Page 57 of Coram House

I walk closer to the mirrored mosaic, touch a long sliver of glass that makes up the tree’s bark. It’s cold and smooth, the edge sharp enough to slice skin. Real, then, after all.

At six thirty, I trade my sweatshirt for a cable-knit sweater and swipe on some mascara. Good enough. Then I pull up directions to Harbor Road. It’s on the other side of the bay, running up the peninsula that extends toward Rock Point. The road ends at a marina, so at least the restaurant will have a water view.

After driving south for ten miles, I turn onto a smaller road that follows the curve of the bay back north. It’s quiet and dark. Most of thehouses are wrapped in shadow and set back behind high fences. One fence has individual notches cut out for the limbs of an ancient hedge to pass through.

I arrive at the marina, but a sign nailed to the fence announces it’s closed for the season. No restaurant in sight. Ahead, the road is narrow and pitted with potholes. I wonder if I’ve taken a wrong turn, but my phone doesn’t have a signal. So I drive on.

After another minute, the road ends at a stone pillar topped with a brass carriage lantern, giving off just enough light to read a plaque fixed to the side:4539 HARBOR RD., LANDS END. A black metal gate bars the way forward.

Okay, so it’s not a restaurant. It must be a hotel or some kind of private club. The gate swings open silently. I know there must be a camera or a sensor, but it feels like dark magic.

The drive is lined in tall, spreading trees whose branches form a tunnel above the car. After a minute, a building appears lit from below by hidden spotlights. The roof is flat and the angles are modern, more like a series of connected boxes than a house. But the structure is wrapped in cedar shingles, weathered to silver, so it blends into the forest despite the size.

The driveway widens into a circle with an island of dried plants in the center. I park and get out. Tall grasses glow silver in the moonlight. To one side, a shrub droops under the weight of purple berries. I run my finger up the golden bottlebrush of some kind of dried flower. It’s all dead and beautiful.

And empty.

I turn to take in the driveway, free of cars, the front stairs with a single pair of muddy boots sitting outside. That’s when I realize my mistake.

Lands End.

This isn’t a hotel. This is just the kind of neighborhood where houses have their own names. I’m at Xander’s house. Alone.

I’m trying to decide whether to get back in my car when the front door opens.

“Alex?”

He’s wearing jeans and a blue hoodie. He looks so different from the sloppy drunk I met in the police station, I barely recognize him. He’s handsome with symmetrical features and clear blue eyes behind glasses—a nerdy quarterback.

“Just admiring your garden,” I say.And hoping you’re not going to murder me at your isolated mansion.

He comes down the walkway. Up close, his skin has the tender look of someone who doesn’t shave often. He’s made an effort.

“What’s your favorite?” he asks.

I point to the bush with the purple berries. His smile is shy. He shuffles his feet in the gravel.

“Beautyberry,” he says. “I got deep into native plant gardening when I first moved here. Planned most of this myself.”

His broad gesture could mean the driveway or the estate beyond, hidden by darkness.

“Anyways, dinner will be a little bit.” He nods to a lit window and I see a woman in a white apron flash past. Relief rises in me—at least we’re not alone.

“Do you want to start with wine?”

Definitely.

“Sure,” I say and follow him inside.

Knotty pine floorboards lead from the entrance to the huge stone fireplace that dominates the center of the open room. On the other side, a wall of glass windows reveals a patio where flames leap from a stone fire pit. “I thought we could sit outside, if that’s okay?” Xander says.

“Sounds great,” I say casually, but in my head I’m already draining the glass of wine, feeling the edges of the world soften.

Xander leads me past overstuffed leather couches and an enormous coffee table made from a cross section of some ancient tree. The bar already has a decanter of red wine and two glasses waiting on it. He pours. It smells expensive. I try not to finish it in one gulp.

Outside, we settle into Adirondack chairs and watch the coals of the fire glow orange. Xander turns his glass around and around on the arm of his chair, not looking at me. “So,” he says, “I just—I want to say I’m so sorry for the way I acted in the station.”

Even in the low firelight, I see the deep crimson of his blush.

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