Rust on the mailbox.
A porch that leaned a little to the left.
Marina used to joke that the whole house looked like it sighed every time the ocean wind hit it.
The place in front of me now had blue shutters, flower beds trimmed into neat curves, a newly painted fence, and a stone path that looked too expensive for the neighborhood.
A silver SUV sat in the driveway.
Warm amber light glowed behind the curtains.
I checked the address twice anyway.
Same street.
Same number.
Same little bend in the road that opened toward the harbor.
My chest tightened.
I got out, still holding the paper bag with the gifts, and walked to the front door.
Before I knocked, I noticed a brass lockbox mounted beside the frame.
The kind people use for short-term rentals.
That small detail made my stomach turn harder than anything else.
When the door opened, the woman standing there was maybe thirty, blond, and barefoot, with a sweater hanging off one shoulder and the expression of someone interrupted in the middle of a vacation.
—Can I help you?
I stared at her for a second too long.
—I’m sorry.
I think I may have the wrong time.
I’m looking for Clara Whitmore.
She frowned.
—No Clara here.
We rented this place for the week.
The paper bag in my hand suddenly felt ridiculous.
—Rented from who?
She turned and pointed toward a framed welcome binder on the entry table.
I could read the cover from where I stood.
Harbor Nest Properties.
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