Page 17 of The Art of Ruin

The gate opens before I knock.

A woman—elegant, warm, unmistakably familiar in the way she carries herself—steps forward with a smile that reaches her eyes before I’ve said hello.

“Casey, it’s so good to see you,” she says, giving me a warm feeling inside.

“Hi, Mrs. Romano, it’s good to see you.”

“Now, none of that. It’s Elena,” she says gently.

Her arms reach out, giving me a tight hug that only mothers seem to get just right. I hug her back as tears sting the back of my nose. The connection settles something in me I hadn’t realized was tight. “I’m sorry. I know I’m early,” I start, as I pull back.

“You’re exactly on time for coffee,” she replies, already stepping aside to let me in. “Come in. I just made biscotti.”

I hesitate for half a second.

Old instinct would be to rush in, to let my emotions show, but I feel more guarded now, and I hate that he did that to me.

Don’t assume welcome.

Don’t step where you’re not invited, but Elena is like her daughter, or perhaps it’s the other way around, and she bustles over my wariness.

“Come on. I left Letty coloring in the playroom, and I promised her biscotti. If I’m not there to stop her, she’ll eat the whole plate, and her father will not be happy.”

“Does he get mad with her a lot?”

I’m not sure I can cope with that right now.

Elena laughs like I just told the best joke she’s ever heard. “Ha, that man is a golden retriever for his daughter. He likes to think he’s a Doberman, but for her, he’s definitely the other.”

The thought makes me smile as I follow her inside the house.

It’s quieter than I expected.

Not empty.

Just… contained.

The kind of quiet where things are where they’re meant to be—but not untouched.

There’s a pair of small shoes by the door; one turned slightly inward like it was kicked off in a hurry. A bright hair clip sits in a shallow dish beside a set of keys, out of place in a way that feels recent, not forgotten.

The surfaces are clean but not stripped. A stray crayon rests on a side table in the hallway.

It isn’t chaotic.

But it isn’t untouched either.

It feels… managed.

Like someone keeps things in place, but something smaller moves through it anyway.

I notice that immediately.

Elena leads me into the kitchen, where sunlight spills across a long marble counter, catching on a glass left to dry beside the sink.

“There’s coffee,” she says. “Sit. You look like you’ve been up too long. I’ll get you a biscotti. You’re too thin.”

I let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh. Isabella warned me her mother would try to feed me. “Thank you, and yes. I’ve been awake a while,” I admit.