Chapter 18
Daniel drove. Emily sat beside him, occasionally checking the mirrors.
No one spoke for several miles.
Finally, Emily said, “You don’t have to decide today whether you forgive him.”
“I know.”
“You don’t even have to speak to him if he’s there.”
“I know.”
“But you keep saying you know, and then you look like you’re preparing to walk into a storm.”
Claire turned toward the window.
“I’m trying to understand what happened to my life.”
“That takes time.”
“I may not have time.”
Emily glanced back. “Why?”
“Because Adrian knows I found the house. He may already be here.”
Daniel spoke without taking his eyes from the road. “The property is legally yours. He cannot prevent you from entering it.”
“That isn’t what worries me.”
“What does?”
Claire looked down at the folder.
“I don’t know whether I was loved, used, protected, or all three.”
No one answered.
The road curved through a stand of birch trees, and the lake appeared between them—dark, still, and edged with snow.
Lake Briar House stood on a rise above the water.
It was larger than Claire had imagined from the photograph, but less imposing than the Moretti mansion. Its roofline was simple, its windows tall, and its cedar siding weathered to a soft gray. A stone path led from the drive to a wide porch.
Claire stepped out of the car.
The house did not feel like Adrian.
It felt like a place waiting to be understood.
Daniel unlocked the front door with a key obtained through the county records office. Inside, the air smelled faintly of wood, dust, and cedar. The restoration work had been meticulous. Original floors had been repaired rather than replaced. The plaster walls were smooth but retained their old-world imperfections. Sunlight filtered through linen curtains, touching the rooms with quiet warmth.
Claire walked slowly through the entryway.
On the wall hung a framed architectural drawing.
She recognized the style immediately.
The drawing showed the house before restoration, with notes written in the margins about structural repairs and historic materials.
The handwriting was hers.
Claire moved closer.
“I never made this.”
Daniel studied the frame. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
She knew her own work. The notes were precise, but the phrasing was not hers. Someone had copied her professional terminology from old reports.
Emily pointed to the corner.
“There’s a date.”
It was dated two months before Claire had met Adrian.