My new wife’s seven-year-old daughter burst into tears every time we were left alone together. Whenever I gently asked her what was wrong, she would only shake her head silently. My wife would just laugh it off and say, “She simply doesn’t like you.”

“When you know, you know,” I said.

Back then, it sounded romantic.

Later, I would understand that certainty can be just another mask.

Clara wore cream-colored silk and looked flawless, but Harper was the person I couldn’t stop watching. She walked behind her mother with a tiny bouquet of daisies, wearing a blue dress with pearl buttons. Her dark eyes held a sadness that seemed far too old for her small face.

She didn’t look like a flower girl.

She looked like a witness.

“Welcome to the family,” Clara whispered after we were pronounced husband and wife.

Two hours later, we were standing outside 219 Hawthorne Avenue, a tall Victorian house with narrow windows, steep roofs, and the kind of beautiful coldness that was meant to impress rather than comfort. Inside, everything gleamed. Hardwood floors. Crystal chandeliers. Expensive art. Perfect corners. Perfect silence.

“Harper,” Clara said, already slipping into a cool, businesslike tone, “show Ethan where he can put his things. I need to answer emails.”

Harper led me upstairs. At the doorway of the master bedroom, she glanced at my suitcase and the two small boxes that held what was left of my old life.

“Are you staying?” she asked quietly. “Or just visiting?”

I crouched beside her.