EMILY DUG the metal weeder into the soil and turned it, trying to get the best hold on what lay beneath. While preparations for Scott’s arrival had been underway, the weeds in the bottommost gardens had been left to their own devices, and now they had the run of the place. The roots were thick and stubborn and refused to give way. She frowned while she worked, her forehead bunched with tension.

It had been ten days since Scott flew back to London: ten days of thinking and obsessing over every detail of his visit until she gave herself a migraine. His arrival, the night in the pool, the thing with the hikers, the kiss at the sunset point—what did any of it mean?

And the trip to the airport—that hadn’t made any sense at all. He’d insisted that she go with him, and she’d assumed that meant he wanted to talk privately, but there’d been no confession of feelings, no explanation, not even an apology. He’d talked about Nina the whole way, and Emily had felt betrayed. How could he just ignore the fact that they’d kissed? She’d felt confused and furtive. On her return to Querencia, she hadn’t been able to look Nina in the eye. But now that she’d had a few days to process things, she decided she hadn’t actually done anything wrong. And, quite feasibly, neither had Scott.

As Emily replayed the kiss over and over in her head, it started to look less like a kiss and more like an accident. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered how she could have mistaken it for anything else. Scott had been drunk. He hadn’t made a move at all. He’d tripped and fallen on her, and their faces had simply collided.

In the days that followed, she’d romanticized the encounter until it looked in her head like a scene from Wuthering Heights. She’d focused on the touch of his lips and ignored the burn marks on his arms. She remembered her excitement but forgot her fear. She’d even blocked out the moment she’d shoved Scott—actually shoved him—onto the ground. All of that came back a day or so later, by which time the whole thing didn’t seem nearly so romantic.

After much thought, Emily had seen no choice but to try to forget the whole weekend. She couldn’t unravel it, and her head hurt when she tried, so she forgave herself and she forgave Scott and she even forgave Nina for scaring those poor lost French people, because clearly they were all a bit sensitive and overtired, and they’d drunk far too much over those three days. She resolved to move on.

But it wasn’t that easy. Firstly, the fact that she’d had yet another panic attack, her second in just over three months, was worrying. The encounter with Scott had brought about the same black flurry she’d felt on the day she was almost hit by a bus. It hadn’t happened for years, but she’d known it was the same vortex of fear that used to plague her as a child: the bad, rotten thing inside her. After years of therapy, Dr. Forte had declared her to be mentally and emotionally healthy, but Emily had always known that it was still there somewhere, lurking in the background. Now, it seemed, it was back.

Secondly, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something going on at Querencia, something she didn’t know about. For starters, there was Nina’s behavior. Don’t judge her too harshly, Scott had said in the car, and Emily didn’t want to. But she didn’t understand. Sure, Nina was overprotective. Fine. But did that explain her reaction to the hikers? And now it seemed that she hadn’t been honest about her past, which hurt—especially when Emily had been so open about her own. The ocean, the big houses, the barbecues … how much of that was true? And what, exactly, had Scott meant by a “difficult” childhood?

And then there was the medicine cabinet. Emily kept thinking about Aurelia’s illness. She’d seen no real evidence of it: no breakouts, no vomiting, no incapacitation—not even a mild fever. She told herself that none of that meant anything; Nina was vigilant, the medication effective. Maybe the sun allergy was only reactive at certain times of the year. But as Nina continued to smear her daughter with thick sunscreen every morning and pump her full of pills, an unpleasant suspicion began to gnaw at Emily’s insides.

Lastly, and most importantly, Emily was worried that she’d fallen in love. She couldn’t say for sure, but all the signs seemed to point that way. Limited previous experience told her that love was all about electricity (check), joy (check), longing (check), and pain (check); also, a reduced appetite and sexy dreams (check and oh my god check), all of which were extremely alarming, because what if Scott had meant to kiss her that night? What if he’d followed her down to the sunset point because he had feelings for her, too? And what might have happened if she hadn’t pushed him away? Would he have laid her down on the grass and pressed his body against hers, maybe run his hands over her skin and lifted her dress…?

But no, no, no, she was heading down the rabbit hole again. She couldn’t possibly be in love with Scott; no, that would be unimaginably awful. No. Fifty shades of awkward.

If only she could pick up some bloody signal, she’d go grab her phone and distract herself with the internet. She longed to lose a few hours scrolling through Instagram; maybe she should ask again about the Wi-Fi. But, she reasoned miserably, she’d probably just use it to cyberstalk Scott Denny all afternoon. Not a good idea.

Emily continued to twist the weeder into the earth, ignoring the cramp in her hand and the ache in her lower back. She would not be beaten by a few stubborn roots. Wiping her forehead with her sleeve, she tried again, pulling and pulling until something came loose and she fell backward, landing ungracefully on her bum.

“Ow!” The tool lay in two pieces on the ground; the handle had broken off. Shit. Now she’d have to go and find another one.

Sweating, she looked around for Yves. He would have something she could use. Where had he gone? Following the incident with the hikers, Nina had tasked him with fortifying the wall at the bottom of the property, so he’d been hanging around all week, driving Emily mad with his incessant hammering … but, of course, when she needed him he was nowhere to be seen.

She looked around. No Nina or Aurelia either. It was eerily quiet.

Peeling off her gardening gloves, she stood up. This bloody place. It was too big. Who needed this much space? You could never find anyone. She gave the broken weeder a kick. Fine, whatever, she’d sort it out herself. There’d be something in the toolshed.

Feeling increasingly irritated, she set off back toward the houses, checking left and right as she went. “Hello?” she said. “Nina?” The pool was glassy, the lavender frozen in place. Even the ocean seemed to be holding its breath. She called out again, but there was no reply.

The sheds (tool, animal, bike) stood at the far end of the property, near the front gate. Passing by the family house on her way, Emily glared mutinously at its closed door and flat, mirrorlike windows. How ridiculous that she still wasn’t welcome inside Nina’s home! That after two whole months, she still hadn’t been invited inside. It was stupid. You’re part of this family now, Scott had said in the car. I’d like to think we can all face our issues together. If only Nina felt the same way. She loves you. We all do. Well, Emily loved them, too. She’d have done anything for them. If only Nina would let her in. Whatever’s going on with you, she might say, whatever problems you’re facing, I won’t judge. I’m here for you. She wondered if—

A small sound suddenly caught her attention.

She stopped. Listened.

The sound was soft and high-pitched. It seemed to be coming from … where? Emily pivoted on the spot, straining to hear. It was like a miaow but thinner, reedier. More stretched out.

Another noise. A dull scrape this time, coming from somewhere near the family house. Emily took a few steps toward the front door.

There it was again, a muted crash followed by a whimper.

She hurried to the door and tried the handle, but it was locked. She looked up at the second-floor windows. It sounded like crying, but who was it? Nina or Aurelia? The whimper got louder and more strangled—then short, staccato, insistent. It made Emily’s heart hurt. She turned to her right and listened again. Running around the side of the house, she rounded the corner, slowing down as she reached the patio. At first, the little courtyard appeared to be empty, but then, over in the corner by the barbecue, something moved.

In the shade of the wooden awning, Aurelia stood hunched and alone.

“Hey, little one,” said Emily. “What are you doing out here—”

Aurelia’s head snapped up, and Emily gasped. Her face was red and tear-streaked and contorted with pain. With no warning, she bucked sharply and let out a frightened cry. Emily took a step toward her, and Aurelia flinched again, shuffling back against the wall and writhing against the stones. “Ngh! Nnngh!” she grunted.