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PROLOGUE
I never wanted to rent out the island house. Even after a year of doing exactly that, the very thought has me raiding my tiny stash of edibles before the panic attack hits. The island is my sanctuary. It’s also the one thing in this world that is mine, all mine.
The island had been a wedding gift from Kit, and he insisted on signing it over after we split. The problem is that Hemlock House is not some tiny cottage perched on a sliver of land. It’s a custom-built home on a five-acre private island in Lake Superior.
It’s the sort of place that a guy like Christian “Kit” Hayes—CEO of his family’s tech corporation—can afford as a getaway. It isnotthe kind of place his high school English teacher ex can afford to maintain… unless I rent it out. Unless I allow total strangers to invade my private domain. Allow them to move the chairs from my secret spots, to burn down my gazebo with a bonfire, to destroy my grandmother’s coffee table with what are clearly canid teeth marks despite promising their dog would stay outside…
I told myself to stop being so sentimental. If I want this amazing place, I need to make concessions. Just keep my insurance paid up and be happy that the worst thing that can happen is a burned gazebo or a chewed table.
That is not the worst thing.
The worst thing is that someone now knows every inch of your private space, and they can do whatever they want to it—and, maybe, to you.
ONE
“Laney,” a voice says in my ear. “Aunt Laney!”
The last one startles me, gasping, out of sleep. Some parents call their kids by their first and middle name when they’re in trouble. My sixteen-year-old niece calls me “Aunt” when I’m doing something to piss her off, and right now what I’m apparently doing is sleeping when she wants to talk to me.
My mumbled “What?” comes out as a groan.
“Your phone?” The offending object appears, waggling back and forth as I struggle to focus on blurred text.
Four missed calls.
I thump back onto the pillow. “It’s the middle of the night,” I mutter. Then I bolt upright in my narrow bed. Four missed calls in the middle of the night. I snatch the phone from Madison.
“It’s not Gran or Gramps,” she says. “It’s the campground at Fox Bay.”
It takes a moment for my sleepy brain to process that. I blink, seeing only Madison’s face hovering in front of me, spiky auburn hair framing a pale oval face so much like my sister’s it makes my heart clench with grief.
“Laney?”
What was she saying? Right. The call came from a campground at—
“Shit!” I blink fast. “Hemlock House.”
I fumble to retrieve my messages. “Please don’t tell me it’s a fire. I told the renters the area’s under a no-open-flame order, and it’s always ‘Oh, but it was just a little fire.’ If they—”
The phone vibrates.FOXY LADY CAMPGROUNDflashes on the screen, and I jab the Accept button.
“Hello?” I blurt.
I’m quivering, rocked by visions of Hemlock House in flames. Does insurance cover it if renters light a fire after I warned them? Did I warn them by text? If it was a phone conversation, they can deny—
“What is going on in that house of yours?” The woman’s voice is loud enough that I think I have it on speaker, and when I hit the button to turn it off, I actually switchintospeaker mode. I go to flip it back, but Madison swats my hand and leans in to listen.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is there a problem? I’m not there right now. I’ve rented out the house—”
“I know that,” the woman snaps. “Because you rented it to me.”
“Ms.…” I struggle for the name. “Teller?”
“Abbas. Mrs. Abbas.”
Right. The Tellers were the last renters. Or maybe the ones before that…
“Mrs. Abbas,” I say. “Is there a problem?”
