“What did the police say?” she asks.
I lean against the marble island and close my eyes briefly. “That someone disabled my security system and wandered through my house like they owned the place.”
“Kara…”
“One of my chef knives is gone.”
Silence.
Then quieter, “Okay. I officially hate this.”
I let out a humorless laugh. The tension in my chest aches.
“You remember what I told you a few weeks ago?” Vanessa asks carefully.
“That I need a vacation?”
“You looked burned out before this happened.”
Burned out doesn’t even begin to cover it. The past six months have been nonstop. Filming. Travel. Interviews. Brand obligations. A cookbook deadline hanging over my head like a storm cloud. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night without waking up thinking about work.
“I can’t just disappear for two weeks,” I mutter.
“Yes, you can.”
“I have meetings Monday.”
“You also sound one inconvenience away from crying into a saucepan.”
Despite everything, I almost smile.
Vanessa softens her voice. “One of my wine suppliers owns a beach rental in this little town called Sunbreak Harbor. Quiet place. Barrier island. Mostly tourists and boat people this time of year.”
I stare toward the dark hallway again. The upstairs suddenly feels impossible.
“You already looked exhausted before this happened,” she continues. “Now somebody’s been inside your house, Kara. Go somewhere safe while they repair everything.”
Safety is what I secretly crave, but seems out of reach. Because right now I don’t feel safe at all. Especially not here.
“I already emailed you the listing,” Vanessa says gently. “Just look at it before you say no.”
I grab my tablet from my bag and pull up email. The rental photos appear immediately. White coastal cottage. Private dune access. Large chef’s kitchen. Soft gauzy curtains drifting near open windows. A wraparound porch overlooking sea grass and blue water beyond.
Everything about it looks calm, sunny and peaceful. It looks happy. Suddenly, the idea of staying in this house another night feels impossible.
A man in a charcoal security polo steps through the still-open front door a few minutes later carrying a slim tablet beneath one arm. Mid-forties maybe. Calm, polished, expensive watch. The kind of man trained to speak carefully during expensive disasters.
“Ms. Stone?” he asks gently. “I’m Daniel Mercer with Sentinel Protective.”
Of course, the company sends someone immediately. I pay them enough.
He offers a professional handshake, though his expression tightens slightly when he takes in my face.
“I’m very sorry this happened.”
Officer Delgado nods toward him. “Mr. Mercer’s team handled the initial response after the fail-over alert triggered.”
Mercer glances toward the hallway leading upstairs. “If you’re comfortable, I’d like to walk the property with you and document anything disturbed before we secure the house for the night.”
