The detectives get into their car, and I raise a hand to give them a wave.

As I watch them drive off, the hairs at the back of my neck bristle. With narrowed eyes I scan the patch of dead bushes on the other side of the road in time to catch a flash of blond hair between the thin branches. I close the door and rest my back against it, eyes closed, drawing in deep breaths. I’ve been taking lots of deep breaths since arriving back home two weeks ago. It has been a struggle to return to my old life, but I always remind myself to breathe and take the next step.

My eyes fly open when I hear the sound of my mother returning to the small living room, a tray in her hands. A frown touches her brow as she lowers it onto the coffee table. A lot has changed since the last time we saw each other. The amazing changes in her were clear from the moment I stepped off the plane and she pulled me into a hug, sobbing uncontrollably. I had tracked her down through her modelling agency.

Tightening her arms around my body, she whispered that she refused to let herself believe I was dead.

When we saw each other again in person, she was not the stubborn, hard-hearted woman I’d left behind. Having neglected her Botox injections and her bleach-damaged hair hanging in limp ropes around her shoulders, she looked much older than her forty-five years. But despite her abandoned looks, she had transformed in other ways. She had turned into the mother I wished I’d had as a child.

Coming home has turned out to be the best decision. I’ve found a fresh start in the place I least expected it. And a new home. Mom brought me to a small one-bedroom apartment instead of the large house I spent my childhood.

“I couldn’t stay in a place that reminded me day and night of what I lost,” she’d admitted as she let me in. “Everywhere I looked, I saw you . . . and your father. I remembered the pain I caused you both.”

“This is a nice place.” I’d hugged her to hide my own tears in her shoulders. The tears marking the end of an era. A piece of my heart aches at the loss of the home that carried my childhood memories and memories of my father. But I got something better. I found my mother, and she didn’t even care that my hair was in a messy ponytail instead of hanging neatly down my back, attracting potential model scouts. For the first time she saw me, her daughter, and not her personal cash cow.

“Where have the detectives gone?” Mom asks, bringing me back to the present. “I thought they were staying for coffee.”

I shrug and move to the couch. “They got the answers they needed from me, for now at least. But keep baking those cookies. I’m sure it won’t be their last visit.” I wish it were.

During my absence, Mom had found comfort in baking. Who would have thought my mother, the society lady, would find joy in a kitchen? But one thing I’ve learned is that life is full of surprises, some horrifying and some amazing. Most of them life-changing.

“Did they question you about Judson again?” She lowers herself next to me and places her hands on her knees. She’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, not the miniskirts and stilettos she’d loved so much.

“Yes. They keep asking about his illegal prostitution business. They claim it was a massive operation. They want information that would lead the authorities to his business partners. He was guilty of so many crimes, Mom. Human trafficking, drugs, money laundering.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe he got away with it for so long.”

Mom tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Thank God you put an end to it. If it weren’t for you, he’d still be hurting people.”

“I know.” I pull in a breath. “But I wish I didn’t have to live with someone’s blood on my hands.”

“Still having nightmares?”

I lean my head on her shoulder. “I don’t think they’ll ever go away.”

When I go to bed at night, I relive the moment I killed Judson Devereux over and over again, night after night.

Mom runs a hand up and down my arm. “You had no choice, Ivy. If you didn’t kill him, you would be dead. I read that—”

“No,” I cut her off. “Don’t tell me what you read in the papers. I don’t want to know, remember?” It’s so much easier for me to bury my head in the sand and wait for the news about me and the evil twins to go away. Several times I’d come close to reading an article, to check if the stories are accurate, to find out where Damien is buried, but I managed to stop myself. Judson and Mexico have to remain in the past.

“Sorry. I forget,” she whispers.

“It’s okay.” I squeeze my mother’s hand. “Anyway, I told Detective Selvery what I tell him every time. That I don’t know more than what Judson had told me about his disgusting business dealings. I wish they’d leave me alone.” I drop my head into my hands, squeeze my fatigued eyes. Even with the nightmare tormenting me at night, I’ve managed to sleep a lot. And yet the exhaustion refuses to go away. 

“One day it will get better. You’ll have your life back, an even better one than the one you had before.” Mom crosses her legs and runs a hand through her hair. “Once the dust settles, what do you want to do with your life? I mean—”

“Mom, I’m not returning to modeling if that’s what you’re thinking. That part of my life is over for good.”

She places a hand on my thigh. “Sweetheart, since you got here, have I even once asked you to model again? I’ve changed. I really get it now. It’s your life. I’ll respect whatever decisions you make.”

My shoulders rise and fall as I sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—it’s sometimes hard to believe, you know.”

“Believe me, I know.” She squeezes my thigh. “But thinking you were dead was a wake-up call for me. The months after you were gone were incredibly hard. Not a day went by without me beating myself up for never telling you how much I love you. I regretted chasing the wrong things in life, things that didn’t bring true happiness.” She blinks away tears. “Now that I have you back, I want you to be who you want to be. If you decide you’d rather return to Oaklow and continue your studies, I won’t stand in your way. I’m okay with whatever makes you happy.”

“That means a lot, Mom.” I pause. “You should also start living your life again. Go back to work. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

My mother sold her modeling agency business at around the time she sold the house but not because it held memories, but because it was in financial trouble. She could have fought to revive it, but after my supposed death, she didn’t find the joy she used to get from it. Now she’s employed by a small modeling agency that doesn’t pay as much as she used to earn but she seems happy.

“You’ve only been here for two weeks. Selena understands that I need a bit of time to be with my daughter. A few more days won’t hurt.”

“You do know that I won’t disappear again, right?” My lips curl into a sad smile.

“Can I have that in writing?” She gives a brittle laugh. I’m still getting used to my mother’s laughter, but I like it.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I turn it face down so I don’t see the call.

“Aren’t you going to take that? It might be important.”

“I’m sure it’s journalists. I’m tired of them pestering me.” The phone stops vibrating and I relax. “Maybe I should change my number. Except more of them will show up outside, ready to pounce when I leave the house.”

“Let’s hope another story pops up soon and they move on. But I don’t want you to stop living your life because of them. You should go out. It might do you good.”

I glance at the closed window, imagining the hungry press camping outside. “I doubt it. Right now the only place I want to be is here. I’m too exhausted to do anything else anyway.”

“All right.” Mom rises and picks up the tray. “Let me take the tea back to the kitchen. Unless you want some?”

“No, go ahead.”

After my mother leaves the living room, I pick up my phone and listen to the message left by the last caller.

“Ms. Hollifield, Marcus Jenkins again. I’ve been trying to reach you several times this week. I’m wondering if you’ve given our offer more thought. We’re very interested in your story. I’m talking book and movie deals here.”

I groan as I return Marcus Jenkins’s call. The man doesn’t take no for an answer. The first and only time we talked when he cornered me on my doorstep, I’d made it clear I’m not interested in his publishing company’s offer. Still, he’s called several times a day since then. His calls always go unanswered. Until today.

“Mr. Jenkins, Ivy Hollifield here. I listened to one of your messages.” I rest my forehead on the heel of my hand.

“Ms. Hollifield. What a pleasant surprise. I was hoping you’d call back.”

“Mr. Jenkins, I’m calling to let you know I haven’t changed my mind. Much as I appreciate your offer, it doesn’t appeal to me. I’m only interested in looking forward, not back. Now please stop calling me. My answer will stay the same. Goodbye.”

Before he can come up with more way to persuade me, I end the call and head to my room for a nap.