Jangling the keys in her hand, Emily turned in circles, wondering in which particular part of the vast gardens she might find “madame.” Scott had emailed her some information about the property but hadn’t included his wife’s contact details. She pulled out her phone, wondering if she ought to text Scott, but it still wasn’t picking up any service.

Suddenly, there was a flash of movement over near the smaller of the two houses. Emily raised her hand to block the glare of the sun, scanning the front door and the windows. She took a few tentative steps, and there it was again. A streak of color behind a hedge to the left.

Emily began to walk with more purpose. “Hello?” she called.

A short, flapping thing shot into view and tore across a patch of grass, disappearing again behind the house. Emily stared. A child, she thought. A small girl with black hair running at full tilt, a too-big yellow hat flopping around on her head.

She waited.

“Hello?” she called, louder this time. “Anybody here?”

There was no answer. “Madame” must be inside.

The door of the house stood ajar. She wandered over to the front steps, craning her neck to see inside. It opened onto some kind of sitting room, full of light-toned furniture and Impressionist paintings. Thick magazines and photography books were arranged artfully on low tables next to clusters of candles bearing brand names she’d only ever seen during the occasional fantasy browse in Selfridges, and the air was filled with an exotic, flowery scent.

After a minute of listening to nothing but the ticking of an invisible clock, Emily became aware of a mechanical sound, a thin sort of whirring. She stepped back and looked up. Above the door, a security camera swiveled slowly on its mount, its red light blinking. It came to a rest with its lens pointed straight at her. Another was fixed to the wall above a first-floor window, and peering inside the house again, she noticed a third camera high up in the far corner of the sitting room.

Unsure of what else to do, she edged inside, running her fingers absentmindedly over the surface of a nearby side table. They came away coated with a film of sticky black dust.

Moving farther into the room, Emily turned toward the stairs.

Only then did she see the woman standing motionless in the corner.

Shock pulsed through her body and she stumbled backward into the dusty table, causing a small dish to wobble and fall to the floor. It hit the tiles and cracked into three pieces.

“Oh, no! Oh god, I’m so sorry!” Emily bent down to scrabble for the pieces, her cheeks burning with shame.

The woman stepped forward. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no, it was my fault,” Emily said, laughing. “I get clumsy when I’m nervous.” There was a swish of material, and a sweet, summery scent filled her nose. Emily laughed again, too embarrassed to look up. “Not the best way to make an impression, is it? I haven’t even been here five minutes and I’m trashing the place already.”

“It’s just a dish.” Perfect pink fingernails met Emily’s own bitten ones as both she and the woman went for the same porcelain splinters.

“I’m always doing things like this.” Emily knew she was about to start chattering like a monkey but seemed powerless to stop it. “Well, not specifically this. It’s not, like, my thing. I don’t just go around throwing plates at walls. Although I did once throw a whole tray of food at a wall in a restaurant, but that was an accident. The tray was really heavy, and my foot got caught on someone’s bag.”

Cradling bits of broken dish in her hands, Emily looked up and saw tanned legs and a white cotton dress, an impossibly small waist, and arms covered with a paint splatter of dark freckles. Bare shoulders flowed into delicate, caramel-colored collarbones. A long neck, slender as a ballerina’s, gave way to a sharp jaw and cut-glass cheekbones, topped off with a crop of short blond hair flipped over to one side like a wave.

Emily stood up. The woman’s face was pure Helen of Troy. A bud-like mouth opened over straight white teeth. Impossibly long lashes framed a pair of almond eyes.

The woman stared back, conducting her own silent assessment. Just as the moment was becoming uncomfortable, she smiled. “So, you must be Emily,” she said. “Thank you so much for agreeing to start at such short notice; we really appreciate it.” She moved toward Emily with her arms outstretched. “I’m Nina. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

The hug came as a surprise, and Emily hesitated before returning it, uncertain how she should interpret the pressure around her shoulders, the unfamiliar fingers at her back. Then, from out of nowhere, she was overcome by a brief, wondrous falling sensation, as if Nina was pulling her over a precipice; a feeling that, as the hug dragged on, gave way to discomfort. Shards of porcelain dug into Emily’s palms and strands of hair became caught in her mouth.

And then it felt as though she was no longer being pulled but pushed, as if Nina was pressing her whole weight into her, crushing her, gripping her like she was the only anchor in an endless sea.

And somewhere, just underneath wafts of coconut shampoo and expensive candles, there was a smell. A strange and subtle stink like a piece of meat left out in the sun too long; a sourness that seemed to linger on Emily’s skin and in the fibers of her clothes long after Nina pulled away.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EMILY

EMILY PLACED the bits of broken dish into Nina’s cupped palms, carefully brushing the smaller shards off her own skin. Nina smiled politely and insisted again that there was no need to apologize, but still Emily’s cheeks flushed pink with shame. She backed off and hung around by the door while Nina disposed of the pieces.

The house, or what little she could see of it, was more elegant than Emily had imagined. The decor was dainty and feminine. She searched the walls of the sitting room for some sign of Scott, but found none. The only tangible presence was that of the beautiful woman standing in front of her.

Scott’s wife was not what she’d pictured, either. She was gorgeous—of course she was—but there was something distinctly odd about Nina, something Emily couldn’t put into words. She seemed pleasant, but something didn’t quite … fit. For starters, it was difficult to connect Scott and his suits and lavish offices with this waiflike person who wafted out into the gardens like a spirit, beckoning for Emily to follow. Scott left an impression so strong it packed an almost physical punch, while Nina moved so lightly over the sand she didn’t even seem to leave footprints. Scott was self-assured, but Nina had a twitchy energy; her eyes darted around like a watchful animal. And Scott was so generous, so warm, whereas this woman seemed sort of detached and ethereal, like part of her wasn’t really present. How could they possibly be suited?

“Let me give you the tour,” Nina said. Emily trailed after her, trying to guess her age. Early thirties, maybe? Definitely older, but not by much. As she studied Nina’s slender wrists, her tanned calves, her exquisite shoulder blades, pangs of resentment plucked at her body as she imagined Scott touching them. She watched with barely concealed envy as Nina’s white dress floated around her like a mist, rising and falling in synchronization with her every step. Her gestures were so graceful they seemed choreographed. She was the very embodiment of Querencia itself—breathtaking isolation personified—and as they walked, Emily felt increasingly gawky and lumbering, like a baby elephant stamping along behind a swan. Becoming painfully aware of her own cheap clothes, limp hair, and smudged makeup, the words she’d overheard in the office echoed in her ears: Batshit-crazy wife; she’s a bitch; he hates her.

Nina chatted as they went, pointing out the herb garden, the rose garden, the orchard, and the gym. The design of the place was impressive, like something out of the Chelsea Flower Show. The white sandy driveway was like a river, flowing through the center and around the lawn, splitting off into tributaries that led to various areas and features, each carefully set out in its own designated space.

The main lawn itself was circular in shape and about the size of an Olympic swimming pool. On either side, the two sprawling houses faced one another like opponents, each trying to outdo the other. The one in which Emily had found Nina was prettier, with blue shutters and wisteria-covered walls. But the other was taller, comprising three stories rather than just two. Its roof was gray, its walls bare, and the windows were long and narrow. It even had a tower with a turret.