The paper grocery bag slipped from my fingers before I could fully process what I was seeing. The jar of marinara shattered against my new tile floor, splashing red across the pristine white surface like blood spatter at a crime scene. For three heartbeats, I stood frozen in my own doorway, keys still dangling from my hand, a silent witness to the invasion.
My mother and my sister were inside my cottage. My cottage, which I had shown them photos of only three days ago. My cottage, whose address I had deliberately not shared.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounded distant, hollow, a stranger’s inquiry in my own home.
Liana, my older sister, whirled around, a measuring tape still extended between her hands. She had been measuring the guest bedroom—my home office—her expression momentarily startled before settling into that familiar, irritating mask of entitlement. “Posey! You’re home early.”
