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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
