to the floor.

Dark room. Hip-hop music. Moaning and screaming.

Headlights in front of me. So much rain.

My heart palpitating, my lungs not drawing enough air.