The air that day at the Vandor’s Lakehouse on Lake Tahoe smelled of pine needles and fear. To everyone else, it probably just smelled of pine and the smoke from the grill that had long since cooled, but I always caught that second, bitter undertone. I sat on a wicker chair on the porch, a little separate from the big table, and watched my daughter, Milina.

She moved around, pouring aged scotch for her husband, Preston, and his father, Garrett, and laughing at their clumsy jokes. Her laughter sounded too bright, too strained, like that of a child terrified of punishment, trying desperately to prove she was good. My heart tightened with that laughter.

Even after all these years, she was still trying to win their affection—the affection of people incapable of loving anyone but themselves. Their country estate matched their status: a huge, soulless house of dark wood with massive picture windows that stared out at Lake Tahoe like cold, vacant eyes. The lawn was flawless.

Not a single dandelion was allowed to grow. Everything was too perfect, too calculated, devoid of any warmth. Even the sun seemed different here.

Its rays didn’t warm; they just highlighted the glassy sheen of the water and the cold gleam of the expensive cars by the gate. I only came here for Lena. Every time, she would talk me into it.

“Mom, please come. They want to see the whole family. It’s important to them.” I knew in my heart it was important to *her*.

She wanted to believe she had a real, strong family. But looking at Garrett’s self-satisfied face and Preston’s perpetually mocking eyes, all I saw was a beautiful facade hiding rot. Garrett and Preston had been drinking heavily.

Their forced merriment gave way to uninhibited aggression. They talked loudly, gesticulated wildly, and every movement they made radiated a feeling of absolute impunity. They were the masters of this place, the masters of their lives, and Lena was just another beautiful object in their collection.

“Why is our little city girl Lena all bundled up?” Garrett thundered, fixing Lena with a heavy stare. She was wearing a thick autumn jacket and jeans. The day was cool, and a sharp wind blew off the lake.

“Afraid of catching a cold, softy?”

Lena smiled nervously. “It’s just windy, Mr. Garrett.”

“Windy?” Preston scoffed, mimicking his father.

“Back in my day, girls were swimming in October, and it did them good. They were tough. This is a greenhouse generation.”

I felt a cold dread settling inside me.

I didn’t like this conversation. It was like sharpening a knife—slow, methodical, full of anticipation. “Leave her alone,” I said softly, but loud enough for them to hear.

My voice sounded foreign on that porch, like the squeak of an old floorboard in a new house. Preston turned to me, a malicious spark flashing in his eyes. He hated it when I interfered.

He thought I was just a crazy old woman fussing over her daughter. “Eleanor Hayes, don’t worry. We’re just having some fun, right, honey?” He winked at my daughter.

Lena nodded, forcing another smile. “Of course, Mom. Everything’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.