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“Hey, Lucinda!” I offered a wave and a genuine smile as I approached.

She set the boxes she was carrying in the back of the moving truck before dusting her hands off on her jean-covered thighs and flashing a tired smile. “Oh, hey, Tris! It’s been a minute. Haven’t seen you around.”

I frowned, guilt gnawing at my insides. Scratching along my jawline, I apologized. “Yeah, sorry. I’ve been caught up with things.”

She tucked a long strand of straight black hair behind her ear. “No worries. I actually assumed you’d moved out when Craig did.”

My heart stuttered. “Wait—Craig’s gone?” I liked our downstairs neighbor, even if we hadn’t talked much.

She frowned. “Yeah, he moved out . . . um . . .” She bit her lip, eyebrows furrowed, but she finally nodded. “Last month. Yeah. Anyway, the person who bought his condo—over market, by the way—contacted me and said they were looking to buy more condos in the building. They offered me the same deal, and I couldn’t say no to that. I should be able to get a bigger place with the extra money!”

Lucinda was nearly vibrating at her good fortune, but the more she talked, the larger the knot in my stomach became. I couldn’t be sure, of course, but my gut told me something was off.

I blinked, trying to clear my head and the unease churning inside me. Glancing up at the nearly full truck, I inclined my head toward it. “Do you need any help?”

She waved me off. “Nah, I’m almost done. Thanks, though!” She squealed, giving me a quick hug. “I’m so glad I got to see you before I left! Don’t be a stranger.”

Then she turned and went back inside.

I waited until she was out of sight before heading toward the entrance myself, my stomach twisted in knots. This could be nothing. I could be blowing this up in my head. But hadn’t Emily been teaching me to trust my intuition?

I slowed as I reached the front steps, approaching my own damn home tentatively. Maybe I was wrong—maybe it wasn’t him. But my mother had called me several times, and she had been just shy of hostile when I’d finally spoken to her. And she had mentioned the condo . . .

No. I wouldn’t give in to paranoia.

Shoving down my tendency to jump to the worst-case scenario, I picked up the pace and hurried inside the building. But as I pressed the elevator button to my floor, dread started to crawl up my throat once more. Ice ran through my veins, and the closer I got to my home, I just knew he was behind all of it. I didn’t know how I knew, I just did.

Then I stepped out of the elevator. And my heart stopped.

A man dressed in an intimidating black trench coat and black Italian suit over one of those infuriating blue dress shirts with a white collar stood down the hall, facing my door. His nauseating, hypermasculine cologne permeated the hallway, and it made my eyes water from here. I would recognize that ensemble, that smell, anywhere.

My father turned at the sound of the elevator closing and whirring away to its next destination, his straightened brown hair—the same color as mine and with the same curls he worked so hard to disguise—not moving an inch. I could feel the contempt in his gaze even from dozens of feet away.

I had to force my feet to start walking toward him, into the cloud of cologne. What the fuck was he doing here?

I stepped around him to unlock my door without a word, and I heard him huff under his breath. No doubt I’d get a lecture for that once we got inside. Both he and my mom were always sticklers for manners.

Still silent, I pushed my door open and scurried inside, hoping against hope that he’d just leave at my pointed ignoration. When I heard the door close behind me a second later and felt his penetrating gaze heating my back, I knew I wasn’t that lucky.

I whipped around, trying to bolster my courage. “What do you want, George?”

It would have been satisfying to see him flinch at me using his name, which I’d never done—again, those bullshit “respect” rules my mom had drilled into me when she deigned to acknowledge my existence—but I wasn’t lucky in that, either. He just glared at me.

“Is that any way to greet your father?”

I crossed my arms against the chill in the air he’d brought with him. “I have things to do, and I don’t appreciate you barging in on me like this. So I repeat: What do you want?”

“Barging in?!” he nearly shouted. “If not for a technicality, this would be my home!”

I scoffed. That technicality he was referring to was legality, actually. My name alone was on the deed—he would know. He put it there.

They’d purchased this place for me to live in while I went to college, and they’d signed it over to me as a graduation present. Why, I never knew. Maybe a moment of clarity or guilt that he hadn’t treated his only son better? Or some backward way to impress his friends by saying his young son already owned his own place? Didn’t really matter—I’d had no plans to look a gift horse in the mouth.

But I felt a little vindicated at his words. Because with that outburst, he’d all but confirmed my suspicions that he was behind the buyouts. Did that mean he was here to bully me, try to force me out, too?

George visibly straightened his jacket as if embarrassed he’d lost his composure. Maybe he was working on taming his anger without me in their lives; I didn’t know. I didn’t care. But this man in front of me was more the yelling-at-me-for-every-minor-fuckup version I rarely saw growing up than the emotionally absent father I was used to.

I would’ve preferred the other one show up. Or, you know, not shown up at all.